The Mamur Zapt and the Donkey-Vous

He went back to his office and worked late. Soon after ten he went home and changed into evening dress. He put a tarboosh on his head and slipped some dark glasses into his pocket. He would not be the only one wearing them. Others besides himself would have reasons for wishing to preserve their anonymity.

It was still relatively early in the evening in Cairo terms and there were only about thirty people round the table. Berthelot was at the far end intent on the play. The table was brilliantly lit up. All the rest of the room was in shadow.

Owen played standing up, reaching an arm in when it was necessary. In that way he could keep out of the light. He wasn’t sure how effective his disguise was. He was still relatively new in Cairo and thought his face generally unknown. Still, it was the doorman’s job to know these things and he might well have spotted him. Owen thought it probably wouldn’t matter if he had. He would tell Anton and Anton would worry; but so long as Anton himself was not involved in the plot he would probably keep his worries to himself. Even if he knew what was going on in the cloakroom he would probably stay out of it. He might have received an inducement to turn a blind eye, but a blind eye was what he would turn, especially with the Mamur Zapt there. Owen doubted if he would warn them.

The important thing was that Berthelot shouldn’t recognize him. Owen didn’t think he would. He thought the disguise and the darkness was proof against that. Anyway, Berthelot was concentrating on the play.

‘Faîtes vos jeux, messieurs,’ the croupier said. ‘Faîtes vos jeux.’

Berthelot hesitated, then added to his stake.

‘Rien ne va plus.’

The croupier spun the wheel. There was a sudden intentness, a catch of the breath. The wheel slowed and came to a halt. Berthelot shrugged and turned away. The croupier began to rake in the chips.

‘It’s Anton’s lucky night tonight,’ said a Greek standing beside Berthelot.

‘It’s Anton’s lucky night every night,’ said someone from across the table.

There was a general stirring and one or two people left the table, either to refresh themselves from the jugs of iced lemonade which stood on a shelf behind them or simply to ease their backs.

Berthelot and the Greek turned at the same time.

‘Pardon, monsieur.’

‘Pardon!’

Berthelot made way for the Greek, who went over to the shelf and poured himself a glass of lemonade.

‘Monsieur?’

He offered to pour for Berthelot.

‘Merci, monsieur.’

They stood sipping the lemonade together.

‘It’s a hot night,’ said the Greek.

‘Is it always as hot as this?’

There were fans working but since the room had no windows they merely moved the hot air round.

‘It’s been hot all day. Monsieur is new to Cairo?’

‘We’ve been here just over a month.’

‘Ah. Not long enough to get used to it.’

‘How long does it take to get used to it?’

The Greek spread his hands. ‘A lifetime. And then it’s no use!’

They went back to the table. The play began again.

The room was long and thin with deep luxurious carpets and heavy wood panelling. A door led off into an inner room, out of which waiters emerged regularly with drinks. They brought the drinks to the players. There was no bar as such. Drink was incidental at Anton’s. Besides, most of the players were Moslem.

An arch behind Owen led back into the entrance vestibule. Through it he could see one end of the cloakroom counter. Since Berthelot had arrived one player had left and four more had entered. The one who had left had departed soon after Berthelot had appeared and, Owen thought, had gone straight past the cloakroom. It was a hot evening and very few people had brought coats. A number had brought walking sticks which they deposited.