The Mamur Zapt and the Girl in Nile. Michael Pearce

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      He thought it would probably confuse them if he insisted on their moving on. Instead, hoping to expedite matters, he squatted down beside them and gave them a hand.

      In the relaxed way of countryfolk, they began to chat.

      ‘Did you find what you wanted over there?’ asked one of them, inclining his head in the direction of the river.

      Over the houses Owen caught a glimpse of blue.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Nor here, either. You’re not having much luck this morning, are you?’

      ‘There’s still time. If we get a move on,’ he said pointedly.

      ‘Oh yes. Things usually turn out right in the end.’

      ‘Yes, but only if—’

      He stopped himself. It was pointless. One of the things he had learned since coming to Egypt was that the country had its rhythms and that if you were going to get anywhere you had to work with them and not against them.

      ‘It was a body,’ he said, changing tack. ‘Over there. By the river.’

      ‘Oh yes.’

      ‘Yes. Or rather, a body was reported. By the time I got there it had gone.’

      The man laughed.

      ‘Bodies have a way of doing that,’ he said. ‘Or at least, on this part of the river they do.’

      ‘How’s that?’

      ‘Oh well, if you find one, that means more work for the Chief, doesn’t it?’

      ‘So he doesn’t mind too much if one goes missing?’

      ‘He doesn’t mind at all.’

      ‘How might they go missing?’

      ‘All sorts of ways,’ said the man vaguely.

      ‘They might hit a pole, for instance,’ suggested his friend.

      ‘What?’

      The two men laughed, as at a private joke.

      ‘They can hit all sorts of things on their way downriver,’ said the first man, looking at his friend chidingly.

      ‘But what about when they’re washed up?’

      ‘That’s when they have to be reported.’

      The man laughed again.

      ‘Are there people working the bank?’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      ‘On the lookout for things. Things that get washed ashore?’

      ‘Oh yes.’

      ‘Regulars?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Are they organized? Is there a gang? A society?’

      The men looked at each other, then dropped their eyes.

      ‘We wouldn’t know about that,’ they said.

      They worked on carefully through the dovecot. When they had finished they patted the dovecot affectionately and climbed back unhurriedly down the stairs.

      Owen sat thinking. It was a new possibility. Suppose the body had not been washed away? Suppose it had been interfered with? Suppose somebody had got to it?

      Owen went to see the District Chief afterwards. He had a thing or two he wanted to tell him. To his surprise, when he reached the office he found the green car drawn up outside and the Prince about to go in.

      ‘Why, Captain Owen!’ said the Prince, pausing for him. ‘How felicitous! I was just making sure that everything was covered.’

      ‘Isn’t McPhee supposed to be doing that?’

      ‘Of course. But it sometimes helps if you remind key people which side their bread is buttered on, don’t you think?’

      Owen wondered in what sense the District Chief was key.

      The District Chief was, in fact, looking rather shaken.

      ‘After all,’ said the Prince with a wave of his hand, ‘it’s not every day that he gets called on by both Royalty and the Head of the Secret Police.’ He gave Owen a sidelong glance. ‘He is probably more impressed by the latter, I’m afraid.’

      ‘I doubt it, Prince.’

      ‘You’re his boss, aren’t you?’

      ‘No. He comes under Mr McPhee.’

      ‘Not the Mamur Zapt? Don’t they all come under the Mamur Zapt?’

      ‘No, Prince. The Mamur Zapt is, well, out to one side.’

      ‘You, too? Of course, things have changed. In my grandfather’s time the Mamur Zapt used to control everything. He was the Khedive’s right-hand man, you know. The man he relied on to keep him in power.’

      ‘I am afraid his scope is a little more restricted these days, Prince.’

      The title ‘Head of the Secret Police’ was in any case something of a misnomer. Head of the Political Branch of the CID was the closest British equivalent. Perhaps, too, in army terms—and some considered Egypt an occupied country—Head of Political Intelligence.

      ‘Yes. And in the old days he used to serve the Khedive.’

      ‘He still does, Your Highness.’

      The Prince smiled.

      ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I am sure you have business of your own with our friend here. Please don’t let me interrupt you.’

      He walked over to one of the low, shuttered windows and sat on the sill.

      ‘Do carry on.’

      Owen hesitated.

      ‘Not secret, is it? If it is, I will at once remove myself. Though, as you said a moment ago, you are in a sense one of my servants.’

      ‘The Khedive’s servants, certainly. No, Your Highness, you are, of course, welcome to stay. I was merely going to ask the Chief why he sent for me this morning.’

      ‘But is not that obvious?’

      ‘No, far from it. The proper procedure, you see, when a crime is reported, is to notify the Parquet, not the Mamur Zapt.’

      ‘I see. Well, man, answer him. Why did you send for him?’

      ‘The Mamur Zapt was nearby,’ СКАЧАТЬ