It was tedious work. The sergeant opened the collar of his tunic and permitted his ramrod back to case against the chair. The clock over the Mustansiriyah buildings had struck ten before he closed the last file.
He said with feeling, “Police work is sometimes unexciting.”
Chafik showed his assistant the completed graph. It resembled a mountain range.
“Here is a genuine picture of a crime wave,” the little Inspector said, smiling. The joke was lost on his sergeant and he demanded brusquely, “What do you observe?”
“Sir, I observe the parabola of crime begins to rise each Thursday. Then there is a variable peak period of about three days, then a decline.”
“What does that mean to you?”
“It proves supplies of hashish are released on that day.”
“By what means, Abdullah?”
The sergeant ventured sarcasm. “Perhaps the graph shows how.”
“It does,” Chafik said. “Today is Thursday. What transport arrives from foreign parts this day?”
“Sir, solely the international train from Turkey, the Taurus Express. But it is a semiweekly train. There is another on Sunday.”
“Where are your wits?” Chafik asked. “The crimes begin Thursday, their peak declines on Sunday. Therefore this man who smuggles the hashish travels only on Thursdays. Storms interfere with the desert autobus, with aircraft and the camel caravans, but they rarely stop a train. It is the means of entry.” He made it a statement of fact.
Sergeant Abdullah was critical. “But we always search the train.”
Chafik again gave attention to the graph. “He has a means of tricking us,” he said. He put his finger on the red line where it oddly flattened for a two-week period before leaping to a new high. “What happened here?” he asked.
“Apparently no hashish was available, sir. I remember the period. Many people went to hospital sick through lack of the drug.”
The Inspector lighted a cigarette, took a few puffs, then stubbed it. He was shaking with excitement, and said, “This graph is clairvoyant. Bring me our lists of Taurus Express passengers for the past three months. Fortunately it is a short train.”
These lists were always taken at the border and copies were sent to the Inspector’s office. They checked the names of regular passengers against the police records, but their work was unrewarded.
Abdullah said, “Your thought was admirable, sir, but—”
“I object to ‘but.’ It is a sly conjunctive that conceals a dagger. You do not think my thought admirable.” Chafik shrugged. “We have eliminated the passengers, but there are others. The Taurus Express is an international train. True, the engine, its crew and the conductors are changed at the frontier, but the day coaches continue to Baghdad. Also one sleeping car and a diner. Read me the names of the staff attendants.”
Six men made the midweek run from Istanbul to Baghdad, all were regulars. There was a chef de train, a sleeping-car attendant, two cooks, and two waiters.
While his assistant read the names, the Inspector followed the dates on the graph. Suddenly he looked up. “That was a new name,” he said.
“Yes, sir. It would appear that Najar Helmy, a waiter, was replaced for the week in question.”
“Docs Helmy ride the train the following week?”
“No, sir, but he is back the third week—”
There was a dry snapping sound. Sergeant Abdullah looked at the Inspector, who was huddled over the desk. A broken pencil fell from Chafik’s hand and he said in a choked voice, “By God and by God!”
“Sir?”
“Have you forgotten the two-week period when the graph flattens, when no hashish came to Baghdad? Najar Helmy’s absence coincides. But is it coincidence that all other Thursdays when Helmy worked the run the telltale line of my graph mounts?”
The sergeant was inarticulate. When he found voice he exclaimed, “Without leaving your office! Sir, without leaving your office you have solved it, even to the name. Let us go seize this Helmy—”
“He who seizes a scorpion in haste repents with haste.” Chafik looked at the clock, saw it was nearly train time, and said briskly, “But I confess I am curious to meet this man.”
They went to the Baghdad North Station and waited in the office of the railroad police, which commanded a view of the platform. The train had arrived and the scene was bedlam. Kurdish porters, clad in rags, cursed and fought over the baggage. A merciless sun beat on the iron roof and dust blew across the platform.
Chafik pressed his face to the window, but drew back when a familiar pair of eager eyes met his own. He had forgotten Faisal. The boy’s presence was natural, for he had said he would make money from the arrival of the train, but the Inspector was annoyed and ignored Faisal’s salute.
He waited patiently as the passengers streamed through the exit gate. A detective of the railroad police was at his side and presently said. “There is Helmy. He stands on the steps of the restaurant car, sir.”
Najar Helmy was a Turk, short, stocky, and olive-skinned. He stood bowing to a belated passenger, the picture of the perfect attendant who earns his tips.
“You know him?” Chafik asked the detective.
“We are acquainted, sir. He always stays overnight at the Parliament Hotel on Hassan Pasha Street.”
The station became quiet, a field after battle, littered with cigarette stubs and torn paper. The attendants bustled in and out of the diner and sleeping car, putting everything in order for the next day. The attendant of the sleeper dragged a hamper of dirty linen to a locker room, and then Helmy appeared with a garbage can.
The Turk held one handle; the other was clutched by Faisal, who used both hands as he strained under the weight of the can.
Chafik said in a worried voice, “The boy is at case with this man. He knows him.”
Helmy and Faisal disappeared into the yard at the back of the station. When they returnee, Helmy the Turk gave the boy money and dismissed him. Soon, the Turk again left the train, submitted a suitcase for inspection and went up the platform toward the yard and the employees’ exit.
Sergeant Abdullah said, “This time he is without hashish.”
Chafik was puzzled. “But why should he change his routine?”
“Perhaps he was forewarned, sir.”
The Inspector exclaimed and abruptly left the office. Faisal was squatting on the platform, and Chafik took his arm and pulled him roughly to his feet.
“The man who gave you money,” he said harshly. “You know him?”
“Sahib, my arm,” the boy said plaintively, trying to break free. “I did nothing wrong, only helped carry rubbish, as I often do. The man gave me twenty fils. A lot of money—”
“What did you say to him? What did you tell him?”
“Nothing, sahib! Nothing — you hurt—” Faisal squirmed away, looked up reproachfully, and then fled.
The Inspector’s anger cooled but his face remained grim. He said to Abdullah, “We have been tricked. I think I know how he took out the hashish.” He ran up the platform to the station yard.
A garbage can stood upside down behind a stack of rusting oil drums. Flies swarmed over the scattered rubbish.
Abdullah began, “Sir—”
Chafik said, “Our heads are of the same density. Who would think of searching that filth? When Helmy went out a few minutes ago, he merely upturned the can and took what was concealed there. That is his regular method — and the boy helped him carry the can—”
“If Helmy went directly to his hotel he has the supply with him, sir. We can take him.”
“Not yet. I wish to learn how he distributes the hashish.”
The Inspector called headquarters, ordered a check, and soon learned Helmy was at his usual hotel. Arrangements were made for a man to register there, for others to be placed strategically throughout the quarter where the hotel was located. Chafik installed himself in a nearby café, ordered coffee and his favorite honey cakes, and waited. But the coffee grew cold and the cakes were untouched; even honey could not sweeten his thoughts.