Michael Pearce - The Donkey-Vous

“Nice in theory, not so easy in practice. You’d have to be able to watch them all the way. Is that possible?”

“It’s not easy,” Nikos admitted.

Owen saw why when they made a reconnaissance that evening. The gambling salon was in a block of flats on the Sharia Imad-el-Din. It was on the first floor and was disguised as a scent factory. Nikos had been informing himself of its defenses.

“You get to it through the main entrance,” he said. “There’s a door on to the stairs which is kept locked and has to be opened by the porter. At the top of the stairs there’s another door with a spyhole.”

“Pretty standard.”

“Yes. There’s an electric bell downstairs by the porter’s hand to give warning. Oh, and there’s a consular representative across the street.”

“Which nationality is Anton claiming this week?”

“Lebanese, I think.”

Since under the system of legal concessions to foreign governments known as the Capitulations the Egyptian police did not have right of entry to premises owned by foreigners, most gambling houses had taken the precaution of acquiring foreign “ownership.” To guard against misunderstandings- and misunderstandings were quite frequent as the police had often met the proprietor the week before when he was of a different nationality-the wealthier salons had taken to keeping a consular official handy on the permanent retainer for use in the event of an unexpected raid.

“We’re not thinking of a raid, though,” said Owen, “so it doesn’t matter.”

“We’ll have to have someone inside.”

Owen looked doubtful. “What good would that do? They’d have to be customers. They couldn’t hang around the cloakroom. They’d have to go inside and play. They wouldn’t be able to see anything. What’s the internal geography of the place?”

“You go through the door into a sort of vestibule. The cloakroom-it’s very small, barely room for the two attendants-is on one side. The tripot is on the other. You get to it through an arch.”

“So you might be able to see something.”

“You might. You’d be able to tell if someone left the tripot and went to the cloakroom. But my guess is that’s not how it will happen, anyway. I’ve been checking on the attendants in the cloakroom. There are two of them. One of them goes off duty at about one-thirty and another man comes in. I reckon that the one who goes off duty will be carrying the money with him. The timing fits. Berthelot gets there at about midnight and stays till two. By then there will have been time to count the money and the attendant will have been gone half an hour-long enough for him to be able to pass over the money.”

“How does he leave the building?”

“Through a side door. I’ll have him tailed.”

“He might not go that way this time.”

“I think he will. They’ll want to keep it as normal as possible. In any case, though, I’ll put people all around the building. And on the roof.”

“It’s a block of flats. There’ll be people coming and going all the time.”

“At one o’clock in the morning? Carrying something? You’d have to have a bag or a case to carry that amount of money.”

“I wish we could watch the cloakroom all the time.”

“Can’t be done.”

“What’s on the next floor up? Directly above the cloak-room:

“A sewing shop. Try moving all those girls.”

“Why don’t we bribe one of Anton’s people and ask them to keep an eye on the cloakroom?”

“They’ve got their jobs to do. They wouldn’t be able to watch all the time.”

“All the same…”

“As a matter of fact,” said Nikos, “I already have.”

Owen had men watching Monsieur Berthelot. The following afternoon they reported that Berthelot had been to the bank twice. The second time he had come away carrying a small leather case. On both occasions he had been accompanied by a member of the staff of the French Consulate.

On a hunch Owen checked steamer bookings. Two passages had been reserved under the name of Berthelot on a boat leaving Alexandria in thirty-six hours’ time.

Mahmoud had heard nothing of any deal. Unlike Owen, he was dead against it.

“Do it once and you’ll soon be doing it all the time,” he said.

“But people are doing it all the time,” said Owen.

He could get Mahmoud not to intervene only by telling him what he himself was proposing to do.

He went back to his office and worked late. Soon after ten he went home and changed into evening dress. He put a tarboosh on his head and slipped some dark glasses into his pocket. He would not be the only one wearing them. Others besides himself would have reasons for wishing to preserve their anonymity.

It was still relatively early in the evening in Cairo terms and there were only about thirty people around the table. Berthelot was at the far end intent on the play. The table was brilliantly lit up. All the rest of the room was in shadow.

Owen played standing up, reaching an arm in when it was necessary. In that way he could keep out of the light. He wasn’t sure how effective his disguise was. He was still relatively new in Cairo and thought his face generally unknown. Still, it was the doorman’s job to know these things and he might well have spotted him. Owen thought it probably wouldn’t matter if he had. He would tell Anton and Anton would worry; but so long as Anton himself was not involved in the plot he would probably keep his worries to himself. Even if he knew what was going on in the cloakroom he would probably stay out of it. He might have received an inducement to turn a blind eye, but a blind eye was what he would turn, especially with the Mamur Zapt there. Owen doubted if he would warn them.

The important thing was that Berthelot shouldn’t recognize him. Owen didn’t think he would. He thought the disguise and the darkness was proof against that. Anyway, Berthelot was concentrating on the play.

“ Faites vos jeux, messieurs,” the croupier said. “ Faites vos jeux. ”

Berthelot hesitated, then added to his stake.

“ Rien ne va plus.”

The croupier spun the wheel. There was a sudden intentness, a catch of the breath. The wheel slowed and came to a halt. Berthelot shrugged and turned away. The croupier began to rake in the chips.

“It’s Anton’s lucky night tonight,” said a Greek standing beside Berthelot.

“It’s Anton’s lucky night every night,” said someone from across the table.

There was a general stirring and one or two people left the table, either to refresh themselves from the jugs of iced lemonade which stood on a shelf behind them or simply to ease their backs.

Berthelot and the Greek turned at the same time.

“ Pardon, monsieur.”

“ Pardon! ”

Berthelot made way for the Greek, who went over to the shelf and poured himself a glass of lemonade.

“ Monsieur? ”

He offered to pour for Berthelot.

“ Merci, monsieur.”

They stood sipping the lemonade together.

“It’s a hot night,” said the Greek.

“Is it always as hot as this?”

There were fans working but since the room had no windows they merely moved the hot air round.

“It’s been hot all day. Monsieur is new to Cairo?”

“We’ve been here just over a month.”

“Ah. Not long enough to get used to it.”

“How long does it take to get used to it?”

The Greek spread his hands. “A lifetime. And then it’s no use!”

They went back to the table. The play began again.

The room was long and thin with deep luxurious carpets and heavy wood panelling. A door led off into an inner room, out of which waiters emerged regularly with drinks. They brought the drinks to the players. There was no bar as such. Drink was incidental at Anton’s. Besides, most of the players were Moslem.