Michael Pearce - The Donkey-Vous

“Would the Mamur Zapt show the same lack of urgency if Monsieur Moulin were a British subject?” asked the man from Paris-Soir.

“I am not showing a lack of urgency. I am treating the matter with extreme seriousness.”

“Then why haven’t you been to the Hotel today? Surely the investigation is not complete?”

“The investigation is being carried out, as is usual in Egypt, by the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice, the Parquet. It is in the capable hands of my colleague, Mr. El Zaki, who, I am sure, is giving it all his attention.”

“Are you treating this as a routine criminal investigation?”

“Yes.”

“Is it routine for someone to be kidnapped from the terrace at Shepheard’s?”

“No.”

“Would the Mamur Zapt agree that security is lax when a prominent foreign visitor is kidnapped from the terrace of one of the world’s most famous hotels?”

No, the Mamur Zapt would not agree.

“Are you worried about the effect on tourism?” asked an American correspondent.

“No. Tourists are quite safe provided that they don’t do anything stupidly reckless.”

“Like having tea on the terrace at Shepheard’s?” asked the man from Paris-Soir.

Owen saw Garvin standing at the back of the room. When the conference was over he came forward.

“Political enough for you?” he asked unkindly.

The waiters had provided a list of guests who had been in that part of the terrace at the time Monsieur Moulin disappeared and Mahmoud had spent the whole morning working through it. He had just reached an English family when Owen arrived. It consisted of a mother and daughter, and a young man with straight back and ultra-smart clothes whom Owen at once identified as an army officer.

“An elderly gentleman?” the mother was saying. “No, I don’t think so.”

“He always sat at the same table, the one at the top of the stairs.”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Of course you do, Mummy!” the daughter said sharply. “You pointed him out to me yourself. An old man with droopy moustaches and sticks.”

“ ‘A gentleman’ I think Mr.-ahem, the Inspector, said.”

“Well, he was a gentleman of sorts. Foreign, of course.”

“Not much of one,” the young man put in heavily. “It’s my belief that he took that table so that he could ogle all the girls as they went in and out.”

“Oh, come on, Gerald!” the girl said, laughing. “He’s about ninety-five! Mind you,” she added, “that didn’t stop him pressing up against me in the foyer the other evening.”

“Did he really?” The young man’s neck turned red with anger.

“I was encouraging him, of course.”

“Lucy! That is quite enough! I think Mr.-ahem, Inspector, you have had your answer. We have no knowledge of this, ah, person. Gentleman or not.”

“But, Madame, your daughter-”

“Thank you. And now, Lucy, I am afraid it is time for us to prepare for lunch.” She gathered her things and began to get up.

Mahmoud half rose and then sat down again determinedly. “I am afraid I have not quite finished, Madame. A moment or two longer, je vous en prie.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said the young man, jutting his jaw.

Mahmoud looked at him coldly.

“This is a criminal investigation, Mr. Naylor. Would you mind leaving us?”

The young man stared at him unbelievingly. “What did you say?”

“I said would you mind leaving us.”

The young man’s face flushed crimson.

“Gerald!” said the mother warningly.

Gerald leaped to his feet. “I’m not putting up with this,” he said. “Not from a bloody Egyptian!”

“Gerald!” said the woman very sharply.

The young man turned to her. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley,” he said, “but there’s really no reason why you should be exposed to this sort of thing. This fellow-”

“Excuse me,” said Owen.

The woman looked up. He addressed himself to her rather than to the man.

“Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley?” He put out his hand. “Captain Owen.” He seemed to be always using his rank these days. Perhaps it was something to do with Shepheard’s. “I am afraid Mr. El Zaki is quite right. It is rather important. Although-” he smiled-“perhaps not so important as to risk sacrificing your lunch. I wonder, though, whether your daughter could spare us a moment? It won’t be longer, I promise you. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind, would you, Miss Colthorpe Hartley?”

“Well, no, of course,” said the girl, slightly flustered. “I haven’t met you at any of the balls, have I?” she asked, recovering.

“Not yet,” said Owen, piloting her firmly away into another alcove and leaving mother and young man floundering. He sat her down on a divan and pulled up a chair for himself leaving the one opposite for Mahmoud.

“Mr. El Zaki is an old friend of mine.”

“Is he? You speak English jolly well,” she said to Mahmoud. “And French too,” said Owen.

“I wish I could,” said Lucy. “The people here speak French, don’t they? As much as English, I mean.”

“It’s a great mixture.”

“Have you been in Egypt long?” she asked Owen.

“Two or three years.”

“You look so brown!”

“I was in India before that.”

“Were you? Gosh, I’d like to go to India. Only Daddy says it is too expensive.”

“Where is your father?” said Owen, looking ’round.

“Having a drink, I expect. He can’t bear to come shopping with us.”

“Was he on the terrace too?” asked Mahmoud.

“He joined us out there.”

“About what time was that?”

“Four o’clockish. Mummy always likes her tea about then.”

“That was when your father joined you?”

“Yes. He was a bit behind us, as usual. He always takes ages over his shower.”

“When you came out on to the terrace was Monsieur Moulin already there?”

“You mean that old man with sticks?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I sort of noticed him, I think, though I couldn’t swear to it. Wait a minute, yes, I did notice him. He was looking around. I thought perhaps he’d lost that girl of his.”

“What girl of his?”

“You know, that girl who’s always hanging around him. His bit of fluff.”

“Bit of fluff?” said Mahmoud, completely lost.

“Yes.” Lucy frowned in concentration. “His petite amie. That’s what you would say, isn’t it?” She smiled at Mahmoud.

“Well, maybe,” said Owen. “That would depend on the circumstances. Can you tell us about this lady, Miss Colthorpe Hartley?”

“Well, she’s-well, first of all, I think my mother would say she’s not a lady. Not just foreign, I mean, but definitely not a lady.”

“She’s French, is she?”

“Yes, I think so. She’s blonde, not dark like they usually are, and it’s real blonde too, not dyed. Although she’s common, she’s also quite sophisticated, if you know what I mean, at least that’s how she strikes me. She’s terribly well dressed. It must have cost a fortune. If only Daddy would let me spend that amount of money! That’s sugar-daddy sort of money, not daddy sort of money. I say, that’s pretty good, isn’t it! I must tell Gerald that.”

“Would he understand?” asked Owen.

Lucy laughed merrily. “He’s not as stupid as all that,” she protested. “Well, not quite as stupid. You don’t like Gerald much, do you, Captain Owen?”

“Not much.”

Why was he saying that? This was supposed to be a formal investigation, not party chit-chat. He must have caught it from her.

“But are you sure she’s Monsieur Moulin’s petite amie and not Monsieur Berthelot’s?” Mahmoud intervened.