The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet by Michael Pearce

Arab—“I’m not always so unreasonable!”
    He
thought again.
    “It’s
the gun,” he said. “That’s what makes me think it must be a ‘club.’ And one of the more professional ones. Ordinary fellahin
like Mustafa don’t get near such things. If they bought a gun—if they could
afford to—it would be of the pigeon-shooting sort. A shotgun
for scaring the birds. A rifle that came with
Napoleon. Not the latest issue to the British Army.”
    “Could
you buy one? If you had plenty of money? If you were that other-man-with-a-grudge, for instance?”
    Mahmoud
shook his head. “Not unless you knew somebody.” “You can’t rule that out as a
possibility.”
    “You can
for Mustafa. He’s never been out of the village.” Mahmoud brooded a little.
    “And
that’s the problem,” he said presently. “You see, if
you can get hold of a gun like that and you want someone killed, why go to
Mustafa? There’s a gap. Between the professionals behind the scenes and the
very far from professional man who’s supposed to do the actual work.”
    Two
shoe-shine boys came round the corner and launched themselves immediately at
their feet. They both tucked their feet under their chairs and Mahmoud waved
the boys away.
    “And
there’s another thing,” he said. “The hashish.”
    “They
gave him too much.”
    “Yes.”
    Mahmoud
looked at Owen.
    “You
know what I think?”
    “Tell
me.”
    “It
all sounds terribly amateur.”
    “Yes,”
said Owen. “Like me.”
    Although
Owen had told Mahmoud about the article in al Liwa he had kept back one
piece of information. Now, as they walked back towards the centre of the city,
he said:
    “I know someone who was at the meeting, in
the village. This person hates Nuri, is a Nationalist, is, I would say, a bit
incompetent and from what I have heard would be quite likely to sympathize with
Mustafa.”
    “You should join the Parquet,” said Mahmoud,
surprised. “Who is he?”
    “The person who wrote the article in al
Liwa . ”
    “Whose identity you
have already checked.”
    “Yes,” said Owen. “Ahmed.”
    One
of the Mamur Zapt’s privileges was a box at the Opera. At first Owen had been a
little surprised. But no, it was not an imaginative bribe. It was a perfectly
genuine prerequisite of office and Owen soon began to make regular use of it.
Although he came from a musical family and a Welsh village with a deep-rooted
musical culture, he had never been to the opera before he came to Egypt. Soon
after taking up his position, however, he went to a performance of Aida, which had been written, of course, specially for the
Opera House at Cairo, and was hooked. He went to every new performance during
the season. Indeed, he went several times and had recently made a resolution to
cut down his attendances at the Opera House to twice a week.
    Coming back from the Opera House that
evening he passed an Arab café in which some young men were sitting. They were
in high spirits and had probably been drinking. As Owen approached, one of them
said something to the others and there was a burst of derisive laughter, almost
certainly at Owen’s expense. Then, as he continued past, one of the others, in
an obvious attempt to outdo, leaned out into the street and shouted something
abusive almost directly up into Owen’s face, cursing, as is the Arab custom,
not Owen himself but his father.
    Without stopping and, indeed, without
thinking, Owen at once replied that he would certainly have returned the
compliment had his addresser only been in the position to inform him which of
his mother’s two-and-ninety admirers his father had been.
    There was an instant of shocked silence
behind him and then, almost immediately, the rush of feet.
    Owen cursed his over-ready tongue. One thing
the Agent would not tolerate was brawling in the street with Egyptians.
    The
footsteps came up to him and he braced himself.
    And
then a hand was placed gently on his arm and a voice said politely: “Please,
please.