He leaned forward confidentially.
“They slipped in one of those walads. A boy. Probably stripped him naked and greased him all over. Seen it done. At Ismailia. Bloody gang of kids. Went all through the mess. Watches, cash, even your bloody handkerchief. The little bastards. But they got too cocky and the guards caught one of them. Brought the little bugger to me. I caught hold of him and was going to teach him a thing or two but he slipped through my hands. That’s how I knew he was greased. Didn’t do him much good. The guard caught him with the rifle butt.”
“And you think that’s what may have happened here?”
“Can’t swear to it, sir. But the skylight was open the morning after, and it was only big enough for a kid.”
“Could be,” Owen agreed.
“ ’Course, it was my fault, sir,” said the man. “I admit that. I should have kept my eyes open. I made a mistake. But I’ve paid for it.”
The weathered, experienced face, which retained a sunburn despite nearly a year’s confinement, assumed a virtuous expression.
An old hand at the game, thought Owen. Twenty-five years in the Army, fifteen of them in India. There was not much he didn’t know. Three times reduced, each time made up again. Crafty, plausible, he would know how to make himself useful. How willing would he be to be useful now?
“Pity to get into trouble just because of a Gyppy,” he said aloud. “I know, sir,” said the ex-sergeant, as if ruefully. “I could have kicked myself.”
“It’s easy done,” said Owen.
“My mistake was to trust the bleeders. I treated them decent. That ’Assan was a useful bloke. Smart. He did me a favour or two, and I did him a few. Used to give him fags. And not say nothing if I caught him smoking in the armoury.” He grimaced. “Should have. That was my mistake.”
“In the armoury?”
“I know, sir. I dare say that’s what gave him the idea.”
Thin trickles of sweat ran down on either side of the man’s nose.
There was no fan in the room and it was very hot. The one window, high up in the wall, was shuttered. The door was closed.
“Did he ever talk?”
“ ’Assan? He went missing that night.”
Very convenient, thought Owen. And part of it might even be true. They might well have used the skylight, might even have slipped a boy in, as the man had said. Only, of course, he knew more about it than he had let on. How much did he know? Not much, if it was just a matter of money passing and agreement to turn a blind eye. Hassan could even have been the go-between. In which case the ex-sergeant would not know anyone else.
Owen looked through the file in front of him. One of the times the ex-sergeant had been reduced was for selling Army equipment. Not weaponry-the Army took that seriously. Odds and ends from the stores. At least, that was all they had caught him for. The chances were that he had flogged quite a lot more. And once a seller… The idea might have come to him again. He had been running a woman in Ismailia and had needed the cash. He might have approached somebody. There was always a ready market for weapons. He might have known someone. Worth a try.
Owen studied the face opposite him. Shrewd, Army-wise, hard. A drinker’s face. Little red veins beneath the tan, tell-tale puffiness below the eyes. In certain circumstances, thought Owen, I could crack this man.
But not easily. Not here, and probably not now. He was sitting there at ease. He knew he was coming out on Thursday. All he had to do was to sit tight and say nothing. There was no way of putting him under pressure.
Outside in the corridor he heard the guards’ feet shuffling. It would take too long to break the man, and before then he would have been interrupted.
He had to find a way of getting the man to cooperate. He might be willing if he thought there was something in it for him.
“You’ve been reduced before,” said Owen. “Three times.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man equably.
“Gets harder.”
The man gave a little shrug.
Used to it, thought Owen.
“How much longer have you got?” he asked.
The man looked slightly surprised.
“To serve, sir? Four years.” “Time enough to get made up again,” said Owen. “It would be nice to go out with a bit of money in your pocket.”
The man looked at him cautiously, but his interest was aroused. “Help me,” said Owen, “and I might help you.”
He waited.
After a moment, the man responded.
“Exactly how could I help you, sir?”
“A name. All I want is a name.”
The man rubbed his chin. There was a faint rasp. In the heat it was never possible to shave closely.
“ ’Assan is the only name I can think of, sir.”
“Sure?”
The blue eyes met his blandly.
“Yes, sir. Afraid so, sir.”
“I’m not really interested in your case,” said Owen. “I’m interested in another. And if I got a name, that could be really helpful.”
“I’d like to help, sir,” said the man. “But ’Assan is the only name I can think of.”
“Go on thinking,” said Owen, “and let me know if another name comes into your head.”
He turned through the papers in the file.
“After all,” he said casually, without looking up, “it’s only a Gyppy.”
He went on turning through the papers. No reply came. He had not really expected one.
He took a card from his pocket.
“If you want to get in touch with me,” he said, “later-and, remember, one word will do-that’s where you’ll find me.”
The man took the card and fingered it gingerly.
“Mamur Zapt,” he said, stumbling a little. He raised his head. “What’s that, sir? Civilian?”
“No,” said Owen. “Special.”
“Sorry, sir. No offence.”
After a moment he said: “ ’Course, it couldn’t be, you being in uniform. It was just that ‘Mamur’ bit.”
Owen closed the file and sat back. He had done what he could. Whether the seed he had planted would bear fruit remained to be seen.
“A mamur is just a district officer,” he said. “Not the same thing at all.”
“Of course not, sir.”
Judging that the interrogation was over he became relaxed, even garrulous.
“I know, sir. I ran into one of them once, at Ismailia. We’d gone off for the day, a few of us. Filled a boat with bottles of beer and set out along the coast. We come to this place, and the bloody boatman hops over the side. We thought he was just doing something to do with the boat, but the bugger never came back. We just sat there, waiting and drinking. We’d had a few already by this time. Anyway, after a bit we runs out of bottles so we gets out of the boat to go looking for some more when we runs into this mamur. One of my mates hits him, but we’re all so bloody pissed by then we can’t really hit anyone, and suddenly they’re all around us and we’re in the local caracol.”
Owen laughed.
The man nodded in acknowledgement and pulled a face.
“Christ!” he said. “That was something, I can tell you. A real hole. The place was stuffed full of dirty Arabs, about twenty of them in a space that would do eight, and then us as well. The pong! Jesus! Shit everywhere. You were standing in it. Pitch black. No bloody windows, just a wooden grating for a door. No air. Hot as hell. All them bodies packed together. Christ! I’ve been in some rough places, but that scared the shit out of me. We were in there for a day and half. Bloody Military didn’t get there till the next morning. And then, do you know what they did? Those bastards just came and looked at us through the grating and went away laughing! Didn’t come back till they’d had a drink. “That’ll bloody teach you!” they said. It did too, and all. Wouldn’t want to go through that again.”
The cafe stood at the corner of the Ataba el Khadra, just at the point where Muski Street, coming up from the old quarter, emerged on the squares and gardens of the European part of Cairo.