“It’s about that murder,” he said. “My friends are concerned that nothing seems to be happening.”
“Oh, a lot is happening,” Owen assured him. “It’s just that we need to be absolutely sure before proceeding. Especially in a case like this.”
“Not ‘absolutely sure,’ ” said the kadi legalistically. “ ‘Reasonably certain’ will do.”
“Reasonably certain, then,” Owen amended.
“And you are not in that position yet?”
“Pretty nearly, I would say. Of course, the case is in the hands of the Parquet.”
“It is just that my friends are coming under great pressure from their communities over the incident.”
The two sheikhs nodded in unison.
“I am sorry that should be so,” said Owen. “I can assure them that we are making every effort. And, as I said, I think that we shall shortly be in a position to proceed against someone.”
“Rumour has it,” said the kadi, “that the Parquet sought to arrest someone and were unsuccessful.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the Parquet about that.”
“The trouble is,” said the kadi, “that apparently the man was a Copt. That makes it especially difficult for my friends. You see, there is word in the bazaar that perhaps the man heard beforehand that the Parquet were coming. And the communities are asking whether that was, perhaps, because he was a Copt.”
“On that at least I can set your friends’ minds at rest. Whether the man was Copt or Moslem would make no difference.”
“So there was a man?”
“I was speaking hypothetically. If there was a man, it would make no difference whether he was Copt or Moslem. The Mamur Zapt is even-handed.”
The two sheikhs looked a little perturbed. One of them tried to say something. The kadi affected not to notice and went smoothly on.
“I am sure of that,” he said. “The doubt was rather about the impartiality of the offices. There are a lot of Copts in them.”
“I am sure they are loyal and honest servants of the Khedive.”
“I hope so. But things like this make one doubt, don’t you think?”
Owen judged it best to make no reply. He just smiled winningly.
The sheikh, now, would not be restrained.
“This is a bad man,” he said, “and he must be punished.”
“He will be. Of that I can assure you.”
“My people are angry. They say that the Government is not even-handed.”
“Tell your people that the Government seeks to stamp out wrongdoing wherever it is found.”
“We have told them that,” said the other sheikh unexpectedly, “but they will not listen to us.”
“My friends are coming under great pressure,” said the kadi.
“I appreciate that. And I will do what I can. But one must not hasten justice at the expense of justice.”
“True.” The sheikhs nodded agreement.
“But,” one of them said, “it is important that no one who has done wrong should escape justice.”
“I will see,” said Owen, “that he doesn’t.”
The sheikhs suddenly looked satisfied. Owen realized that was what they had come for. The personal assurance of the Mamur Zapt. In a society that was still traditional and oral, personal promises counted for a lot. In a way it was flattering that they should take his word. However, he knew that if he failed to live up to it they would not take his word again.
The kadi rose to his feet.
“Thank you for seeing us. My friends are very anxious that there should be no difference between their people and the Mamur Zapt, and will do all they can to see that things go no further, at least for the time being. Unfortunately”-he caught Owen’s eye meaningfully-“they cannot answer for others.”
With the usual extended Arabic farewells, the party was shown out. Owen accompanied them to the front entrance himself. He wanted to keep Nikos in the background.
The two sheikhs managed to keep control in their communities but in other ones there were disturbing incidents. Shops owned by Copts were attacked and wrecked and there were increasing instances of individual Copts being set upon in the streets. Zeinab became involved in one of these.
She frequently made use of Coptic craftsmen and one of them, a leather-worker, who had been repairing a handbag she was particularly fond of, was bringing it to her flat with his small son when he was attacked by a gang of youths. The boy ran on to the flats where Zeinab lived and rushed in at the entrance. Two of his attackers followed him and caught him and were about to drag him back out into the street when Zeinab came down the stairs. Zeinab had no great love of Copts but she wasn’t having anyone attacked in the entrance of her building and pitched into the youths with such fury that they ran off.
The boy, weeping and bleeding, recognized Zeinab as the lady they were coming to see and managed to stammer out the story of the attack on his father. Zeinab, who tended to see things in personal terms and who, having been brought up in her father’s house, had something of the great lady in her, took it into her head to protect her servants and rushed out into the street in a passion. She came upon the leather-worker further along the street surrounded by a mob of youths who were beating and kicking him.
Without thinking, she plunged into the mob, caught hold of the leather-worker and tried to drag him away from his assailants. The youths, being Moslems, were not having this from any woman, even if she were a great lady, and things would have gone ill for Zeinab if Owen had not arrived at that moment, on his way to her flat.
He caught hold of the two nearest him and knocked their heads together, kicked two more and grabbed the ringleaders. The others, thinking there was more of him, fled. Fortunately, none of them were armed. If they had been, it might have been a different story, for Owen himself only carried arms when he had reason to believe he might need them.
He put a neck-lock on the youth he was holding and looked around for help.
Now the fighting was over there was plenty forthcoming. He got some of the men to carry the leather-worker to Zeinab’s flat. Others went to fetch a policeman. When, some time later, one appeared, Owen handed the youth over to him with strict instructions to keep him in the local caracol until Owen would question him. Then he went to Zeinab’s flat.
Zeinab was sponging the boy’s face. His father had already been attended to and lay quiet and grateful on one of Zeinab’s sofas.
“You’re going to have to do something about this,” said Zeinab, looking up at him.
The caracol, one of the old ones, consisted of a single room underground. It was hot and foetid in there and Owen had the ringleader brought upstairs for questioning.
The boy was about fourteen years old and had the long, fuzzy hair of the dervish. He looked scared, not so much, Owen judged, because he was in the hands of the police but rather because he was in different surroundings from those he was used to, the modern, built-up, Europeanized part of the city and not the warren of tiny mediaeval streets he normally inhabited.
Owen sat on a chair in the cramped little office and made the boy stand in front of him.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Daouad.”
“Where are you from?”
“I am from near the Sukkariya,” the boy growled.
“Well, Daouad, you will not see the Sukkariya again for a long time unless you answer my questions.”
The boy looked around like a trapped animal.
“Whose man are you?”
“I am no man’s man.”
“You come from the Sukkariya. You are a dervish. Who is your sheikh?”
“The Sheikh Osman Rahman,” the boy said reluctantly.
“Did he tell you to do this?”
The boy was silent.
“Will he be angry if I tell him what you have done?”
“No,” said the boy proudly. “He will be pleased.”
“Because you have done his bidding?”
“Because I have done what he wants.”
“How do you know it is what he wants?”
The boy would not say. After a moment, though, he looked away and muttered: “It was only a pig of a Copt.”