he always went to the same table? Yes, that was part of it. He didn’t like to take decisions when he was still waking up. He preferred everything to be ‘automatique’. Besides, that particular table was the one nearest the door of the hotel and he had less far to walk.
His uncle suffered from some disability? He had had a stroke two years previously which had left him semi-paralysed down one side. He was recovering, he was much better now than he had been, but he walked with difficulty. Twenty or thirty metres was all he could manage.
They didn’t go to the bazaars, then? No, there was no question of that. They had seen some of the sights but always from an arabeah.
And always Monsieur Berthelot had gone with him? Well, that was the point of him being there. His uncle liked to have someone perpetually by him whom he could call on for support. Monsieur Berthelot looked a little glum.
Had his uncle ever gone off on his own before? Never! The young man was adamant. Never once since they had been in Cairo! Again he seemed a little depressed.
And how long, in fact, had they been in Cairo? About six weeks now. They would have to go back soon or they would face the ‘reproches’ of his aunt, Madame Moulin. The young man gave the impression that this was something neither of them viewed with equanimity.
This was, then, purely a holiday? Not entirely. Monsieur Moulin had business interests in Egypt too.
What sort of business?
Contracting. Monsieur Moulin represented, was indeed a director of, a number of substantial French firms with building interests. But the chief point of their stay was recreational. Owen suspected it was as much to get away from Madame Moulin as anything else.
Had Monsieur Moulin received any messages? From his business friends, perhaps? Monsieur Berthelot did not think so, but would check if the messieurs desired. In any case, though, the friends would have come to Monsieur Moulin and not vice versa. Monsieur Moulin did not like leaving the hotel. He found the heat of the streets and the density of the crowds oppressive. Shepheard’s alone was where he felt comfortable, and Shepheard’s he rarely left. The young man could not understand what had happened on this occasion. He was at a loss. Surely his uncle had not left the hotel without telling him! He would never have done so voluntarily. But perhaps he had not left voluntarily.
He turned luminous, slightly protuberant eyes on Owen. The Bimbashi had spoken of kidnapping. Did Monsieur think—
No, no, no, no. Monsieur did not think. There was probably some quite simple explanation.
That was what he kept telling himself. He was sure Monsieur was right. Only … He suddenly buried his face in his hands.
They were in one of the alcoves of the grand central hall of the hotel. It had once been an open courtyard but had been roofed over with a magnificent glass dome. Traditional Moorish arches, painted and striped, gave on to recesses and alcoves screened off with heavily fretted arabic panelling. Inside the alcoves and scattered around the floor generally were thick Persian rugs, the predominant colour of which, cardinal red, matched the deep red of the comfortable leather divans and chairs. Beside the divans were low, honey-coloured alabaster tables and backless pearl-inlaid tabourets. Suffragis in spotless white gowns and vivid red sashes moved silently through the hall on errands for guests. Owen found the opulence rather oppressive.
McPhee stirred slightly and the young man jerked upright.
A thousand apologies! He was delaying them, and when there was so much to be done. Was there anything else the messieurs wished to know? No? Then …
As they left the alcove Monsieur Berthelot said, almost wistfully, that his uncle had always preferred the light of the terrace to the dark of the hall. ‘He came from the South, you see—the bright sunshine.’ And then there was always so much to see on the terrace!
A smartly-dressed young Egyptian ran up the steps.
‘Parquet!’ he said briskly.
The manager hurried forward.
‘Monsieur …’
‘Mahmoud el Zaki, Parquet.’ He caught sight of Owen and his face broke into a smile. ‘Hello!’ he said. ‘Are you on it, too?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Owen. ‘McPhee thinks it might be a kidnapping.’
‘A kidnapping? Here?’
‘I know. But there are some odd features.’
‘They don’t usually take foreigners.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Odd!’ He turned to the manager. ‘I shall need a room.’
‘My office.’ The manager hesitated. ‘I hope it won’t be necessary to—to disaccommodate the guests.’
‘As little as possible. However, I may have to ask them a few questions.’
The manager looked doubtful. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Of course, I was hoping—would you not prefer to talk to my staff?’
‘Them too.’
The manager shrugged but still looked worried. He led them to his office.
‘I will send you some coffee,’ he said.
‘How is it that Mr McPhee is involved?’ asked Mahmoud. ‘Surely they didn’t send for you directly?’
‘They did. A foreigner. They thought it important,’ said Owen.
He listened intently while McPhee brought him up to date. Then they went out on to the terrace. The tea-things had all gone from the tables now, except for the one table. In their place drinks were appearing. It was already growing dark. Night came quickly and early in Egypt. The short period of twilight, though, when it was still light enough to see and yet the heat had gone out of the sun, was one of the pleasantest parts of the day and lots of people were coming out on to the terrace to enjoy the evening air.
All along the front of the terrace was a thick row of street-vendors pushing their wares through the railings at the tourists above: ostrich feathers, hippopotamus-hide whips, fly switches, fezzes, birds in cages, snakes coiled around the arms of their owners, bunches of brightly-coloured flowers—roses, carnations, narcissi, hyacinths—trays of Turkish Delight and sticky boiled sweets, souvenirs straight from the tombs of the Pharaohs (astonishingly, some of them were), ‘interesting’ postcards.
The street behind them was thick with people, too. They could not be described as passers-by since they had stopped passing. Mostly they gathered round the pastry-sellers and sherbert-sellers, who stood in the middle of the road for the convenience of trade but to the great inconvenience of the arabeah-drivers, and just looked at the spectacle on the terrace above them.
‘With all these people looking,’ said Mahmoud, ‘you would have thought that someone, somewhere, must have seen something.’
He went down the steps into the crowd. Owen hesitated for a moment and then decided to join him. McPhee turned back into the hotel to conduct yet another search.
Mahmoud went straight to the snake-charmer and squatted down beside him. The snake-charmer had rather lost heart and was trying to find an untenanted patch of wall against which he could rest his back. From time to time he played a few unconvincing notes on his flute, which the snake, now completely inert, ignored.
The snake-charmer pushed his bowl automatically in Mahmoud’s direction. Mahmoud dropped in a few milliemes.
‘It has been a long day, father,’ he said to the charmer. ‘Even your snake thinks so.’
‘It needs a drink,’ said the charmer. ‘I shall have to take it home soon.’
‘Has it been a good day?’
‘No day is good,’ said the charmer, ‘but some days are less bad than others.’
‘You have been here