The Camel of Destruction by Michael Pearce Read Free Book Online Page B

appointments?’
    The Under-Secretary turned to the Chief Clerk. ‘Well?’
    The Chief Clerk shook his head. ‘Mr. Fingari handled his appointments himself,’ he said. ‘We had nothing to do with them.’
    ‘And you didn’t think,’ said the Under-Secretary sternly, ‘that when he died it might fall on you—?’
    The Chief Clerk studied the ground.
    ‘No, effendi. Besides, you had expressly said the room was to be kept locked.’
    ‘And you never went in?’ asked Owen.
    ‘Never, effendi,’ said the Chief Clerk positively.
    ‘The office was kept locked,’ said the Under-Secretary firmly. ‘Nothing in it was touched—’
    Abdul Latif twitched.
    ‘Yes, I know,’ said the Under-Secretary impatiently. ‘The Parquet came to go through it. And then the Mamur Zapt came. THEY DON’T COUNT! No—one—else—went in. The room was left untouched.’
    Abdul Latif cleared his throat.
    ‘Abdul Latif,’ began the Under-Secretary, with rising fury.
    ‘Excuse me, effendi. But that is not so.’
    ‘Not so?’
    ‘No, effendi. The fact is, effendi,’ said Abdul Latif apologetically, ‘I went in. Well, I had to, didn’t I?’ he appealed to Owen. ‘If you don’t do the room every day, the sand comes in through the shutters and covers everything. You wouldn’t want to look at the papers, would you, if they were all sandy? So I came in and dusted.’
    ‘How did you get in, if the room was locked?’
    ‘I have a separate key. I have a key to all the rooms. This is my floor,’ said Abdul Latif proudly.
    ‘Separate key!’ moaned the Under-Secretary.
    ‘And where do you keep the key when you are not using it?’ asked Owen.
    Abdul Latif looked bashful.
    ‘I keep it next to my genitals, effendi.’
    ‘What?’ almost screamed the Under-Secretary.
    ‘Yes, effendi.’
    Abdul Latif lifted the skirts of his galabeah and tugged out a massive bunch of keys from his woollen underpants.
    ‘Some keep them next to their heart, lest they get stolen. But I keep them next to my genitals, for that is a more sensitive place, is it not? I would know at once if a hand—’
    ‘Thank you, Abdul Latif,’ said the Under-Secretary. ‘That is more than enough.’
    Left alone, Owen went through the office once more. He had been through it already this morning and had little hope of finding the diary, but he wanted to make sure. Afterwards, he sat down in Osman Fingari’s chair and looked at Osman Fingari’s desk.
    The top was neatly arranged, with in-tray to the right, out-tray to the left, inkwell and brass pen-box directly in front. No doubt Abdul Latif had rearranged everything, but then he probably did that every morning and it looked as if Osman Fingari had been content to accept his orderliness.
    There was almost certainly a regular place for his diary. Abdul Latif, the other day, had looked straight at a spot on the desk and pronounced the diary missing. Its absence did not appear to be explicable in terms of ordinary office processes. It was beginning to look as if it had not just been mislaid.
    There was a knock on the door and Abdul Latif stuck his head in.
    ‘Would the effendi like some coffee?’
    He returned a little later carrying the tray Owen had seen before.
    ‘This is how Mr. Fingari used to like it,’ he said, placing the tray on the desk in front of Owen.
    ‘I see you know how to look after your master, Abdul Latif.’
    ‘Well—’ said Abdul Latif modestly.
    He poured Owen come coffee and stood anxiously by while Owen tested it.
    ‘Delicious!’ said Owen, smacking his lips with extra smack to show appreciation.
    Abdul Latif, relieved, poured him some more.
    ‘It’s good coffee,’ he said, ‘but not everyone likes this sort. They all bring their own little boxes, you know. This comes from Mr. Fingari’s, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’
    ‘Creatures of habit, are they?’
    ‘Never change a thing. But at least you know where you are with them.’
    ‘And Mr. Fingari was like that, too, was