The shop was half way along the Musky and catered for both native Egyptians and tourists. The Egyptians came for the fine brassware: the elegant ewers called ibreek, which the Arabs used for pouring water over the hands, the little basins and water-strainers which went with them, old brass coffee-pots, coffee saucepans, coffee-trays, coffee-cups and coffee-mills, fine brasswork for the nargileh pipes, chased brass lantern-ends, brass open-work toilet boxes, incense-burners, inkpots, scales-all of good old patterns and workmanship. The tourists came for the brass boxes and bowls inlaid with silver, the spangled Assiut shawls, the harem embroideries, the cloisonne umbrella handles-a special attraction-Persian pottery, enamel and lacquer, silver-gilt parodies of jewels from the graves of Pharaohs, old, illuminated Korans and pieces of Crusader armour.
Plenty of capital tied up here, thought Owen, and plenty of money to buy other things as well.
He heard raised voices on the floor above, and a moment later flat slippers descending the stairs.
A man appeared. A Syrian.
“Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici, monsieur?” he began hotly as soon as he saw McPhee. The Scot waved him on to Owen and continued searching.
The Syrian was in a blue silk dressing-gown and red leather slippers. Although his house had been broken into in the middle of his siesta and interlopers were downstairs he had taken the time to smooth himself down and make himself presentable.
He repeated the question to Owen and then, registering the nationality, switched to English.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “I am a Syrian citizen. This is an outrage.”
He was thin, middle-aged, grey — haired. The hair was brushed very flat and oiled. There were grey shadows under his eyes, not so much, Owen thought, because he had been disturbed in the middle of his sleep, as that it was a permanent feature of his face, which would always look haggard, worried.
“Where is your authority?” he demanded. “Have you a warrant?”
Owen noticed that he had understood at once that this was a police raid.
“I am the Mamur Zapt,” he said. “I do not need a warrant.”
“The Mamur Zapt!”
Owen caught the momentary flash of concern.
“I demand that a member of my consul’s staff be present! I am a Syrian citizen.”
‘‘In time,” said Owen, and turned away. He did not want to talk to the Syrian until he had something with which to shake him. Like the grenades, for example. But there was no sign yet of any success in the search.
He thought it likely that the Syrian had already succeeded in getting a message out of the house to whatever consular representative it was that he had in his pocket. Owen had posted a couple of men outside to guard against this happening but guessed that the Syrian had made provision for such an eventuality. It would take some time, however, for the man from the consulate to arrive. He could wait a few minutes.
“Let us go upstairs,” he said.
The Syrian looked puzzled and then suddenly acquiesced. Perhaps he thought Owen was going to ask for a bribe. That was probably the way the previous Mamur Zapt had done things.
As they went upstairs Owen said to McPhee: “If anyone comes from the consulate keep him busy as long as you can. Ask him to prove his status. Ask him if he’s got the right place. You know.”
McPhee knew. He was less good at these things, however, than Owen, and a resolute official would soon brush his way past him. It would earn Owen a few minutes, though.
The Syrian went ahead of him into the living-room. Owen deliberately held back.
“I shall be with you in a moment,” he said, and then continued upstairs to the next floor.
"Keep him down there,” he instructed his man on the stairs.
Georgiades came out of one of the doors wiping the sweat from his face. He shook his head as he saw Owen.
“Nothing yet,” he said.
He went into another room.
Owen lingered on the small landing. He knew better than to interfere with the search. Georgiades and his people were all experienced at that sort of thing and there was a pattern to it which he would only disrupt. Georgiades had once told him, too, that there were cultural differences in the way people hid things. Greeks hid things in one sort of place, Arabs in another. Obviously he had not yet found out where Syrians hid things.
Owen could hear the Syrian’s voice raised in protest. He knew he would have to go down and talk to him. The man from the consulate might soon be here.
The Syrian was at the bottom of the stairs, his way up barred by one of Owen’s men. Both fell back as Owen came down the stairs. Owen pushed past them and went on into the living-room. He sat down on one of the low divans and motioned to the Syrian to sit on another before him.
Everything in the room was low, the divans, the tables, even the lamps. There were no chairs. There were no sideboards or shelves, no wall furniture of any kind to detract from the sumptuous carpets on the walls. On some of the little tables that were scattered around beside the divans there were fine boxes and bowls, all of silver.
A door opened at the far end of the room and a woman’s face looked in. The Syrian waved her irritably away. She looked worried.
The Syrian himself had lost his apprehension and was waiting, almost confidently, for Owen to begin. Owen guessed that he was still thinking in terms of a bribe.
Owen decided he would try to shake him.
“You sometimes have British soldiers among your customers,” he said, more as a statement than a question.
The Syrian looked slightly puzzled.
“Not often,” he said. “The pay is not good,”
“Among your suppliers,” said Owen.
“No,” said the Syrian, too quickly, “no, I don’t think so.”
After a moment he said: “I deal mostly in brassware and silverware. With a few things for the tourists. If an officer’s wife, perhaps, brought me a family heirloom I might consider that. But I don’t really deal in English things.”
“Do you keep a list of customers?”
“In my head,” said the Syrian. “Only in my head.”
Owen wondered whether it would be worth going through the books. Georgiades would not have time, though. McPhee could do it but Owen wanted him in the shop to take care of the man from the consulate. None of the other men would be any good. In any case it would probably be pointless. It would be as the Syrian said; the customers who mattered would be in his head.
The Syrian still waited expectantly.
“You don’t deal in anything else?” Owen asked. “Arms, for instance?”
For the tiniest flicker of a second Owen thought he saw the face register. Then it returned to its normal impassivity.
“No,” said the Syrian. “I don’t deal in arms. Except-” he smiled. “-Crusaders’ arms. Was that what you meant?”
Owen ignored him. He desperately needed something from Georgiades if he was to make anything out of this exchange. Out of the whole raid, for that matter. They had staked everything on being able to find something incriminating. If not the grenades, then at least something. Now it all seemed to be evaporating.
The Syrian’s air of expectancy had disappeared. He now knew what Owen had come for. Knew, and was not bothered.
“And now I have to ask you,” said the Syrian, “to what do I owe this outrageous visit?”
Owen said nothing.
The Syrian leaned forward even more confidently.
“Even the Mamur Zapt,” he said with emphasis, “cannot get away with this!”
And now Owen’s ears caught what perhaps the Syrian had already heard. A new voice had entered into debate with McPhee downstairs.
“I shall complain to my consul,” said the Syrian. “It is not just as a private citizen but also as a foreign national that I have rights.” Georgiades appeared at the door.
“Wait there!” said Owen to the Syrian. Outside, Georgiades showed him two revolvers, new, still heavily greased from the store, of the same type as the one used by Mustafa.