The Mingrelian Conspiracy. Michael Pearce

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      ‘Led by me,’ said the constable swiftly.

      ‘And found Mustapha lying there.’

      ‘Right!’ said the Chief of the Secret Police. ‘So we’re not in the story now; we’re in what really happened?’

      ‘Yes, Effendi, that’s right. And there was Mustapha, lying in a pool of blood –’

      Owen sighed. ‘What really happened’ was always a relative matter in Cairo. There had been, for instance, no pool of blood. The proprietor of the café had had his legs broken, which was the usual penalty for noncompliance when the gangs made their initial request. He glanced back over his shoulder.

      ‘Where is Mustapha now?’ he asked.

      ‘Upstairs, Effendi. The hakim is with him.’

      ‘Right. Well, I am going in to have a talk with him. In private. So you can all go home. There’ll be nothing for you to see. No more excitement.’

      He knew, however, that his words were wasted. The crowd would stay on in the hope of further drama at least until he left and probably long after.

      ‘Keep them out,’ he said to the constable. ‘I don’t want any company.’

      ‘Right, Effendi!’ said the constable, taking out his baton with alacrity. When Owen had arrived, the first thing he had had to do was clear the café of all sightseers, which meant the whole neighbourhood. They were all now packed in the street outside, which was jammed from one end to the other.

      The constable stationed himself in front of the entrance and swung his arm.

      ‘Oy!’ said someone indignantly. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

      ‘That’ll teach you, Ahmed!’ said the constable, grinning.

      Owen gave him a warning look and then went inside. The café had obviously started life as a traditional Arab one and there were still stone benches round the walls with low tables in front of them and a rack of hose-stemmed bubble pipes in one corner. An attempt was being made, however, to take it up market. The central part of the floor was occupied by standard wooden European chairs and tables and scattered around were various European fixtures and fittings: a large gilt mirror, for instance, which might have strayed out of an East London pub. The density of the chairs and tables, and the fact that the café could afford a storyteller, suggested that it was popular. Just the kind of place, thought Owen, to attract the attention of the gangs.

      A flight of stairs led upwards to the family’s living quarters. In one of the rooms Owen found a cluster of people around a rope bed on which a man was lying. He had his trousers off and a man in a dark suit and fez was bending over him. A woman, unveiled, was wiping his face with a cloth.

      ‘You wouldn’t listen, would you?’ she said.

      The man ignored her. The doctor saw Owen and straightened up.

      ‘Another one,’ he said.

      ‘Just the legs?’

      ‘A smack or two in the face.’

      ‘They broke my nose,’ the man on the bed said, putting up his hand to feel his face. ‘The bastards!’

      The doctor inspected him critically.

      ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said, ‘when the swelling goes down. Your mouth will want some repair work, though. A couple of teeth have gone.’

      The man felt gingerly inside his mouth with one finger and then sat bolt upright.

      ‘It’s the gold one! Leila, look in my mouth. It’s the gold one, isn’t it?’

      The woman wiped the blood away and peered.

      ‘It looks like it,’ she said.

      ‘Then where is it?’

      ‘It’ll be on the floor somewhere.’

      ‘Go down and look for it! At once! Before any of those other bastards finds it and makes off with it!’

      The woman hurried out of the room.

      ‘Bastards!’ said the man, lying back.

      Owen moved forward.

      ‘How do you feel?’ he asked sympathetically.

      ‘Bad!’ said the man, without opening his eyes.

      ‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow,’ said Owen, ‘and we can talk more. But there’s something I need to know quickly. The men; what were they like?’

      The man was silent.

      ‘You must have seen them,’ insisted Owen.

      The man looked up, as if registering his presence for the first time.

      ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I saw them, all right.’

      ‘Recognize any of them?’

      ‘No. As soon as I saw the clubs I knew what I was in for, though.’

      ‘Can you give me a description?’

      ‘What’s the use?’ said the man.

      ‘Scars?’

      ‘Sudanis, you mean? Well, it might have been. We’ve got enough around.’ He reflected a moment, then shook his head. ‘It all happened so fast.’

      ‘Were they wearing galabeeyahs? Or trousers?’

      Some of the gangs were westernized. It might help to narrow the field.

      ‘Do you know,’ said the man, ‘I can’t remember. I really can’t remember.’

      ‘Another one who won’t talk?’ The army major pursed his lips. ‘We need to take a tougher line.’

      ‘It’s the only way.’

      The speaker was new to the committee. Paul, in the chair, raised his eyebrows.

      ‘Captain – ?’

      ‘Shearer,’ said the major, introducing. ‘Just joined us. The Sirdar thought he might be useful. Experience with Arabs. The Gulf. Knows how to handle them.’

      ‘Bedouin?’ said Paul. ‘I think you may find the urban Egyptian a little different, Captain Shearer.’

      ‘They’re all the same.’

      ‘I bow to your experience. And how long is it that you’ve been in Cairo?’

      ‘I arrived last week,’ said Shearer, flushing slightly.

      ‘It’s true, though,’ insisted the major. ‘They are all СКАЧАТЬ