The Mamur Zapt and the Men Behind. Michael Pearce

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      Customs was one of the lowest ranking of the Departments and its members were sensitive on the issue.

      ‘I wondered if it could be a question of wanting to settle old scores?’

      ‘Look,’ said Fairclough, rosy with heat and indignation and, no doubt, drink, ‘all I am is a book-keeper. A high-level one perhaps, but basically that’s all I am. The returns come in from the ports and I put them together in a way that makes sense to Finance. It’s more complicated than it sounds but when you get down to it, that’s all it is. I have nothing,’ said Fairclough with emphasis, ‘absolutely nothing to do with the front end of the business. Smugglers are just a row of figures to me. And that,’ said Fairclough, ‘is the way I’d like them to stay.’

      ‘There’s been no recent row of figures of any particular significance?’

      ‘Not to do with smuggling, no. From the point of view of Finance, yes. There always is. But even those bastards haven’t got round to sending out shooting parties. Yet.’

      ‘If it’s not work it could be personal.’

      ‘Something in my personal life, you mean?’ Fairclough reflected, then shook his head. ‘Try as I might, I can’t find anything I’ve done bad enough for anyone to want to shoot me.’

      ‘Women?’

      ‘No,’ said Fairclough shortly.

      ‘Others?’

      Owen was trying to find a way of referring to any other preferences Fairclough might have.

      ‘Bridge,’ said Fairclough.

      ‘What?’ said Owen, startled.

      ‘Bridge. I play a lot of bridge. And, of course, feelings sometimes run high. But,’ said Fairclough, weighing the matter, ‘not as high as that.’

      ‘Oh, good.’

      Fairclough went on thinking.

      ‘No,’ he said at last, shaking his head. ‘No, I can’t say that anything comes to mind.’

      ‘Well, if it does, you’ll let me know, won’t you?’

      ‘You bet I will,’ said Fairclough. ‘I don’t want those bastards trying again.’

      Owen could get little more out of him. He hadn’t even seen the men who had fired the shots. That piece of information had come from a passing water-carrier, who had seen two men step out from behind a stationary arabeah, fire the shots and then duck back in again. It had all happened so quickly that the water-carrier had barely had time to notice anything. He wasn’t even sure whether the men were dressed in Western-style clothes or in galabeahs.

      ‘I just heard the bangs,’ said Fairclough, ‘and then the bloody donkey was bucking all over the place.’

      He cast a longing glance in the direction of the bar.

      Owen took the hint.

      ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

      Fairclough got up. At the last minute he was reluctant to go.

      ‘It’s a funny business, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Why would anyone want to kill me?’

      ‘It might be simply a mistake, of course.’

      ‘Mistaken identity, you mean?’

      ‘Maybe.’

      Fairclough brightened.

      ‘That could be it,’ he said. ‘That could well be it.’

      Privately Owen doubted whether it was possible to mistake Fairclough for anyone else. The image of a second pink little man in the habit of riding home on a donkey rose unbidden to his mind. He put it down firmly.

      Even Fairclough, after a moment, began to have his doubts.

      ‘I don’t think it could be that, you know,’ he said worriedly.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘I think they knew what they were doing.’

      ‘What makes you say that?’

      Fairclough hesitated. ‘You’ll probably think I’m being fanciful,’ he said. ‘But—I think that recently I’ve been followed.’

      ‘Followed?’

      ‘Someone behind me. I’ve never seen anyone, mind. I’ve just sensed it. There’s a sort of feeling you have.’ He looked at Owen. ‘You probably think I’ve been imagining things.’

      ‘No,’ said Owen. ‘No, I don’t.’

      ‘I thought that myself—thought I was imagining it. So I took no notice. Told myself not to be so bloody daft. But then, this shooting …’ His voice tailed away.

      ‘It’s not so daft,’ said Owen. ‘It makes sense for them to do their homework.’

      ‘But then—you see, that means they knew what they were doing. Knew it was me, I mean.’

      ‘Not necessarily.’

      ‘And then,’ said Fairclough, taking no notice, ‘this following business—’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘There have been other cases, haven’t there? Recently, I mean. There’s been a lot of talk.’

      ‘I wouldn’t believe everything you hear.’

      ‘You see, that would explain it. The shooting, I mean. It might not be anything to do with me. Not personally, I mean. If it was—well, you know.’

      ‘No,’ said Owen, ‘I don’t.’

      ‘If it was something to do with, well, the present, well—situation.’

      ‘There’s no evidence of that,’ said Owen, ‘no evidence at all.’

      ‘I had to reassure the poor little devil,’ he explained.

      ‘Yes,’ said Garvin doubtfully. ‘The trouble is we actually want them to be a bit scared, don’t we? So that they’ll take precautions.’

      Garvin was Commandant of the Cairo Police, a big man in every sense: big in terms of physical presence—he towered over Owen, who was himself a six-footer, big in reputation with the Egyptians—he had been in the country a long time and was known in the underworld to have a special eye, big in standing with the Consul-General.

      They were at the Consul-General’s now. It was a reception for a delegation of businessmen newly out from London to which the Consul-General seemed to be attaching a lot of importance. Owen could see him now at the far end of the room deep in conversation with СКАЧАТЬ