“That applies to them all.”
“Yes.”
It applied particularly on the terrace where if a dragoman had appeared, as Colthorpe Hartley reported, he must have been seen-indeed, was seen-by Colthorpe Hartley. Mahmoud had tried repeatedly to see if Colthorpe Hartley could identify the dragoman. That, in fact, had been part of the point of the ill-fated reconstruction. However, that attempt, like the others, had failed. Faced with the hotel dragomans, Colthorpe Hartley was barely able to tell them apart. His mind, he assured Mahmoud-and this Mahmoud could readily accept-went blank, “absolutely blank, old boy.” He was, however, quite positive that he had seen “one of those fellows” and Mahmoud was inclined to believe him.
“It fits in with what the snake charmer told us,” he said. “Someone from above the steps.”
“That could apply to a waiter.”
“But Colthorpe Hartley saw a dragoman.”
Naturally enough Mahmoud had tried to find corroboration for Colthorpe Hartley’s account. That, too, had been part of the point of the reconstruction. He had wanted to see if any of the street-vendors remembered the dragoman. His intention had been thwarted by the general rush of all the vendors to that end of the terrace on the day of the reconstruction, which had resulted in a complete mix-up of regulars and general sightseers. He had tried again on the following day when conditions were normal but had not achieved quite the clarification he had desired.
“No one saw a dragoman?”
“Oh yes, everyone saw a dragoman. But they all saw different dragomans!”
Most of the vendors had testified in detail as to the appearance of the dragoman. The flower-seller had described with considerable accuracy one of the dragomans who had been incontrovertibly at the Pyramids on the day in question. The sweetmeat-seller had given a vivid picture of one of the dragomans asleep in the backyard. Four witnesses described with lurid detail the dragoman who had acted the part in Mahmoud’s reconstruction. And the filthy-postcard-seller described a sinister figure with a hunched back and a wall eye and the Fang of the Wolf and-until Mahmoud shut him up.
Mahmoud, ever-hopeful, was still hopeful, though. That was part of the purpose of their stroll across the street. He wanted to reconstruct the image of Moulin’s disappearance again in his own mind, to note the vendors actually present, to see if there was anyone he had missed out. He had, moreover, not given up hope of assisting Colthorpe Hartley’s mind to some merciful clarity of vision and meant to try him again.
He and Owen stood in the shade and watched the events across the street. It was nearly four o’clock and people were coming out on to the terrace for tea. Lucy Colthorpe Hartley appeared with her mother and a little later, regular as clockwork, Colthorpe Hartley himself appeared. Waiters came and went, Mahmoud checked them off against a list.
A dragoman came out of the hotel. Owen tensed for a moment but he was with a party. The party was straggly and ill-disciplined-hence the gap-and the dragoman had to rush around making sure they were all there. This particular dragoman-Owen did not recognize him but thought he might be Abdul Hafiz-looked extremely harassed, too preoccupied with his charges to be mindful of other things.
“All the same,” said Mahmoud, “there is considerable freedom of movement. If you saw a dragoman on the terrace you’d probably assume he was just chasing up stragglers.”
“Porters,” said Owen. “Wouldn’t there be porters?”
“Yes. But not at this time of day. Guests arrive earlier or later.”
“Suppose a guest has been buying things in the bazaar?”
“The dragoman would help carry. If it was heavy Reception would get porters.”
“Reception,” said Owen. “Do they ever come out on the terrace themselves?”
“Never. Once you’ve made it to Reception you don’t do things like that. That’s for underlings.”
It had to be the waiters or the dragomans. Mahmoud had been through the waiters with a fine-tooth comb. Certainly they would have helped Moulin down the steps, if he had gone down the steps. But on the terrace it was busy and you couldn’t afford to be absent from your post for too long. Being a waiter at Shepheard’s was a plum job and not one you would want to throw away too easily. Of course, it wouldn’t have to take long. It would take only a moment to help Moulin down the steps. Someone must know. The snake charmer. The donkey-boys.
Near to where Owen and Mahmoud were standing was another donkey-vous. It was on the opposite side of the street from the hotel donkey-vous and as far removed from it in self-esteem as it was possible to be. The donkeys here were shadows of the splendid beasts on the other side of the road. Their trappings were tawdrier, the saddles more worn, the henna less dazzling. The donkeys themselves were older, smaller, flyier, more careworn, more beaten down. They were also cheaper and this was the only thing that kept the donkey-vous going. Few tourists came their way-the hotel donkey-boys would consider themselves disgraced if they let a tourist through who then went across the street and chose a donkey from a rival donkey-vous. The clientele was local and Arab and on the whole from the poorer streets by the Wagh el Birket.
The donkey-boys, too, seemed a beaten-down lot, sitting subdued in the shade, hardly daring to pluck up enough courage to address Owen and Mahmoud. Or perhaps not courage but hope. They seemed a hopeless bunch, listless and faint-hearted.
One of them, however, after a while summoned up enough assertiveness to ask Owen if he wanted a donkey. He seemed quite relieved when Owen said he didn’t. The ice thus broken, however, he seemed emboldened enough to want to chat.
“You’re often over there, aren’t you?” he said.
“We have been lately,” said Owen.
“Ever since that old man went from the terrace. That was a smart move! No one knows who did it or even how it was done. Smart work!”
“I’ll bet they’ll make a lot of money,” said one of the other boys enviously.
“A hundred thousand piastres!”
They shook their heads almost in disbelief.
“I wouldn’t mind that,” said one.
“They’ll have to share it.”
“Still…”
It was obviously the main topic of conversation in the neighborhood.
“What I’d do with it-!” said a boy dreamily.
“You wouldn’t have it long. The police would get you.”
“Not before I’d spent it. It would be worth it.”
“Anyway,” one of the other boys put in, “the police haven’t found out yet and maybe they never will!”
“If you could get away with it-!”
“One hundred thousand piastres!”
The incident was fueling pipe-dreams all along the Street of the Camel, thought Owen. That was another reason why, even if Moulin were released, it could not be allowed to rest.
“You were talking to Daouad,” said the first donkey-boy diffidently.
“Was I?”
“Yes. Over there!”
He pointed across the street to the other donkey-vous.
“I know Daouad,” he said with pride. “He’s going to marry my sister!”
“Ah. I think I heard them speak of it.”
“It won’t happen,” said another boy spitefully. “Your family can’t pay a dowry big enough for someone like Daouad.”
“My sister’s beautiful.”
“That may be. But someone like Daouad isn’t looking for beauty, not when he marries, that is. He’ll want money.”
“My uncle may help us.”
“Your uncle!”
“He’s doing well. He’s just bought a new horse for his arabeah.”
“To go with his old one. One new horse, one old horse, that isn’t a fortune!”
“Your uncle drives an arabeah, does he?” asked Owen. Arabeah-drivers were generally one up from donkey-boys, though this would have been hotly disputed by the donkey-boys across the road.
“Yes,” said the first boy proudly.
“One of those over there?”
“No. He is in the Ataba el Khadra. Sometimes he brings people to the hotel.”