Michael Pearce - The Snake Catcher’s Daughter

“Don’t get much of it among the snakes, I suppose.”

A woman came out on to a roof opposite.

“That’s your reputation gone!”

“My father will beat me, perhaps.”

“Tell him the Mamur Zapt says that would be unwise.”

“If I tell him that, he will be troubled. He thinks it best to have nothing to do with the great.”

“A wise man. A wise daughter, too, and that is why I have come to you. Jalila, I need to know what happened in the courtyard the night the Bimbashi came.”

“He fell asleep.”

“You drugged him. That I know. It is the next bit that interests me. He was taken from the courtyard. How?”

“Men came.”

“Into the yard?”

“Yes. It is forbidden but they came all the same. The Aalima was very angry.”

“Did you see them?”

“Not well. I was on the other side of the courtyard. I had just filled my bowl. I heard the women cry out and I looked up and they were just lifting him, high up on their shoulders. And then they ran through the arch into the other courtyard.”

“What happened then?”

“I heard a great shout, and then men were crying out.”

“You did not see?”

She shook her head.

“The Aalima came out at that point. She called us to her and said: ‘What is this?’ And we told her, and she was very angry.”

“How many men were there?”

“Five. Two of them were holding the chair. One was telling them what to do. The others-I do not know. Perhaps they were holding the chair, too.”

“The one who was telling them what to do: was he a lowly man:

Jalila looked surprised.

“Lowly? Not especially.”

Oh, well. It might not have helped much-there were a lot of lowly men in Cairo-but it would have been nice to have had corroboration.

“Could you describe him to me?”

Not very well. It had been dark, she had seen them briefly and through a crowd. They had looked, well, ordinary. Big, perhaps. Would she recognize them if she saw them again? She shook her head doubtfully.

“Jalila, if you do see them-and you may see them, for one at least is from the Gamaliya-and you let me know, it will be to your advantage.”

“If I see them, I will let you know,” said Jalila, “but it will not be for money.”

Mahmoud came to Owen’s office that afternoon. It was the afternoon because it was then that the Bab-el-Khalk was empty and there would not be many to witness what Nikos considered his disgrace. He had, of course, demurred but Owen had not given him sufficient time to be able to organize his defences in terms either of a last-ditch appeal to higher authority or of tampering with the files. All he could do was sit and simmer.

When Mahmoud was shown in, he was distantly polite. There would be no confrontation-that was not Nikos’s way-but there would be no assistance either. If Mahmoud could find what he wanted, well and good, or, rather, ill and bad, but he would have to find it for himself.

Mahmoud understood the situation perfectly and was courtesy itself. He also understood filing systems, which was something Nikos had not banked on and was particularly exasperating. A few minimal inquiries and he was on his way. Nikos folded his arms and settled down to watch. There was always the chance that Mahmoud would find it off-putting.

Provokingly, Mahmoud seemed entirely at ease.

Owen, prudently, left them to it and went away to work in his own office. Some three hours later, Mahmoud appeared in his doorway. A brooding Nikos hovered just behind him.

Mahmoud came in and put a piece of paper on his desk. It was an official memorandum and came from the Commandant of the Cairo Police. It said:

This is to confirm our conversation in my office this morning, namely that you are hereby authorized and instructed to conduct an inquiry into the degree and prevalence of corruption in the Cairo City Police Force.

It was addressed to Mustapha Mir, the Mamur Zapt, and was signed P. Wainwright, Commandant of Police.

Garvin dismissed it contemptuously. “Wainwright was as weak as water. Mustapha Mir could twist him round his little finger. He wrote the memo himself and got Wainwright to sign it.”

“That may be,” Mahmoud said to Owen later, “but you can’t just dismiss it. On the face of it, it confirms Philipides’s story: there was an investigation going on into the corruption in the Police Force, it was being conducted, quite properly, by the Mamur Zapt, and Philipides might well have been acting as agent provocateur. What evidence there is supports Philipides.”

“The two were in it together,” said Owen. “Mustapha Mir and Philipides.”

“Three,” said Mahmoud. “And Wainwright.”

“Mir could twist him round his little finger.”

“So Garvin keeps saying. But if he could,” said Mahmoud, “it’s the first case I’ve met of a senior British officer doing what an Egyptian told him.”

“You’re not saying that Garvin is making this up?”

“I’m just following normal procedure,” said Mahmoud, “checking the evidence. I’ve checked Philipides’s and I’ve found it corroborated. I’ll try and do the same for Garvin’s. It doesn’t help that he refuses me access to Wainwright’s files.”

“All you’d find is a copy of the same memo.”

“I might find more. I might find evidence supporting the case that there was corruption in the Police Force. Independent evidence. Independent, that is, of Mustapha Mir. I might find more detailed instructions from Wainwright. I might find a sketch by Mustapha Mir of how he intended to set about the investigation. It might even include the suggestion of using Philipides as an agent provocateur.”

“That wouldn’t help Garvin.”

“I’m not trying to help Garvin. I’m trying to establish the truth. And when I find someone obstructing me from finding out the truth, I ask myself why. One answer is that they do not want me to find out the truth.”

“There are other answers. Issues of security, for instance.”

“I am an employee of the Ministry of Justice. Ultimately of the Khedive. As Garvin is. Cannot I be trusted on an issue of security? After all,” said Mahmoud, “it is my country, not Garvin’s.”

“He’s taken it higher,” said Paul that evening in the bar. “His Minister has formally asked the Khedive to instruct Garvin to release the files.”

“Much good that will do him,” said Owen.

“It’s not as simple as that. It’s put the Khedive on the spot. He knows Garvin won’t release the files unless the Consul-General tells him. But if he asks the C-G and the C-G says no, that will be a smack in the face and won’t do him any good with the Nationalists. He is in a considerable dither.”

“His normal state.”

“Forgivable, I think, this time. The C-G is not particularly happy about it, either, however. He doesn’t want to have to say no because he doesn’t want to be seen giving the Khedive a smack in the face. It doesn’t look good to other countries. We’re only supposed to be advisers. He’s on the spot, too. The people back home think it’s bad handling if issues like this are allowed to arise.”

“Everyone on the spot!” said Owen. “Just because Mahmoud insists on doing his job.”

“It comes as a bit of a surprise, of course,” said Paul, “when someone starts doing that. No one’s ready for it. However, one result is that they start questioning how other people are doing their jobs. Me. You. You, after all, are supposed to be seeing that nothing awkward arises as a result of this investigation.”

“I’m not sure it was put quite like that,” protested Owen.

“We, at least, are not daft enough to write memos about it,” said Paul, “but you know what I mean. Actually,” he said, waving for two more whiskies to sweeten the pill, “there ought to be no question of either of you departing, provided matters are handled with dexterity.”