“Yes, but how exactly does that bear upon the present case, Mr. Naylor, the disappearance of this poor Frenchman?”
“Well, it’s just that you can’t trust them. They resent us, you see, they all resent us. You can see it in their faces. Even that Zaki fellow. They’d have us out of Egypt in an instant if they could. Of course they can’t. We’re too strong for them. They don’t have the guts to face us directly. But behind our backs-well, as I was saying, behind our backs it’s a very different matter. Still, as long as they keep it behind our backs I don’t mind. It’s when they do it to our faces that I object. We call it dumb insolence, you know, in the army, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. And we ought to treat it in the same way. If I catch any of my fellows giving me or any of the sergeants a bit of dumb insolence, I give him what-for, I can tell you. And we ought to do the same with these fellows. We’re letting them get out of hand, that’s the trouble. We ought to put them down and keep them down! That’s what I always say.”
“Always?”
“In the Mess.”
“Very rousing, I am sure,” said Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley, who sounded occasionally very like her daughter. “But how exactly would you apply it to poor Monsieur Moulin?”
“Arrest the lot of them,” said Naylor confidently.
“But how exactly would that-”
“They’re all lying, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley, so we’ve got to get the truth out of them. Well, get them in our barracks for a day or two, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley, and I can guarantee we’ll soon have it out of them.”
“But Captain Owen has been working hard, I am sure, and he-”
“It’s the difference between a civil administration and a military administration, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. The civilians are too soft. There! I’ve said it! It’s not what some of those at home would like to hear when you’re out on the Frontier-”
“Egypt? The Frontier?” said Owen.
“The trouble with civilians,” said Naylor, nettled and thinking he was being offensive by using the term, “is that they forget the realities of power.”
“Gracious!” said Lucy, resting her elbows on the table. “And what are they?”
“Britain governs Egypt because of her army.”
“So?”
“We ought to be allowed to get on with it.”
It was a staple theme of the Messes, echoed not just by subalterns but by those higher up. The Sudan, to the south, had a purely military administration. There were those who felt that Egypt should have one too.
Not just in the army.
“You should talk to Madame Moulin,” Owen said to Naylor. “She had ideas which are not dissimilar.”
“Madame Moulin?” Lucy looked surprised. “I thought she had-”
“You’re thinking of Madame Chevenement. This is Monsieur Moulin’s wife. An elderly lady, dressed in black. She has only recently arrived. You may not have seen her.”
“Poor woman!”
Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley looked thoughtful. “Lucy, I think perhaps we should leave our cards.”
“We should certainly do something. But how exactly does one leave cards in a hotel? Push them under the door?”
“We will leave them at Reception,” said Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley with dignity. “And we will do it now,” she said, getting up from her chair.
Everyone rose to their feet. Lucy went with her mother. Naylor, after a moment’s hesitation, followed them. Owen was about to depart when Mr. Colthorpe Hartley laid a hand on his sleeve.
“Hold on,” he said. “Want to talk to you.”
They sat down again. Having announced his intention, Mr. Colthorpe Hartley seemed a little at a loss how to proceed.
“It’s this damned dragoman business,” he said at last.
“Yes?”
“Bad,” he said. “Can’t remember.”
“Which one it was?”
Mr. Colthorpe Hartley nodded. “All look alike to me.”
“Perhaps it will come.”
“Been trying. Know it’s important.”
Owen tried some of the usual cues.
“Any distinguishing features? Face? Hands? Marks? Scars, for instance? Personal jewelry? Rings? Clothes?”
“These fellows all dress the same.”
“You saw him walking. Think of him walking.”
Mr. Colthorpe Hartley thought. After a while he shook his head.
“Not that,” he said.
If not that, then something. Owen hardly dared to breathe. “Nearly got it,” said Mr. Colthorpe Hartley after a while. He thought on.
“Gone again,” he said.
“Would it help if you saw them? Would you like me to arrange a parade?”
Colthorpe Hartley shook his head vigorously, possibly remembering Mahmoud’s reconstruction.
“Good God, no!” he said.
“Hello, Daddy,” said Lucy Colthorpe Hartley. “Are you helping Captain Owen?”
“Trying to.”
“Good!” said Lucy, sinking into a chair. “I’ve delivered my card. What a sweat! I’ve lost all mine but Mummy had some of mine spare.”
“Not going to get it,” said Mr. Colthorpe Hartley. “Will come tomorrow.”
“If it does, let me know,” said Owen.
“Will do.”
He levered himself out of his chair and went off shaking his head.
“Poor Daddy!” said Lucy, looking after him. “He doesn’t remember so well these days, not since-”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, he’s much better. He’s getting better all the time. And he usually does remember things in the end.”
“We’ll keep hoping.”
The vendors jostled for Lucy’s attention. This time the strawberry-seller won. Lucy stretched out a hand toward the strawberries.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Owen hastily, remembering.
The meeting had already gone on for some time. It was being chaired by Saunders, a Scot from the Ministry of Public Works, who was proceeding painfully slowly through the business, referring meticulously at every stage to a vast sheaf of papers assembled for him by the Coptic clerk to the committee, consulting at every turn the maps and diagrams spread out on the table in front of them. There was also Martin, another Scot, representing, however, the main contractors, Aird and Co., two civil servants from the Ministry, both Copts, Paul from the Consulate-General (what he was doing there Owen could not figure out) and Owen himself.
What he was doing there Paul alone knew. He had rung up Owen the day before saying there was a meeting he would like Owen to attend.
“But I don’t know anything about that sort of thing,” he had said.
“You don’t have to. All you have to do is come in on cue.”
“But I-”
“I’ll tell you when. It will be pretty clear anyway.”
“But what am I supposed to be saying?”
“You’re supporting me. You’re supposed to be the voice of political wisdom.”
“I thought you were?”
“I am. But there are times when it is as well to have an independent voice saying the same thing. I’ll meet you half an hour before the meeting and explain it to you.”
But in the event Paul had been held up at the Consulate-General and there had been no time for him to give the briefing. He had slipped into his chair only the minute before the meeting started (much to Owen’s relief) and had just had time to mutter to Owen “You support me,” before the Chairman opened the meeting.
The subject of the meeting was the issuing of the remaining contracts for the next phase of construction at the Aswan Dam. The main ones had already been issued, mostly going to Aird and Co., but there were some subcontracts still to be placed for ancillary works. The most substantial of these was for the construction of a masonry apron downstream of the dam sluices.
“Of course we could do this at the same time as we’re doing the others,” said the man from Aird and Co.
“Haven’t you got enough on your plate as it is?” asked the Chairman.
“There are advantages in doing the two together. There would be men and equipment already there.”
“Would there be economies, then?” asked one of the civil servants.
“Oh, certainly.”
“Would they be reflected in the tender price?”