Michael Pearce - The Fig Tree Murder

‘Satisfied?’ said Salah-el-Din.

Unexpectedly, Owen received a request from Mahmoud to hold the three brothers for a few days longer. He was rather relieved. The brothers had been on his conscience. It was all very well holding them in their own best interests-he was fairly convinced that if they were released Ibrahim’s family would take a pot-shot at them-but it was hard to justify in terms of law. Something must have turned up for Mahmoud to be making this request.

It meant, too, that Mahmoud must still be working on the village end. Owen had feared, from what Mahmoud had said the last time they had met, that he was about to shift his attention entirely to the Syndicate end-if Syndicate end there was.

Cheered by the thought that things were moving, he rang up Mahmoud to say that of course he would continue to hold the brothers if that was what Mahmoud wanted. Mahmoud, caught off guard by the call, tried to remain distant but found it hard when Owen was being so conciliatory.

‘You’re getting somewhere, then?’

‘Yes.’ Mahmoud hesitated. ‘I think so. Do you need grounds for holding?’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

This, from the point of view of keeping his distance, made matters worse for Mahmoud. What made it even more difficult was that Mahmoud himself had doubts about the strict legality of holding the men further. They were being held under powers special to the Mamur Zapt. Mahmoud, on principle, did not believe the Mamur Zapt should have such powers. They were not assigned him in the Legal Code; and for Mahmoud the Code was Bible-or, possibly, Koran.

However, he was rather glad of the powers on this occasion, for he was not at all sure that holding the brothers could be justified by the normal letter of the law.

‘I ought to give you grounds,’ he said determinedly.

‘Fine!’

Mahmoud hesitated.

‘Unfortunately, it is not quite straightforward.’

‘Like to talk to me about it?’

‘That might be a good idea,’ said Mahmoud, relieved. Not all legal considerations, after all, had to be written down.

They met, as usual, on neutral ground, at a cafe halfway between the Ministry of Justice and Owen’s office at the Bab-el-Khalk. It was an Arab cafe and outside it were several little white asses, waiting for their owners. Inside, water-pipes were bubbling. Neither Owen nor Mahmoud, however, were smoking men, Owen from inclination, Mahmoud out of Muslim conviction. Today he felt slightly relieved at his strictness. Any more relaxing of rules would have made him feel very uneasy.

‘Well, what have you found?’ said Owen, sipping his coffee.

‘I need a little more time,’ said Mahmoud, ‘but I think I’ve got it.’

‘Got what?’

‘The connection. You remember,’ he said, ‘that I was looking for a connection with the Syndicate. Well, I think I’ve found it.’

Owen listened with sinking heart. Was Mahmoud still on that tack?

‘I had hoped you had found out something more in the village,’ he said. ‘I mean, if we’re going to justify holding them-’

‘But that’s it,’ said Mahmoud, bending forward earnesdy, ‘that is what I have found. A connection between the brothers and the Syndicate. One of the brothers, Ali, his name is, hangs around at the Helwan racetrack a lot. He’s in with a gang there.’

‘Well, that’s interesting. But what has it got to do with-?’

‘The Syndicate’s building a racetrack out at Heliopolis.’

‘Well?’

‘Gambling’s important to them.’

‘I know that. They’ve applied for a licence to open a saloon at the hotel they’re building there.’

‘They’re opening the racetrack very soon. Even before they’ve finished building.’

‘They need the cash, I think.’

‘I think so, too,’ said Mahmoud. ‘I think they need it badly.’

Owen looked at him.

‘You’re not suggesting they need it badly enough to kill a man, are you?’

‘I’m suggesting that it’s pretty important to them to get the railway line to Heliopolis finished as soon as possible.’

Owen could see how from Mahmoud’s point of view it all fitted together. All the same…!

‘Aren’t you jumping the gun a bit? You haven’t even succeeded in connecting the brothers with the killing yet.’

‘I’m working on that.’

‘You need to do that before you start worrying about other connections.’

Mahmoud pursed his lips obstinately.

‘I need to work on both. It’s not just the killing that has to be explained, but the fact that the body was placed on the line.’

‘You’re still on that?’

‘In my view it is the key.’

‘You don’t think it could all be explained simply as a revenge killing?’

He couldn’t keep the exasperation out of his voice. Mahmoud sensed it and reacted strongly.

‘I think it would be very convenient if it were explained as a revenge killing. For some people.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Such as the Syndicate.’

‘For goodness’ sake!’

Owen fought to keep his irritation down.

‘There are so many gaps! Between the brothers and the killing; between the brothers and the Syndicate. You say he hangs out with a gang; well, between the gang and the Syndicate, too. Gaps, gaps! Everywhere!’

‘You see gaps; I see connections. Why was the body placed on the line?’

‘How the hell do I know?’

‘You’re not being very rational.’

‘Me? Not being very rational? Well, at least I’m not prejudiced!’

‘What is this talk of prejudice?’ said Mahmoud furiously.

‘The only reason why you’re involving the Syndicate at all is because they’re foreign!’

‘You think it is just that I am a Nationalist, is that it?’

‘I think the Nationalist involvement in this needs some explaining.’

‘What exactly do you mean by that?-’

‘Wahid-the railwaymen’s leader-is a Nationalist agitator. Why was he put there?’

‘ “Put there”?’

‘He was planted. To make sure that the opportunity was not missed.’

‘What “opportunity”?’

‘To make things difficult for the government. It’s nothing to do with the Syndicate. It’s everything to do with the government-and with the Nationalists!’

Mahmoud rose from the table.

‘You would think that!’ he spat.

The reception at the Heliopolis Racing Club coincided with the opening of their racing programme, and from the big window Owen could look down on the crowd milling at the starting gate. Milling, certainly, because that was what Cairo crowds always did, move round and round in a mass, getting nowhere. Crowd, more doubtfully, since although there were several score at the finishing post, there were only several dozen at the starting gate and in between there was virtually nobody.

‘Promising, though,’ said the Belgian beside him. ‘As soon as we get the railway line finished they’ll come flocking in.’

There was almost more of a crowd upstairs at the reception. The international community had turned out in large numbers. Almost every consulate was represented. The British Consul-General was not there, but Paul, his aide-de-camp and Owen’s tennis partner, was standing in for him. Garvin, the Commandant of Police was there, always a man for the races. Princes and Pashas were there in abundance.

Zeinab had also deigned to come. Not because she was in the slightest interested in horses-she knew they pulled her carriage and that was about it-but because she had decided that Owen could not safely be left alone with ‘that girl’.

And, indeed, Salah-el-Din’s daughter was present, dressed, as always, incongruously to Owen’s eye, in a frock which suggested the little girl but somehow revealed a full womanly figure.