“It’s a block of flats. There’ll be people coming and going all the time.”
“At one o’clock in the morning? Carrying something? You’d have to have a bag or a case to carry that amount of money.”
“I wish we could watch the cloakroom all the time.”
“Can’t be done.”
“What’s on the next floor up? Directly above the cloak-room:
“A sewing shop. Try moving all those girls.”
“Why don’t we bribe one of Anton’s people and ask them to keep an eye on the cloakroom?”
“They’ve got their jobs to do. They wouldn’t be able to watch all the time.”
“All the same…”
“As a matter of fact,” said Nikos, “I already have.”
Owen had men watching Monsieur Berthelot. The following afternoon they reported that Berthelot had been to the bank twice. The second time he had come away carrying a small leather case. On both occasions he had been accompanied by a member of the staff of the French Consulate.
On a hunch Owen checked steamer bookings. Two passages had been reserved under the name of Berthelot on a boat leaving Alexandria in thirty-six hours’ time.
Mahmoud had heard nothing of any deal. Unlike Owen, he was dead against it.
“Do it once and you’ll soon be doing it all the time,” he said.
“But people are doing it all the time,” said Owen.
He could get Mahmoud not to intervene only by telling him what he himself was proposing to do.
He went back to his office and worked late. Soon after ten he went home and changed into evening dress. He put a tarboosh on his head and slipped some dark glasses into his pocket. He would not be the only one wearing them. Others besides himself would have reasons for wishing to preserve their anonymity.
It was still relatively early in the evening in Cairo terms and there were only about thirty people around the table. Berthelot was at the far end intent on the play. The table was brilliantly lit up. All the rest of the room was in shadow.
Owen played standing up, reaching an arm in when it was necessary. In that way he could keep out of the light. He wasn’t sure how effective his disguise was. He was still relatively new in Cairo and thought his face generally unknown. Still, it was the doorman’s job to know these things and he might well have spotted him. Owen thought it probably wouldn’t matter if he had. He would tell Anton and Anton would worry; but so long as Anton himself was not involved in the plot he would probably keep his worries to himself. Even if he knew what was going on in the cloakroom he would probably stay out of it. He might have received an inducement to turn a blind eye, but a blind eye was what he would turn, especially with the Mamur Zapt there. Owen doubted if he would warn them.
The important thing was that Berthelot shouldn’t recognize him. Owen didn’t think he would. He thought the disguise and the darkness was proof against that. Anyway, Berthelot was concentrating on the play.
“ Faites vos jeux, messieurs,” the croupier said. “ Faites vos jeux. ”
Berthelot hesitated, then added to his stake.
“ Rien ne va plus.”
The croupier spun the wheel. There was a sudden intentness, a catch of the breath. The wheel slowed and came to a halt. Berthelot shrugged and turned away. The croupier began to rake in the chips.
“It’s Anton’s lucky night tonight,” said a Greek standing beside Berthelot.
“It’s Anton’s lucky night every night,” said someone from across the table.
There was a general stirring and one or two people left the table, either to refresh themselves from the jugs of iced lemonade which stood on a shelf behind them or simply to ease their backs.
Berthelot and the Greek turned at the same time.
“ Pardon, monsieur.”
“ Pardon! ”
Berthelot made way for the Greek, who went over to the shelf and poured himself a glass of lemonade.
“ Monsieur? ”
He offered to pour for Berthelot.
“ Merci, monsieur.”
They stood sipping the lemonade together.
“It’s a hot night,” said the Greek.
“Is it always as hot as this?”
There were fans working but since the room had no windows they merely moved the hot air round.
“It’s been hot all day. Monsieur is new to Cairo?”
“We’ve been here just over a month.”
“Ah. Not long enough to get used to it.”
“How long does it take to get used to it?”
The Greek spread his hands. “A lifetime. And then it’s no use!”
They went back to the table. The play began again.
The room was long and thin with deep luxurious carpets and heavy wood panelling. A door led off into an inner room, out of which waiters emerged regularly with drinks. They brought the drinks to the players. There was no bar as such. Drink was incidental at Anton’s. Besides, most of the players were Moslem.
An arch behind Owen led back into the entrance vestibule. Through it he could see one end of the cloakroom counter. Since Berthelot had arrived one player had left and four more had entered. The one who had left had departed soon after Berthelot had appeared and, Owen thought, had gone straight past the cloakroom. It was a hot evening and very few people had brought coats. A number had brought walking sticks which they deposited.
No one, Owen was pretty sure, left the playing room during the evening to visit the cloakroom. The obvious pretext would have been to use the toilets but they were off the main room next to the door through which the waiters came and went. He had watched the waiters particularly carefully. He was sure that none of them had gone out into the entrance vestibule. There might, of course, be a door from the inner room into the entrance vestibule. If there was, it would be at the far end and he had seen no one walk past the arch from that direction. As the evening wore on, the possibilities narrowed down.
Although he took short breaks from time to time, for most of the evening he had to play. He found himself worrying about the money he was losing. It was Departmental money but he would still be held to account for it. The Ministry’s accountants would allow a certain amount of expenditure of this kind in view of the peculiar nature of the Mamur Zapt’s operations but the amount was, in Owen’s view, ridiculously low. It must have been much easier being Mamur Zapt in the days before Cromer, the previous Consul-General, had introduced a stringent financial regime. In those more relaxed days Anton would probably have been on the payroll. The Mamur Zapt himself might even have taken a cut.
At last Berthelot looked at his watch.
“You’re probably right,” said his neighbor, the talkative Greek. “The only person who’s going to do well tonight is Anton.”
He stepped back from the table with Berthelot but only to pour himself some more lemonade. The Frenchman went on out of the room and made for the cloakroom. One of the attendants came forward with his case.
“Can I leave that here?” Berthelot asked. “I’ve got to go on to another place.”
“Of course, Monsieur,” said the attendant. “We are open till four. There will be someone here after that but we shall have gone off duty. Perhaps I should give Monsieur a receipt. Then he has but to hand it in and there will be no complication.”
“That seems a good idea,” said Berthelot.
The attendant produced a receipt, which Berthelot pocketed without looking at it. As he went out of the door Owen moved unhurriedly after him.
“I am just going out for some fresh air,” he told the porter.
Berthelot was just stepping into an arabeah. As the carriage moved off into the night another arabeah drew out of a side street and set off after it.
There was a man standing in the shadows.
“OK?” asked Owen.
“OK,” said the man.
Owen went back inside. The Greek had taken his place at the table but made room for him.