The Mamur Zapt and the Spoils of Egypt. Michael Pearce

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      What else could it have been?

      ‘I’ve got something for you,’ said the Fire Chief.

      He fished in a cupboard and produced a parasol and two or three small packages.

      ‘Someone brought them to me,’ he said. ‘He found them under the tram, just where she had been lying.’

      One of the packages was torn and Owen could see what was inside. It was a ushapti image of Osiris, about a foot tall and made in glazed faïence. It was well made but Owen was surprised. He pulled it out and turned it over in his hands.

      ‘She’d been out shopping,’ said the Fire Chief.

      ‘Yes,’ said Owen.

      But why had she bought this? For this one, well made though it was, was still a fake.

      The meeting with Zeinab had gone well; so well, that Miss Skinner expressed the wish to repeat it. And if possible in Zeinab’s own home.

      This proved a problem, for Zeinab had taken it for granted that the meeting would be in some such place as the terrace at Shepheard’s, which was where one normally met. She had no intention of allowing anyone into her appartement other than Owen.

      ‘What’s the idea?’ she said to Owen.

      ‘I think she wants to see you in your natural habitat.’

      ‘Shepheard’s is my natural habitat,’ said Zeinab.

      ‘Yes, but she thinks you have a home.’

      Zeinab considered.

      ‘Perhaps we could meet at my father’s,’ she suggested.

      Zeinab’s father was a Pasha and possessed a town house, a fine old Mameluke building.

      ‘I think—I think she had in mind an ordinary house.’

      ‘This is an ordinary house,’ said Zeinab, in a tone that brooked no argument.

      ‘It will do fine,’ said Paul hastily.

      When, however, Owen arrived, shortly before the appointed hour, Zeinab was not there.

      ‘I don’t know where she is,’ said Nuri Pasha, who had long ago given up attempting to keep track on his daughter’s movements. He admired her deeply—she reminded him of her mother, his favourite courtesan—but understood her not at all.

      ‘Miss Skinner will be arriving at any moment,’ said Owen, consulting his watch.

      ‘Cette américaine,’ said Nuri a trifle anxiously, fearing that he was going to have to provide the entertainment on his own, ‘est-elle jolie?’

      Owen had not really considered the matter. He did so now. Miss Skinner’s trim form rose up before him; but also her sharp face.

      ‘Une jolie laide,’ he said at last, not wishing to discourage Nuri but feeling obliged to be truthful. Ugly-pretty.

      ‘Ah! C’est piquant, ça!’ said Nuri, intrigued. Like all upper-class Egyptians, he habitually spoke French.

      ‘Elle est formidable,’ Owen warned him.

      Nuri brushed the warning aside. So long as the other parts of the equation were all right, the more formidable the better, so far as he was concerned. He liked a challenge.

      Owen felt a little worried. Nuri’s interests centred fairly narrowly on politics and sex and he was inclined to associate women exclusively with the latter. Owen felt that Nuri needed more briefing.

      However, at this moment the servant came in to announce Miss Skinner’s arrival.

      ‘Chère Madame!’ said Nuri, rising to kiss her hand.

      ‘Mr Pasha!’ said Miss Skinner, surprised but not discomfited.

      ‘Call me Nuri,’ said Zeinab’s father, retaining her hand and leading her over to the divan.

      Owen was glad that Paul was there. He had a feeling that things might be about to go wrong.

      Fortunately, Zeinab appeared at this point, dressed as for a visit in discreet black, which owed, however, more to the fashion house than to Islamic tradition.

      ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘I’ve been at Samira’s. Her favourite niece was being circumcised and it went on for ages—’

      ‘Circumcised?’ Miss Skinner’s voice rose to a squeak. ‘Female circumcision?’

      ‘Barbaric,’ said Nuri. ‘Reduces the pleasure enormously.’

      ‘Miss Nuri, there are one or two things I would like to discuss—’

      Paul somehow succeeded in detaching Miss Skinner from Nuri and leading her over to sit beside Zeinab, whose entrance, Owen thought, had not been entirely uncontrived.

      He returned and sat down beside the disappointed Nuri.

      ‘What an opportunity!’ he said. ‘The very man to tell us all the Khedive’s secrets!’

      ‘Alas, my friend,’ said Nuri sadly, ‘I am no longer one of his intimates.’

      ‘Say not so! Why, only last week I was talking to Idris Bey and he said—’

      ‘Did he?’ said Nuri eagerly. ‘Did he now?’

      At the other end of the room Miss Skinner was deep in conversation with Zeinab. Owen shuddered to think what she might be hearing. Zeinab’s knowledge of the life led by ‘ordinary’ Egyptians was sketchy but her imagination vivid.

      Paul, meanwhile, had slid smoothly on to current politics and was now, thank goodness, giving Nuri the political background to Miss Skinner’s visit.

      ‘Antiquities? I’m sure I have some. Or can lay my hands on some if Miss Skinner wishes to buy—’

      ‘No, no. It’s the actual excavation she’s interested in. But also the export of such treasures from Egypt.’

      ‘An excellent thing. What good can they do here? Some clumsy peasant is sure to break them. Much better to sell them. If only,’ said Nuri wistfully, ‘I had an unopened pyramid or two on my estates!’

      ‘Miss Skinner’s position is, I think, a little different. She wishes to stop the export of antiquities from Egypt.’

      ‘Stop!’ cried Nuri, aghast. ‘But why should she want to do that?’

      ‘She feels, I believe, that Egypt’s remarkable heritage should be preserved.’

      ‘Oh quite,’ said Nuri. ‘Absolutely.’

      He seemed, however, СКАЧАТЬ