The Girl in the Nile by Michael Pearce

in at a door. The room was dark but it was as if there was something fluttering in it. They went through it and on into another room where there was more daylight.
    Mahmoud gave a cry of disgust and began to beat at his legs. He was black from shoes to waist.
    Owen looked down at himself. He was black, too, as if coated with a layer of paint. And then he saw that the blackness was moving, and struck at it frantically.
    He was covered with fleas.
    There was a hoarse cackle of laughter.
    Mahmoud strode across and kicked their guide heavily in the ribs.
    “There was no need for this!” he said angrily.
    The creature gave a gasp and slipped nimbly out of the way.
    “You wanted to see the Man, didn’t you?”
    “Yes,” said Mahmoud. “Where is he?”
    The creature pointed to a dark opening in the wall. Mahmoud went across and then beckoned Owen over. They were looking down into a long dark cellar, lit by a brazier at one end. All round the room men were lying. In the middle of the room a small circle of men were passing something round. The air was heavy with the sweet smell of hashish.
    “Who have we here?” said a deep voice.
    “Greetings, Mustapha el-Gharbi,” said Mahmoud.
    He stepped down into the cellar. The circle opened and made space for them. Owen saw now what they were passing. It was the heavy coconut shell of the goza, or waterpipe, which was the way Cairo habitués preferred to take their hashish. He saw the charcoal glowing.
    “Well, Mahmoud el Zaki,” said the deep voice. “It is a long time since we saw you here.”
    Owen was able to pick out the speaker. It was a short, immensely fat man sitting opposite.
    “It is a long time since my duties have called me here,” said Mahmoud.
    “That is because these days you are at the top of the ladder and it is other men who are sent to places like this.”
    “It is good for young men to come to places like this when they start,” said Mahmoud. “Then they know what they are up against.”
    The man opposite chuckled.
    “Still the same Mahmoud el Zaki,” he said drily. “Unbending as ever. Nevertheless, he has come here, so he must seek a favor.”
    “Not necessarily a favor. A deal, rather.”
    “That’s more like it. And,” said the man, glaring at Owen, “you have brought a friend with you with whom indeed we might be able to do business.”
    “I don’t think so. This is the Mamur Zapt.”
    “I know.”
    “Greetings, Mustapha el-Gharbi,” said Owen.
    “And to you greetings. It is a pleasure to have the Mamur Zapt with us again.”
    “Again?”
    “I used to do business with one of your predecessors.” Which one was that? wondered Owen. The one who was dismissed for corruption?
    He felt Mahmoud stiffen beside him.
    “It is always good to do business with friends,” he said diplomatically.
    “That is so. And doubly good where pleasure and benefit coincide.”
    “Let us hope that is the case today. I am in the market for information.”
    “Is that so?” El-Gharbi stroked his beard. “What sort of information?”
    “About a body that may have come ashore,” said Mahmoud.
    “What makes you think I might possess that kind of information?”
    “Your people work the riverbanks. They are like ants or beetles. They work all day. And they do not miss much.”
    “They are good workers,” said El-Gharbi, with the air of one making a concession.
    “The body we are interested in came ashore in the Al-Gadira district four nights ago. It fetched up on a sandbank. The watchman went to tell the local Chief and when he came back the body was gone.”
    “Well, well,” said El-Gharbi. “How puzzling for him.”
    “It puzzled me, too,” said Mahmoud. “For your people do not usually take the body. They strip it and leave it.”
    “Bodies in themselves are usually worth nothing,” said El-Gharbi.
    “This one is worth something.”
    “How much?”
    “That is what we have to determine.”
    “Tell me about this body.”
    “It is the body