Michael Pearce - The Mamur Zapt and the Donkey-Vous

‘Obviously not proper.’

‘He is the Mamur Zapt,’ said their dragoman, who had just followed them out of the shop.

‘So I gathered,’ said Lucy. ‘But what exactly, or who exactly, is the Mamur Zapt?’

Owen hesitated.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to tell me.’

‘It’s not that,’ he said. ‘It’s just that it would take some time.’

‘Which just now you haven’t got.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Then you must tell me some other time,’ she said. ‘This evening, perhaps?’

Mrs Colthorpe Hartley turned determinedly away and Lucy was obliged to follow her. She gave Owen a parting wave over the dragoman’s shoulder.

‘Tonight at six,’ she called.

The shop was dark and cool and full of subtle smells from the lacquered boxes, the sandalwood carvings, heavy embroideries and spangled Assiut shawls which lined its walls. As Owen’s eyes became used to the light they picked out more objects: flat, heart-shaped gold and silver boxes set with large turquoises and used to hold verses from the Koran, old Persian arm amulets, Persian boxes with portraits of the famous beauties of Ispahan and Shiraz, old illuminated Korans. The precious stones and jewellery were kept in an inner room, better lighted and down a step. A gentle-faced Copt looked up as Owen entered.

‘Où est le propiétaire?’

‘Elle est en dedans.’

Elle? A silver-haired woman came out of an inner recess.

‘Madame Tsakatellis?’

‘Oui.’

‘Are you the owner?’

‘Yes.’

‘I was expecting to speak to your husband.’

‘He is dead.’

‘Dead? I am sorry.’

‘It was a long time ago.’

Light began to dawn.

‘Of course! You are the elder Mrs Tsakatellis. I am so sorry. I think the person I am trying to see is your son.’

‘My son is dead too.’

‘The Monsieur Tsakatellis who owned the shop?’

‘Both have owned the shop.’

‘The second one stopped owning the shop only a short time ago?’

‘That is correct.’

‘I am the Mamur Zapt. I have come about your son.’

‘It is a little late.’

Owen acknowledged this with a slight inclination of his head.

‘I am sorry. I did not know. Did not the police come?’

‘They came,’ said the woman dismissively, ‘and did nothing.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘Now you have come,’ said the woman. ‘What is it you wish to know?’

‘I want to know what happened.’

‘Why do you want to know? It is not,’ said the woman bitterly, ‘for Tsakatellis’s sake.’

‘It has happened again. And it may be the same people.’

‘So now you take an interest. How many people have to be taken,’ the woman asked scornfully, ‘before the Mamur Zapt shows an interest?’

‘There are, alas, many such cases in Cairo. I cannot follow them all. I had thought Tsakatellis might have been restored to you.’

‘Why should he have been restored?’

‘Have you not paid?’

‘No.’ The woman looked him straight in the face. ‘I do not pay. Even for my son.’

‘Most people pay.’

‘If you pay they will come again. If not to you, to another.’

‘All the same,’ said Owen gently, ‘it is hard not to pay. When it is one’s own.’

The woman was silent. Then she said: ‘For the Greeks life is always hard.’

She called to the Copt.

‘You wished to know what happened. Thutmose will tell you.’

The Copt came down into the room and smiled politely at Owen.

‘Tell him!’ the woman directed. ‘Tell him what happened the night your master was taken.’

‘I wish to know,’ said Owen, ‘so that I can help others. I am the Mamur Zapt.’

‘There is little to tell,’ the Copt said softly. ‘That night was as other nights. We worked late. It was nearly midnight when we closed the shop. There was a little bookkeeping to do so I stayed behind.’

‘You have a key?’

‘The master left me his key.’

‘He must have trusted you.’

The Copt bowed his head in acknowledgement.

‘And then?’

‘And then I did not see him again, nor suspected anything till the servant came knocking on my door.’

Owen looked at Madame Tsakatellis.

‘When Tsakatellis did not come home,’ she said, ‘at first we thought nothing of it. He often works late. When he had not come home by one I began to wonder. When he had still not come home at two I went to his wife and found her crying.’

‘She knew something,’ asked Owen, ‘or she guessed?’

The woman made a gesture of dismissal.

‘The woman has silly thoughts. She thought Tsakatellis might be with another woman. What if he was? A wife has to get used to these things. In any case, Tsakatellis was not like that. I sent a servant in case he had stumbled and fallen or been attacked and was lying in the road. The servant came back and said he had found nothing. I sent him out again to wake Thutmose.’

‘I knew nothing,’ said Thutmose. ‘I came at once.’

‘We went out again,’ said the woman, ‘and walked by every way he might have taken. When the dawn came we began to suspect.’

‘The letter was delivered to the shop,’ said Thutmose. ‘When I saw it, I guessed.’

‘Who delivered it?’

‘A boy. Who ran off.’

‘You have the letter?’ Owen asked Madame Tsakatellis.

She went back into her recess and came back with a piece of paper.

Greetings. We have taken your man. If you want to see him again you must pay the sum of 20,000 piastres which we know you will do as you are a loving woman. If you do not pay, you will not see your man again. Wait for instructions. Tell no one.

The Wekil Group

‘Who was the letter addressed to?’

‘It was meant for her.’

‘But Thutmose brought it to you?’

‘I took it from her. She was useless. I sent a man to tell the police. A man came from the Parquet.’

‘He found nothing?’

‘He did nothing. After a while he went away and we did not see him again. Nor anyone else. Nor you, until now.’

‘And did the instructions come?’

‘No.’ The woman lifted her head and looked Owen levelly in the eyes. ‘They must have known I had sent for the police.’

‘It may not be so.’

‘It is so. I killed him. That is what she thinks.’

‘They take fright,’ said Owen, ‘for many reasons. That may not have been the reason.’

‘It would have happened anyway,’ said the woman, ‘for I would not have paid.’

There was little more to be learned, as the man from the Parquet must have found. He would have made inquiries to check if anyone had seen Tsakatellis on his way home, but the streets would have been deserted and even if someone had seen him it was unlikely that they would come forward. Cairenes did not believe in volunteering themselves for contact with the authorities. He would ask Mahmoud to check the Parquet records but he thought it unlikely that whoever had conducted the initial investigation had found anything of interest.

One last question.

‘Did Tsakatellis have enemies?’

The woman made a crushing gesture with her hand.

‘The world,’ she said.

Sometimes people used kidnapping as a way of settling old scores.

‘But no one particular? Who had sworn revenge?’

‘Tsakatellis had no enemies of that sort.’

‘A husband, perhaps?’

‘No,’ said the woman definitely.

The only question, then, was what had brought Tsakatellis to the notice of his potential kidnappers. Some display of wealth, perhaps? Unlikely. The Greeks kept themselves to themselves. They worked hard, made money and did not flaunt it.