Death of an Effendi. Michael Pearce

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      The Khedive’s party left with them, including the princes, who had quite enjoyed the morning’s excitement but now that it was over saw no point in staying. Prince Fuad alone remained behind to wrap things up.

      The authorities had, of course, been notified immediately and shortly after breakfast the local Mudir appeared. He came with an air of resignation, clearly expecting the worst. The little experience that he had had of dealing with the great had taught him that was what you usually got.

      ‘There’s been an accident,’ said Prince Fuad peremptorily.

      The Mudir spread his hands in deprecation.

      So he had heard. Regrettable, he said, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the ground in front of Prince Fuad’s feet. Yes, regrettable. Very. And of an effendi, too? Even more regrettable. But every cloud had a silver lining. At least, so he gathered, it was of a foreign effendi.

      ‘What difference does that make?’ demanded Prince Fuad.

      Well, said the Mudir, gaining in confidence, or, possibly, garrulous through nervousness, it wasn’t like losing one of your own family. It wasn’t even like losing an ordinary Egyptian—

      His voice died away as his lowered eyes suddenly caught sight of the Russian Consul standing beside Prince Fuad.

      On the other hand, he babbled, desperately switching tack, the death of an effendi was always terrible. Even a foreign effendi. No, no – with sighing heart – that was not what he had meant—

      ‘What did you mean?’ asked Prince Fuad unkindly.

      Well, floundered the Mudir, it wasn’t like the death of a mere fellah. Or – his eye scanned desperately – one of the waiters, say. That would have been of no account at all.

      There Prince Fuad agreed entirely.

      ‘This was of an effendi, though,’ he pointed out.

      Exactly! And that was why he, a humble Mudir, was glad to come and offer his services—

      ‘An accident,’ said Prince Fuad. ‘Got that? Right. Well, off you go—’

      Owen was moved to protest.

      Oughtn’t the Mudir at least speak to the boatman? After all, he had been in the boat when—

      ‘Why not?’ said the prince, looking at his watch. ‘And you go along with him to see he doesn’t get it wrong.’

      The boatman, Ahmed, was still in a state of shock. He had been sitting opposite Tvardovsky, holding the boat still as the birds flew over. He had been noting the birds and seeing where they fell when suddenly he had become aware that Tvardovsky had slumped sideways and was hanging over the side of the boat and there was blood trickling down into the water, and blood seeping into the water in the bottom of the boat and blood trickling on to the boatman’s foot and—

      And by this time it was pretty clear that they were not going to get much more out of him.

      Owen made a last try.

      Had he been conscious of the shot?

      There had been so many shots. It had been just when the birds were flying over, at the height of the fusillade, in fact. He had not been conscious of any one particular shot, still less of the shot that had—

      He began to shake uncontrollably.

      ‘Well, there you are,’ said Prince Fuad, who had joined them. ‘It was just when everyone was shooting and one of the shots went astray. That’s the trouble with amateurs. The shots could go anywhere. I said as much to His Highness. It’s not like a shoot in Scotland, I said – I had some very good shooting there last year with Lord Kilcrankie – when everyone knows what they’re doing. Anything could happen! Well, I think he took my point, and that’s why he stayed away. Just as well, we wouldn’t have wanted him getting mixed up in this kind of thing, would we? Would we?’ he asked the Mudir suddenly.

      The Mudir, too, began to shake uncontrollably.

      ‘No,’ he managed to get out at last.

      ‘Of course, we had to have the shoot, though,’ said the prince, as they were walking away. ‘The Russians were absolutely insistent on it.’

      They returned to the terrace.

      ‘He’s quite satisfied,’ Prince Fuad informed the Russian Consul. ‘Definitely an accident.’

      ‘Oh, good,’ said the Consul.

      ‘What else could it be?’ asked the Financial Adviser.

      Owen made one last effort.

      ‘What about the guns? Oughtn’t we to call them in? Then the bullet could be checked against the guns to find out which—’

      ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary!’ interrupted Prince Fuad.

      ‘Indeed not!’ cried the Russian Consul. ‘Think of the embarrassment it could cause!’

      ‘Well, yes, but—’

      ‘It was obviously an accident. What’s the point of apportioning blame?’

      The Mudir was only too anxious not to apportion blame. He took Tvardovsky’s name and a few particulars from the Russian Consul and then made tracks as fast as he possibly could.

      The incident, though unfortunate, might well have been forgotten had it not been for an unusual feature of the legal system. Under the Egyptian legal code, which was modelled on the French one, investigation of a potential crime was the responsibility not of the police but of the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice, the Parquet, as it was known. The police would notify the Parquet of the circumstances and the Parquet would then decide whether they merited formal investigation, in which event a Parquet officer would be assigned to the case.

      In the provinces the system was slightly different. The police came under the local governor, the Mudir, as he was called, and it was he who had the formal responsibility of notifying the Parquet when a crime was suspected.

      The Mudir had, then, notified the Parquet of Tvardovsky’s death. Strictly speaking – or, rather, loosely speaking, which was the way more normal in the provinces – no notification was required as the death was the result of an accident. However, as the Mudir himself had remarked, the death of an effendi was different and it had loomed sufficiently large in his mind for him to include it in a report. The Parquet officer who had read the report had written back requesting further details. When these did not satisfy him, he announced that he was opening a formal investigation.

      ‘Of course,’ said the British Consul-General’s aide-de-camp, as he and Owen were walking into the hastily summoned meeting together, ‘it would have to be Mahmoud!’

      In a country which tended to take a relaxed view of the conduct of business, Mahmoud El Zaki was an exception; although if you had said so he would have taken umbrage. He resented slights on his country. In private, however, he had to admit there was some truth in the charge; and, therefore, to make up for any deficiency he always worked СКАЧАТЬ