Owen asked the boy if he had seen the nature of the bundle.
The boy said no, but left little doubt that then or later he had learned what it contained. Had he seen the men? Again the boy said no. He hesitated slightly, however, and Owen got the impression he was holding something back. He pressed him but got no response.
The boy tugged at Georgiades’s arm.
“Can I have my money?” he said.
Georgiades fumbled in his pocket and produced the third piastre.
“What you have told us is certainly worth three piastres,” he said. “The question is, is it worth four?”
He looked at Owen.
“In itself it isn’t,” said Owen, “but if we give it him perhaps he will remember us and come to us again.”
Georgiades found a fourth piastre and gave it to the boy.
“This is how I became poor,” he said.
The boy, released, moved a little further off, out of reach, but did not go away. He was looking at Owen.
“I have heard of you,” he said.
“What have you heard?”
The boy did not reply directly.
“My mother’s brother works for you,” he said suddenly.
“His name?”
“Yussuf.”
Yussuf was one of the office bearers.
“I know him well,” said Owen.
“Too well,” added Georgiades.
“How is your mother?” asked Owen politely.
“She is angry with Yussuf.”
“Why?”
“He has put away his wife. Now he has no woman and he expects her to clean for him.”
“I will speak to Yussuf.”
“For God’s sake, don’t add to his problems,” Georgiades counselled, “or the coffee will get even worse.”
“Do not tell him I spoke with you,” said the boy.
Owen promised he wouldn’t.
“It shall be a secret between us,” he said, “as with all else you have told me. And anything further you tell me,” he added, watching the boy.
“I am afraid,” the boy said.
“The holy one?”
The boy did not reply.
“Are you afraid he might punish you if he hears you have spoken with me?”
The boy glanced over his shoulder at the other boys behind him in the stones.
“They need not hear. They need not know.”
“They will tell him that I have spoken with you.”
“He will ask, and you will tell him all that you have told us.”
“That is right,” said the boy.
“And he will not mind because so far you have not told us anything that touches him.”
The boy was silent.
“He need not know,” said Owen, “if you tell us a little more.”
The boy was torn.
“I would tell you-”
“Tell us,” said Owen. “It is a dangerous thing to have powerful friends. But sometimes it is a good thing.”
“They were his men.”
“The holy one’s? The men who came to the Place of the Dead?”
The boy nodded.
“Who is this holy one?” asked Georgiades.
The boy did not reply at once. He seemed to be studying the marks his toe traced in the sand. Owen thought at first that they might be intended as a message, but of course the boy could not write.
Then he lifted his head and looked Owen straight in the eye.
“The Sheikh Osman Rahman.”
“Did he send them?”
The boy pulled away.
“I can say no more. I must go. They will suspect.”
“Very well. You have helped me,” said Owen, “and I shall not forget.”
The boy stepped back towards them.
“Offer me money,” he said to Georgiades.
Georgiades took out another piastre.
“That is not enough. Two.”
Georgiades obliged.
“Not like that,” said the boy impatiently. “As you did.” Georgiades cottoned on. He took the large double piastre coin between forefinger and thumb and showed it to the boy in exaggerated fashion. The boy looked at it as if mesmerized and allowed himself to be drawn slowly forward. Then, as Georgiades reached out a hand for him, he kicked Georgiades smartly on the shin, knocked the coin out of his hand, scooped it up in a flash out of the sand and sprang away laughing.
For a moment he stood there trilling triumphantly. Then he disappeared into the stones with his fellows.
Georgiades rubbed his shin and cursed. Even though the kick had been delivered with the bare foot it had still hurt. “Little sod,” he said. “Smart little sod,” he added admiringly.
“Who is this woman, anyway?” demanded Zeinab.
“I told you. She’s the niece of this MP who’s visiting us.”
“What is she doing here?”
“Keeping him company, I suppose. Having a holiday.”
“She’s come here to get a husband. Like all the others.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. She’s not like them.”
This was a mistake.
“How is she not like them?” Zeinab asked.
Owen floundered.
“Well, she’s quieter. More retiring.”
“She doesn’t seem to have retired so far,” said Zeinab. “What’s she like? Is she beautiful?”
“No. She’s not beautiful. I don’t know what she’s like, really. Mostly she’s been under that hat.”
“Cunning.”
Owen looked at the memo incredulously. It came from Accounts, and it said:
To the Mamur Zapt:
CAMEL WATERING
We notice there have been two recent transfers of sums from the Camel Watering Account to the Curbash Compensation Fund. We assume these transfers to have been made in error. We remind the Mamur Zapt that he has no capacity to vire.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that you can’t switch money from other accounts into the Curbash Compensation Fund,” said Nikos.
“Why not?”
“Because you have no capacity to vire.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“It means to take money which is under one heading and put it under another. It’s an accounting term.”
“I can’t switch money from one account to another because I can’t switch money from one account to another. Is that it?”
“Exactly.”
“But I’ve always done it.”
“And now they’ve found out.”
“But I need to. The accounts are all wrong otherwise.”
“If I were you,” said Nikos, “I wouldn’t tell them that.”
“Who the hell do they think they are? I can vire if I want to.”
“No,” said Nikos, “you can’t. The restriction on viring was one of Cromer’s first measures. It’s a basic accounting principle. Ask Postlethwaite.”
“Well, I don’t know that I’ll take it up with him-”
“If I were you I wouldn’t take it up. It’s one of the things they’re very hot on.”
“Yes, but we need the money.”
“You’d better talk to Garvin. Though I don’t know that that will do much good.”
“About that hedgehog of yours,” said Cairns-Grant, the forensic pathologist.
“What?” said Owen, startled.
Cairns-Grant chuckled, pleased at the success of his little joke.
“That Zikr. The one with all the spikes in him.”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin and signalled to Owen to take the seat opposite him. He was still at the soup stage and was, indeed, having full Sudani, which was the main reason why Owen went to the Sporting Club for lunch.
“You’ve done the autopsy?”
“Yes. Very straightforward.”
There was a touch of regret, even reproach, in Cairns-Grant’s voice.
“Sorry.”
“Never mind,” said Cairns-Grant comfortingly. “You’re doing very well. It’s not every day you get a Zikr with knives all over. It’s out of the common run. I’ve great hopes of you.”
The waiter, who knew Owen’s preferences, brought him the full Sudani.
“What did you find?”
“First, that it wasn’t one of the blades still sticking in him that killed him. None of them went near a vital place. The Zikr may get carried away,” said Cairns-Grant, “but they’re not daft.”