The Fig Tree Murder by Michael Pearce Read Free Book Online

Parisian one, but a Turkish one which covered the lower part of the face and revealed the eyes. Above the veil her eyes looked at Owen warmly and with recognition.
    Salah-el-Din came into view, accompanied by the man he had introduced Owen to the other day, the Pashas son.
    ‘Captain Owen! What a pleasure! You have met Malik, of course.’
    They shook hands.
    ‘We can go there together,’ said Malik.
    Where was it that they might be going? The only other engagement that Owen had that day, so far as he could remember, was a routine meeting about an application for a gambling licence, and the only reason why he remembered it was that, unusually for Cairo, it was being held in the afternoon.
    ‘My wife; my daughter, whom you met, if you remember.’
    The mother muttered a polite greeting in Arabic. The daughter advanced on Owen with outstretched hand.
    ‘
Enchanté, monsieur
!
C’est un très grand plaisir
—’
    ‘A charming dress, don’t you think? It’s important to hit the right note—’
    ‘You could try it a bit shorter,’ said Malik.
    Salah laughed, unoffended.
    ‘You would think that!’ he said.
    The mother gave her head a decided shake.
    ‘How about a drink?’ Malik said to Owen.
    ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Owen, seeing Zeinab, tall, slim and elegant, sweep down the stairs at the back. ‘I’ve a previous engagement.’
    ‘Don’t blame you,’ said Malik, following the direction of his eyes.
    Zeinab came towards them. Owen was jealously pleased that she wore a veil, a French-style one that covered all her face except for the sharp, rather beaky chin. Zeinab’s father always claimed that there was some Bedouin blood in the family, although he was not entirely sure how it got there.
    ‘Greek?’ said Malik. ‘Not Circassian, anyway. You ought to try Circassian.’
    Zeinab walked on past them. Owen caught up with her just as she went through the doors.
    ‘I don’t like your friends,’ she said.
    ‘They’re not exactly my friends. One of them’s the new mamur out at Heliopolis.’
    ‘Who’s the girl?’
    ‘His daughter. I can’t figure her out,’ admitted Owen.
    ‘I can!’
    Zeinab was silent for a moment. Then she said:
    ‘How can a mamur afford to shop at Anton’s?’
    ‘That’s what I’m wondering,’ said Owen.
    ‘I shall tell Anton that he needs to be more selective in his clientele. He can start by throwing out that other man.’
    ‘Malik? He’s a Pasha’s son!’
    ‘Good!’ said Zeinab gleefully. ‘In that case I shall certainly ask Anton to throw him out!’
     
    Owen was a little taken aback when he returned to his office to find that the venue for his meeting had been changed. It was now to be held at the Savoy Hotel, which was roughly where he had just come from. His meetings were not normally held at the Savoy Hotel, but he had hopes that this might create a precedent.
    At the meeting were a representative of the Ministry of Justice, McPhee, the Deputy Commandment of Police, two lawyers and Malik appearing for the appellants, and himself, and the subject of the meeting was an application to open new premises under the licensing laws.
    Or, rather, not quite an application.
    ‘A formal application will be made later,’ said one of the lawyers, smiling. ‘At this stage all we are doing is testing the ground. We are seeking to establish whether there would be any objection
in principle
to an application such as ours.’
    ‘The government’s policy is to restrict the number of gambling houses,’ said McPhee severely.
    ‘And quite rightly, too. There are far too many low dens where the practices are, frankly, far from commendable. Our application is not of that sort. It relates to the opening of a casino in the Palace Hotel at Heliopolis.’
    ‘Palace Hotel?’ said McPhee, puzzled. ‘There isn’t one!’
    ‘It’s being built.’
    The man from the Ministry of Justice, an Egyptian, looked at his papers.
    ‘A casino wasn’t mentioned in the original planning