“Yes, but you’re paid to like it and Zeinab’s not.”
“From what you told me earlier,” said Georgiades, “I think the Lady Zeinab is going to insist on payment too.”
Madame Moulin was waiting for him in the grand central hall of the hotel, under the glass dome. She was having coffee with the French Charge and Mahmoud. There was no sign of Berthelot.
She was in her early or mid-seventies and was wearing a long black gown which even Owen could see belonged to the last century. Her hair was gray and tied up behind in a severe bun. She had been traveling continuously since she had received news of her husband’s disappearance and had arrived only that afternoon; but the eyes which registered Owen’s entrance were bright and alert.
“Cap-tain Owen. Le Mamur Zapt,” the Charge introduced him.
Owen took her hand.
“ Enchante de faire votre connaissance, Madame. I am only sorry that it should be in such circumstances.”
The old lady inclined her head graciously. Then the head came up and the sharp eyes regarded him appraisingly.
“ Vous etes capitaine, Monsieur?”
“Oui, Madame.”
“Du militaire?”
“ Oui, Madame. I was in the Indian Army before coming to Egypt.”
“ Vous avez tue?”
Owen was taken aback. Had he killed? Well, yes, he had, but it was not something he liked to be asked quite so definitely.
“ Oui, Madame. Je le regrette. ”
“We all regret it,” replied the old lady, “but sometimes it is necessary.”
She completed her inspection.
“C’est un brave homme!” she announced to the Charge.
“Of course!” said the Charge enthusiastically.
“He has been tried in action,” said Madame Moulin. “That is what makes a man. Not sitting about in offices.”
“Of course!” agreed the Charge, slightly less enthusiastically this time.
“It is something I am always telling Monsieur le President. My cousin’s husband, you know. ‘Gaston,’ I say: ‘what has happened to our young men? All they think about is drinking wine and chasing women and sitting about in offices.’”
“And what does Monsieur le President reply?” asked Owen.
“ ‘Monique,’ he says: ‘young men have always drunk wine and chased women.’ ‘But not sat about in offices!’ I say. We are becoming,” said Madame Moulin triumphantly, “a race of degenerates.”
“Oh la la!” said the Charge, and clicked his tongue reprovingly.
“A nation of degenerates,” Madame Moulin repeated with emphasis, looking fiercely in his direction.
Owen, who got along well with the Charge, despite present difficulties, tried to rescue him.
“But, Madame,” he said, “we serve our country in different ways. The skills the diplomat needs are not those of the soldier.”
“I am not talking of skills,” said the old lady dismissively. “I am talking of character.”
There was a little silence after that. It was Madame Moulin herself who broke it.
“And what, precisely, are the skills which you yourself bring to this sad affair, Monsieur le Capitaine? Those of a soldier?”
“Certainly not. Those days are long behind me.”
“Then…?”
It was the sort of question which the French-and the Egyptians-were always asking and one which Owen found it very difficult to answer. Both countries had a tradition of professionalism which made it hard for them to see the obvious advantages of English amateurism. Owen decided to shift the question slightly.
“I am assisting Mr. El Zaki,” he said. Seeing from Madame Moulin’s expression that this needed amplifying, he added, “I look after the political side.”
“Ah? So this has a political side?”
“No, no. Not necessarily. It’s just that it may have. It could possibly have. It is just a precaution. My role is very minor. Mr. El Zaki-”
Madame Moulin took no notice.
“Moulin dabbles too much in politics,” she said darkly. “These big contracts! I have told him time and again that one day he would burn his fingers. Perhaps this is the day.”
“We have no reason to think-”
“Moulin is a fool. An old fool, too, and there’s none worse. How many times have I told him to stop gadding around and to stay at home and look after his own business! That could do with some attention, I can tell you! He’s let it go while he’s been chasing around at the beck and call of all those big firms. On yes, they give him a commission, and a big one too, but is it worth it? That’s what I ask him. Gadding around like this all over the world, that’s the short way to finding yourself in a wooden box, I tell him. At his age! And with his heart!”
“That is something that concerns us, Madame,” said Mahmoud. “As far as we know, he is being well treated, but of course, he won’t be taking his medication.”
“He doesn’t anyway,” said the old lady. “He’s too pigheaded to take his pills. He says he forgets them but I know differently. He forgets them deliberately. Those Provencal people are all the same. They don’t trust anyone, not even their own doctors. They won’t poison you, I tell him. I’m the one you’ve got to worry about. And I will, too, one of these days, if I catch you playing around with any more of those fancy women. Did you hear that?” she asked Mahmoud.
“No,” said Mahmoud.
She laughed heartily.
“That’s the right answer,” she said. “You could have been one of our policemen at home. They know what to hear and what not to hear.”
She suddenly changed tack.
“So it’s just a question of money, is it?”
“Yes,” said the Charge.
“Well, we’ve got plenty of that. Mind you, I don’t believe in giving in to them, not as a general rule, but it’s a bit different when it’s your own, isn’t it? I don’t expect you agree with me, though, do you?” she said, looking at Mahmoud.
“No.”
She sighed. “Well, you’re right, I suppose. We could do with more men like you. All the same-”
She seemed to be thinking.
“I don’t suppose you’re getting anywhere, are you?” she asked Mahmoud. “No? Well, you wouldn’t be, and at least you’re man enough to say so. If you were, you see, I might be willing to wait, though it’d be hard on poor Moulin. At his age, too-”
“And in the heat,” said the Charge.
“Yes, in the heat.” She shook her head regretfully. “No, it won’t do. I’ll have to pay. As I said, we’ve got money enough.” She suddenly looked sharply at Mahmoud.
“How did they know we’ve got money? What made them pick on poor Moulin?”
“Anyone who stays at Shepheard’s-” began Mahmoud. She brushed his words aside impatiently.
“Someone must have told them,” she said. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have known. He doesn’t show his money around, he’s too much of an old peasant for that. Someone must have told them. And I know who. Yes,” she said, her lips tightening, “I know who.”
“Who, Madame?”
“That nephew of his. That degenerate.”
“But-”
“Berthelot,” she said.
Chapter 6
A new party of tourists had arrived at the hotel; and as Mahmoud and Owen came down the steps a small group of them were being introduced by their dragoman to the donkey-boys.
“This Daouad, this Ali,” said the dragoman, selecting two of them not quite at random since Ali was the biggest of the donkey-boys and Daouad the richest.
“Fine donkeys,” said Daouad. “You want ride?”
They were fine donkeys. There were little white ones with gay blue and silver necklaces and saddles of red brocade. These were for women and children. And there were big Assiut donkeys for the men. These stood tall as ponies, with their forefeet on the pavement, brushing away the flies with independent motions of their enormous ears, their tails bright with henna. A triangular silver charm containing a verse from the Koran hung below their throats and somewhere about them (as on all the cab-horses) was a blue bead to keep off the evil eye. Those for hire bore a number plate in English and Arabic-“Donkey No. 153”-on their saddle pommel.