Michael Pearce - The Mamur Zapt and the Night of the Dog

Zeinab added to his unease by opening her handbag, taking out the three small bottles of perfume and dropping them deliberately on the floor. She summoned a waiter to clear them away.

“Presumably you’ve done some background checking?” said Owen.

Mahmoud turned back to him with relief.

“Yes,” he said. “I had my people check out the three scentmakers. One of them, the first one we saw, I think we can rule out straight away. He’s not very strong physically, suffers from some sort of debilitating illness, hardly ever goes out. The fat one doesn’t go out much either but in principle we can’t rule him out. The third one could do it physically and gets out far more. He’s very active in his local church, attends services there at all hours, mortifies himself, fasts, that sort of thing.”

“A zealot?‘’

“Devout.” Like Nikos, Mahmoud did not wish to be pushed into too firm religious characterization.

“Politically active?” Owen pressed.

“Not so far as I am aware.”

“I’m looking for motive.”

“That’s the problem. I can’t find one. That applies to them all. As far as I can tell, they have all three led blameless lives, had no criminal connection, kept themselves to themselves and as separate from Moslems as they could, and had no occasion to even meet a Zikr, let alone enter into a relationship with one which might lead them to want to kill him. They, and Zoser particularly, don’t seem to have had much personal life at all.”

“They sound very dull,” said Zeinab.

“What church does he go to?” asked Owen. “Zoser, I mean. You said he went to a local church.”

“The Mar Girgis-Church of St. George.”

“By the Tunisian Bazaar?”

“Yes. You know it?”

“I know someone who goes to it,” said Owen.

Mahmoud shrugged.

“Nothing special about it. Very Orthodox, a bit fundamentalist. Zoser’s quite well known there. He’s not one of the elders, he’s not rich enough for that, or educated enough. He’s just there at all the services.”

“With his wife?”

“With his wife.” He looked at Owen. “I was wondering-” he said tentatively.

“Yes?” said Owen.

“What were you wondering?” asked Zeinab.

“If you would like to go to church next Sunday,” Mahmoud said, looking at Owen, “with Miss Postlethwaite.”

“Why her?” asked Zeinab.

“She’s the only one who could make a positive identification,” Mahmoud explained. “She’s important.”

“I can see that,” said Zeinab.

“It would be difficult in a church,” said Owen. “The women are kept separate from the men.”

“She could see him, though he wouldn’t be able to see her. That might be an advantage.”

“Why do you have to go?” Zeinab asked Owen.

“She would have to be escorted,” said Mahmoud.

“Couldn’t you do that?”

No, Mahmoud couldn’t. He knew that and so did she. It would have to be a white man, an Englishman preferably. Zeinab knew that perfectly well. She was just trying to be awkward. And she was succeeding as far as Mahmoud was concerned. He flushed and his face went a little stiff.

“I am afraid it would have to be Captain Owen,” he said.

“Very well,” said Owen. “I’ll ask her.”

Zeinab rose from the table in a fury and flounced out.

“What have I done?” asked Mahmoud, bewildered and uncomfortable.

“It’s nothing,” said Owen, wondering whether he should follow her. It looked a bit silly if you followed a woman around like a lap-dog. On the other hand there would be trouble tonight if he didn’t. He decided to strike a balance. He stayed at the table talking with Mahmoud for another moment or two and then went out into the street. Zeinab was nowhere to be seen.

From the far end of the corridor came the sound of angry dispute. After a while Owen could stand it no longer and went along.

“What the hell’s going on?”

Outside the door, where the orderlies sat on the ground in a row, their backs to the wall, a woman was berating the coffee orderly, Yussuf. When she saw Owen she stopped, abashed. Yussuf gave her a great push.

“Away with you, woman!” he shouted furiously. “You bring me shame.”

The woman fired up again.

“Yours is the shame,” she said. “Yours was the shame already.”

Yussuf tried to urge her away but she resisted his efforts.

“You bring shame on your family,” she called out, so that everyone could hear. Heads began popping out of windows. The other orderlies watched with delight.

Yussuf caught hold of her and propelled her towards the gate. At the last moment she twisted away from him and ran back towards the orderlies. Yussuf bore down on her in a fury. Afraid that he was going to hit her, Owen intervened.

“Enough of this!” he snapped. “Be quiet, woman!”

The woman fell silent, though she kept darting angry glances at Yussuf.

“Who is this woman?” Owen asked Yussuf. “Your wife?”

“My sister, effendi.”

Owen remembered the boy in the Coptic Place of the Dead.

“I have met your son, I think.” The woman looked startled, then pleased. Then worried.

“He is a good boy, effendi,” she said hastily. “He runs a little wild but there is no harm in him.”

“He is clever beyond his years.”

The woman looked even more worried.

“But he means no harm, effendi,” she insisted.

“He is a good boy,” said Owen reassuringly. He turned to Yussuf, associating him with family merit. “And you have a good nephew, Yussuf. You must come and speak to me about him when he is older.” The remark, with its suggestion of possible patronage at his command, soothed Yussuf’s ruffled pride. It also impressed his sister, who quietened down and looked at him with new respect.

“What is all this about?” Owen addressed himself to Yussuf. When Yussuf made no reply, Owen turned to his sister. “What has brought you here?”

“I wanted him to speak to his wife,” she said in a low voice.

“Indeed? And what about?”

“He has put her away. And now he expects me to clean and cook for him.”

“Our mother is dead,” said Yussuf, “and I have no woman in my house.”

“I have my own to look after,” she protested.

“That is true,” said Owen. “She has her own to look after. Cannot you pay a woman to come in?”

“Why should I pay,” asked Yussuf, “when I have a sister?”

“Why should your sister work for you,” the woman retorted, “when you have a wife?”

“I have no wife.”

“You had one last week.”

“But I haven’t one now!” Yussuf roared.

“What was the difference between you?” Owen asked.

Yussuf did not reply.

“Nothing worth losing a wife over,” his sister said.

Yussuf turned on her in a fury.

“You be quiet, woman!” he shouted. “What do you know about it?”

“I know what all the world knows,” his sister maintained stoutly, “and that is that Fatima has always been a true wife to you.”

Owen was rather relieved to hear this. If she had been unfaithful it would have been tricky to intervene.

“Is her fault so bad that it cannot be overlooked?” he asked. “No doubt she already repents.”

“You might not be so lucky next time,” Yussuf’s sister observed.

Yussuf glared at her.

“He won’t find it so easy to get another wife,” she said to Owen. “They all know what he is like.”

Yussuf boiled over.

“I?” he shouted dramatically. “I? What about her? Is she not to blame? I have given her house, clothes, a good bed. I do not beat her. Much. I give her money-”

“No, you don’t,” his sister said. “That is why she is always onto you.”