The beads of perspiration streamed down Mordecai’s face.
“They will kill me.”
Owen said nothing. Just waited.
The smell of sweat was overwhelming.
“I will tell you. But…”
“Afterwards?”
Mordecai nodded.
“Do you have friends in another town? Say, Alexandria?”
“Yes, effendi.”
“I will have you taken to them.”
Mordecai looked relieved.
“Afterwards. Provided I am satisfied.”
“Yes, effendi.”
“Very well, then. Now tell me: there is a sheikh who comes to you and you give him money?”
“Yes, effendi.”
“The dervish sheikh?”
“Yes, effendi.”
“How much money have you given him in the last three weeks?”
“One hundred and thirty pounds. Egyptian.”
Owen could sense Georgiades’s astonishment. One hundred and thirty pounds was a lot of money in a country where an average wage was three pounds a month.
“That is a lot of money. It is not yours.”
“No, effendi.”
“Whose is it, then?”
“Effendi, I–I do not know.”
“Come, it is not not here one moment and suddenly here the next. Where does it come from?”
“One brings it.”
“That is better. And who is that one?”
“Effendi, I do not know him. I do not know the name, or from where he comes, or from whom he comes. All I know is that every Friday at a set hour he comes and puts the money into my hands. He never speaks. He merely takes the receipt, then goes.”
“Does he give you no instructions?”
“Never.”
“Then how do you know you are to give it to the Sheikh Osman?”
“It was told me before.”
“When was this?”
“A month ago. A man came and said to me, one will come with money and you will do thus and thus.”
“Who was the man?”
“He was but a bearer.”
“But not the same as the bearer who brings the money?”
“Not the same, effendi. The first one was but a servant. The one who brings the money, well”-Mordecai hesitated-“I do not know what he is but he is not a servant.”
“The one who brings the money: can you tell me something else about him?”
“Only,” said Mordecai, “that he is a Copt.”
“A Copt?”
“Yes, effendi.”
“You are not speaking the truth,” said Owen. “How can he be a Copt and bring money to be given to a Moslem for the Moslem to use against the Copts?”
“I do not know what use he makes of it, effendi,” said Mordecai humbly.
“Are you sure the bringer is a Copt?”
“Yes, effendi.”
Mordecai spoke with certainty; and indeed, it was something which no Cairene would have been uncertain on.
“The other bearer,” said Georgiades, “the first one, the one who was but a servant, was he also a Copt?”
“An Armenian, effendi.”
No help there, and in fact there was little more help to be had from Mordecai at all. They told him to keep his mouth shut and left, not by the way they had come but through another door which led out through the bazaar.
“A Copt?” said Owen. “I can’t understand it.”
“Maybe someone’s just being clever,” said Georgiades.
“I’ve found something new at any rate,” said Mahmoud.
They were sitting at an outside table in one of the corner cafes of the Ataba el-Khadra, out of reach of the traffic but strategically placed so that they could watch not only all the interesting things that went on in the square but also the more sophisticated exchanges which went on between tourist and native in Musky Street. It had been a long, hard day and Owen would have quite liked a whisky. However, in deference to his friend’s Moslem susceptibilities he had stayed with coffee, and certainly Turkish coffee taken mazbout, sweetened, was perfectly to his taste.
“Anything useful?”
“It might be. Someone’s turned up who claims that Zoser had a visitor the night before he killed the Zikr.”
“Why the hell didn’t he turn up before?”
“Because he’s been away. He travels with camels and has just got back. When he got back his sister told him. He stays with her between trips. She lives in the house next to the Zosers. That’s where he was that night. They remembered it because it was so unusual for the Zosers to have a visitor, and because he came so late. They had already put the beds down and had to move them.”
“Why didn’t she say anything?”
“Thought it wasn’t for a woman, etc. She had no man to go for her-her husband was away travelling too-so she waited, for her brother to get back.”
“Does she corroborate?”
“Yes, they both remember.”
“Any details?”
“Not many. Nothing to identify by. It was dark and it was late, so late that the lamps had already been put out, they hardly saw him, you know, all that sort of thing.”
“Real, or are they saying that just to keep out of trouble?”
“If they wanted to keep out of trouble they wouldn’t have bothered to have come to the police station.”
“True. So you’ve nothing to go by?”
“Except that he was a Copt.”
“Even in the dark they would know that.”
“I take it, from the fact that they remarked on it, that they’re not Copt themselves?”
“You take it correctly. They’re Moslem.”
“How did they get on with the Zosers? Friends? Enemies?”
“So-so. Nothing much. Hardly saw each other. The Zosers kept pretty much to themselves. Didn’t have much to do with anybody. That’s why they remembered that night.”
“Hear anything?”
“Nothing they could repeat. Except that he was clearly not a stranger.”
Owen sipped his coffee.
“Pity there’s nothing more,” he said. “It could be significant.”
“Of course there’s someone else who could tell.”
“There is?”
“You’re forgetting Zoser’s wife. She was there.”
“The one with the hand-painting? Yes, I’d forgotten about her.”
“She would know. The only thing is, she’s moved. In fact, that’s what I wanted to ask you. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea where I could find her?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Owen, remembering Georgiades’s visit to the funeral, “I think I have.”
They almost missed the man when at last he came. Mordecai had said that he usually approached the shop through the bazaar, and that was the side they had been watching. There were several little alleyways that he might have used and they had a man watching each one; but then in the end he approached from the other side, not through the bazaar at all but along through the streets, the way they themselves had come on that previous visit. Georgiades had a man on that route too, but there was only one of him and when he saw the man coming he did not risk leaving his post to run and tell them but watched the man until he was safely inside the shop.
They had wondered about concealing themselves in the shop itself, in the recess possibly, but had decided not to risk it. The aim, after all, was not to arrest the man but to follow him and see if by that means they could uncover the line which ran back from Mordecai’s shop to the ultimate suppliers of Osman’s money.
Instead, they had taken up position in one of the shops opposite where they were concealed by heavy wooden boarding and from where they could see directly into Mordecai’s shop. They saw the man come in from the street and stand for a moment adjusting to the darkness. They caught a glimpse of his robe in the candlelight, but only a glimpse because then he moved into the shadows and it was only by Mordecai’s gestures that they could tell where he was.
Somebody slid into the shop beside them. It was their agent.
“It is him, effendi. I saw him clearly, but I dared not move. It is the one we were told to expect.”
“He had a bag with him?”
“Yes, effendi. As the Jew said.”
“Good. Go back now in case he leaves by the way he came. If he does, follow him until the tracker takes over.”