“But it could take hours!”
“Well, yes,” Garvin had admitted. “It does.”
In the villages that was OK. In the cities it sometimes caused problems. Owen had learned the mode and developed patience: but sometimes that patience was put under strain. As now.
He looked at Mahmoud. Mahmoud so far had not turned a hair.
“Great, then,” he said calmly, “was the misfortune for both of you when you found that he went not to you but to Farkas.”
“That was another day,” said the filthy-postcard-seller. “He did not come to me that day.”
“It was that day,” insisted the strawberry-seller. “Don’t you remember? You were showing someone your cards when you dropped them.”
“I didn’t drop them. Somebody jogged my elbow.”
“They fell in the dust and the turkey ate them.”
“It did not eat them. It slightly chewed one of them.”
“It was a bit more than a slight chew, though, wasn’t it?” said the flower-seller. “Don’t you remember? It was that card where she-”
“And this was when the dragoman came over to see you, was it?” Mahmoud intervened.
“No, before then,” said the flower-seller.
“He had just picked them up,” said the strawberry-seller. “That was another day,” insisted the filthy-postcard-seller. “No, it wasn’t!” said the strawberry-seller and the flower-seller firmly, both turning on him.
Farkas was slightly taken aback.
“I didn’t mean that wasn’t the day when the cards fell in the dust,” he protested. “I meant that the day the cards fell in the dust wasn’t the day the dragoman came over and spoke to me.”
“What?” said the strawberry-seller, bewildered.
The flower-seller seemed bemused.
“What day did he come and speak to you?” asked Mahmoud.
“I forget now.”
“And what did he want to speak to you about?”
“I forget.”
The strawberry-seller and the flower-seller both laughed. “He doesn’t want to say.”
“It’s a business secret.”
“Oh?” said Mahmoud.
The flower-seller took it on himself to explain. “Sometimes,” he said, “the customers don’t like to speak to him directly.”
“So they send a dragoman.”
“That’s right. Or the dragoman suggests it. They get a cut, you know.”
“Is that what happened this day?”
“I expect so.
Even Mahmoud could not forbear a sigh.
“Did you actually hear him?” he asked, with only the faintest hint of exasperation in his voice.
“They couldn’t have,” said the filthy-postcard-seller, “because it was another day.”
“Whichever day it was,” said Mahmoud patiently, “did you hear him?”
The strawberry-seller took one of his strawberries, put it in his mouth and then restored it to the pile glistening with moisture. It looked fresher and more tempting that way.
“I can’t remember,” he said. He turned to the flower-seller. “Can you remember?”
“Yes,” said the flower-seller unexpectedly. “But he didn’t really say anything. He just made a sign.”
“What sign was this?”
“It was to ward off the evil eye, I expect,” said the strawberry-seller.
“It wasn’t that sort of sign.”
“Abdul Hafiz always makes the sign of the evil eye when he sees Farkas.”
“So does Osman. You wouldn’t think that, would you?”
“Which of them was it?”
“Abdul?” said the flower-seller.
“Osman?” said the strawberry-seller.
“It was another day,” said the filthy-postcard-seller.
“I remember now,” said the strawberry-seller, popping another strawberry into his mouth for a few seconds.
“Yes?”
“It wasn’t the sign of the evil eye. It was another sort of sign.”
“What sort of sign was it?” asked Mahmoud wearily. “Show me!”
The flower-seller made an unlikely motion with his hand. “And then Farkas went away,” he said.
“Went away?”
“It was another day,” said Farkas faintly, as if he had given up hope of convincing anyone. “My supplier had come. He was just pointing him out.”
“There was no message from the old man on the terrace?”
“What old man?” asked the strawberry-seller and the flower-seller, turning to Mahmoud with surprise.
“Jesus,” said Owen under his breath.
People were coming out on to the terrace above. The vendors gathered their wares.
“Why!” said Lucy Colthorpe Hartley’s voice suddenly from above. “There’s Captain Owen sitting in the crowd! You do look comfortable, Captain Owen. Can I come down and join you?”
“For Christ’s sake, no!” said Owen, scrambling hastily to his feet.
“Then come on up and join us! Please do. Mummy is desperate for someone to talk to. Daddy isn’t saying much today and Gerald is having a fit of the sulks.”
The vendors had all resumed their places by the railings. There was no point in going on talking to them now. Business was business.
Owen had got half way up the steps when he remembered Mahmoud and looked around for him. Mahmoud was walking off in the opposite direction.
“And you, too, Mr. El Zaki!” Lucy hailed him.
Mahmoud stopped. He half turned and then saw Naylor and Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley.
“No, thank you,” he said and continued walking.
“Damn cheek,” said Naylor.
“Do be quiet, Gerald!” said Lucy Colthorpe Hartley. “He just didn’t want to talk to you, and I can understand anyone who feels like that.”
“Will you have some tea, Captain Owen?” asked her mother. She poured a cup for him. “And how are your investigations getting on?” she inquired.
The tea had the distinctive, insipid taste of tea drunk the English way with milk.
“Slowly, I’m afraid.”
“It seems bewildering,” said Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. “You would have thought-”
“They’re all in it,” said Naylor. “That’s the trouble.”
Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley raised eyebrows at him. He took it not as a sign of reproof but as a request for expansion.
“That’s why it’s hard to get anywhere. They’re all lying through their teeth.”
“All?”
“All. Or pretty damned nearly all. Work it out for yourself. That French chap was out here on the terrace, right? Now if he went back into the hotel the staff on Reception would have seen him. If he went down the steps the drivers would have seen him. And if he stayed where he was but someone came and took him the waiters would have seen it. Whichever way it happened, someone would have seen. But no one saw. That can’t be right. So,” Naylor concluded triumphantly, “they must be lying.”
“All of them?”
“Yes,” said Naylor seriously. “You see, whichever way it happened there was always the risk that someone else would see, someone who wasn’t supposed to, who wasn’t in it. They wouldn’t have risked that. So they must all be in it.”
“Yes, but-”
“Oh, not to the same extent, I grant you. I expect a lot of them were just bribed to keep their mouths shut. But they must all have known about it.”
“I find it hard to believe-”
“That’s because you don’t know these people, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. You haven’t had the advantage of being in this country for-”
“Six months,” said Owen.
“Over a year. Oh, you think they’re charming and friendly and polite and so they are: to your face. But behind your back they’re very different. Very different indeed, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. They resent us being here-”
“So they should,” said Lucy.
“Oh no. That’s-well, I was going to say it’s liberal talk, but it’s just that you haven’t been here for very long. They ought not to resent us, they ought to be well and truly grateful that we are here, for before we came they’d got themselves into a most frightful mess. They had to invite us in to get them out of the mess! Don’t forget that, don’t ever forget that: we’re here by invitation.”