“This could take a long time,” he said.
The indignant cries of the drivers rose to the heavens where they mingled with the shouts of the onlookers, who for some reason all felt compelled to offer their advice at the top of their voices. The din was terrific. Owen looked on the scene almost with affection. He loved the daily dramas of the Cairo streets in which high positions were taken as in a Greek tragedy but in which no one was ever really hurt. Would that all Egyptian conflicts were like that, he said to himself. He was thinking of the matter of the dog, but was beginning, now, to have a slightly uneasy feeling about the Zikr.
“It would be good if both these cases were out of the way before the twenty-fifth.”
“Why?”
“It’s the Coptic Easter. And the Moulid of the Sheikh el-Herera.”
“And the Sham el-Nessim,” said Mahmoud, “you’ve forgotten that.”
The spring festival.
“Christ. Is that on too?”
“This year, yes.”
“Bloody hell!”
“I’ll try and sort it out before then,” said Mahmoud, still watching the drama. “You’ll have sorted out the dog business by then, too.”
“Yes, but it mightn’t help.”
Along the street one of the onlookers was taking off his trousers. This usually meant business in Egypt. Trousers, especially good ones, were prestigious possessions and no one would want to risk spoiling them by involving them in action. The onlooker, now trouserless, took hold of the donkey firmly by the head, turned it round, despite the protests of its owner, and began to lead it back up the street. It passed the cafe and turned up a side street. The camel resumed its passage, not, however, without incident. As it approached the cafe it suddenly became apparent that its load would sweep all before it. Patrons, including Owen and Mahmoud, hurriedly rushed chairs and tables inside. The camel went past. At the junction with the side street it stopped and the driver looked back. Clearly he was thinking about the spilt berseem. Vigorous cries dissuaded him from going back. After a few moments’ hesitation he shrugged his shoulders and went on. Meanwhile, the donkey was led back up the street and restored to its owner. By the time it reached the scene of the blockage both the spilt berseem and the spilt firewood had gone.
“Right!” said Mahmoud. “I’ll do my best. I’ll start at once with the principal witness.”
“Who’s that?” asked Owen.
“You,” said Mahmoud.
“You don’t remember anything?”
“More than what I’ve told you? Sorry.”
“We’ve got the general picture,” said Mahmoud. “It’s the particulars I’m after.”
“I know,” said Owen humbly.
“You saw this Zikr afterwards. The dead one, I mean. So you know what he looked like. Do you remember seeing him before? When he was dancing?”
“Sort of,” said Owen vaguely.
“He had knives and spears sticking out all over him.”
“Lots of them did!” protested Owen.
“This one especially. Look, I’ll help you. He had a spear sticking into his front chest. A three-foot handle. At least three feet. It must have been waggling about.”
“Can’t remember.”
“I would have thought it would have got in the way, dancing.”
Owen shut his eyes.
“I can’t picture it,” he said.
“It doesn’t jog your memory?”
“No.” Owen shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Mahmoud sighed.
“There was so much happening.” Owen protested. “I’ve told you.”
“Yes, you’ve given me the general picture very well. Let’s try again. When did you first become conscious of the Zikr?”
“When he didn’t get up. After a long time.”
“Where was he? When he was lying down, I mean.”
“About four or five yards in front of me to my left. There, as it were.”
Owen pointed to where a flea-ridden dog was scratching itself in the dust. A dog. He winced.
“Good!” said Mahmoud encouragingly. “About four or five yards to your left.”
“He was lying in a heap.”
“Fine. And if he was lying there he might well have been dancing there. You said they sank down more or less where they were.”
“That’s how it seemed to me. At the time.”
“Try to call up the scene,” said Mahmoud patiently, “with them all dancing. Got it? Right. Well now, look in your mind a little to your left. Four yards, five yards? Six yards?”
“I’m trying. I just don’t see it very clearly. I thought I did.”
“Over to your left. A big dervish with a spear sticking out of his chest.”
After a moment or two Owen said: “I think I’ve got him.”
“What is he doing?”
“Dancing.”
“How is he dancing?”
“Jumping up and down. I think.”
“Is he turning round? Whirling?”
“A bit.”
“Does the spear hit anyone? Get in the way?”
“It’s not really there,” said Owen. “I don’t really see it. I can sort of imagine it when you speak.”
“But you’re not really remembering it?”
“No.”
Mahmoud sighed.
“As a Mamur Zapt you may be all right,” he said. “As a witness you’re useless.”
“I know.”
Owen felt humbled. A murder, possibly, had happened four or five yards away under his very eyes and he couldn’t remember a thing. He hadn’t even noticed it. Perhaps, he told himself determinedly, there had been nothing to notice.
“We don’t know anything happened,” he said to Mahmoud.
“Yes, but we know he was there,” said Mahmoud, “and even that could be in doubt if we went by your evidence.”
“It’s not very good, is it?” said Owen. “A police officer and not remember a thing.”
Mahmoud laughed.
“I don’t know that I’d have done any better. It just goes to show.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Try the next witness. See if she remembers any better.”
“She?”
“Miss-” Mahmoud stumbled a little. What he was trying to say was Postlethwaite.
“Surely you don’t need to see her?”
“I’m afraid I do.”
“There must be other witnesses.”
“And I shall get to them. But it was fresh to her eyes and she”-said Mahmoud pointedly-“may remember more.”
Owen was silent. He hadn’t realized it would come to this. He considered how Miss Postlethwaite would feel about being involved in a police inquiry. Or, more to the point, how her uncle would feel about it. Or, even more to the point, how the Consul-General would react.
“Are you sure?” he said. “I mean, she’s hardly likely to be able to add anything to what I-”
“You want to bet?” asked Mahmoud.
“Yes,” said Jane Postlethwaite. “I remember the man very well. I’d noticed him earlier because he was so-involved. He put everything into his dancing. He was a big man, rather darker than most of the Zikr-that would be, I expect”-looking at Owen for confirmation-“because he came from the south, although he wasn’t really a Nubian, he wasn’t as dark as that, a mixture, I suppose. Anyway, he threw himself into his dancing rather like a great big child. He seemed a bit like an overgrown boy, he had that sort of childlike face. I’d noticed him because he was bounding away so enthusiastically. And then when he started sticking knives into himself I could hardly believe my eyes. And that spear!”
Jane Postlethwaite shuddered a little at the recollection but it was not so much in sympathetic trepidation as in identification. She saw it all so vividly.