her hairdresser’s.
“I was asking her about the street-vendors.”
“Oh yes,” said Zeinab sceptically.
“Yes I was. I wanted to know if they were always the same. You see, if they were, they might have been there when Moulin was kidnapped and seen something.”
“You were trying to see something,” said Zeinab. “You were looking down the front of her dress.”
“For heaven’s sake! She was across the table. How could I?”
“She was leaning forward. Deliberately.”
“Anyway she didn’t have on that sort of dress.”
“You see! You did try!”
“For God’s sake!” said Owen, aware that he had lost yet another argument with Zeinab.
“Well,” demanded Nikos, “are you going to do something about it or not?”
“I’m not going to stop it, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s not what I mean. The question is: do you want it watched? We don’t have to interfere at all. We could let it all go ahead as they’ve arranged, let the money change hands, wait till Moulin is freed—and only take action afterward. That way we would get both Moulin and Zawia.”
“Nice in theory, not so easy in practice. You’d have to be able to watch them all the way. Is that possible?”
“It’s not easy,” Nikos admitted.
Owen saw why when they made a reconnaissance that evening. The gambling salon was in a block of flats on the Sharia Imad-el-Din. It was on the first floor and was disguised as a scent factory. Nikos had been informing himself of its defenses.
“You get to it through the main entrance,” he said. “There’s a door on to the stairs which is kept locked and has to be opened by the porter. At the top of the stairs there’s another door with a spyhole.”
“Pretty standard.”
“Yes. There’s an electric bell downstairs by the porter’s hand to give warning. Oh, and there’s a consular representative across the street.”
“Which nationality is Anton claiming this week?”
“Lebanese, I think.”
Since under the system of legal concessions to foreign governments known as the Capitulations the Egyptian police did not have right of entry to premises owned by foreigners, most gambling houses had taken the precaution of acquiring foreign “ownership.” To guard against misunderstandings— and misunderstandings were quite frequent as the police had often met the proprietor the week before when he was of a different nationality—the wealthier salons had taken to keeping a consular official handy on the permanent retainer for use in the event of an unexpected raid.
“We’re not thinking of a raid, though,” said Owen, “so it doesn’t matter.”
“We’ll have to have someone inside.”
Owen looked doubtful. “What good would that do? They’d have to be customers. They couldn’t hang around the cloakroom. They’d have to go inside and play. They wouldn’t be able to see anything. What’s the internal geography of the place?”
“You go through the door into a sort of vestibule. The cloakroom—it’s very small, barely room for the two attendants—is on one side. The tripot is on the other. You get to it through an arch.”
“So you might be able to see something.”
“You might. You’d be able to tell if someone left the tripot and went to the cloakroom. But my guess is that’s not how it will happen, anyway. I’ve been checking on the attendants in the cloakroom. There are two of them. One of them goes off duty at about one-thirty and another man comes in. I reckon that the one who goes off duty will be carrying the money with him. The timing fits. Berthelot gets there at about midnight and stays till two. By then there will have been time to count the money and the attendant will have been gone half an hour—long enough for him to be able to pass over the money.”
“How does he leave the building?”
“Through a side door. I’ll have him tailed.”
“He might not go that way this time.”
“I think he will. They’ll want to keep it
“I was asking her about the street-vendors.”
“Oh yes,” said Zeinab sceptically.
“Yes I was. I wanted to know if they were always the same. You see, if they were, they might have been there when Moulin was kidnapped and seen something.”
“You were trying to see something,” said Zeinab. “You were looking down the front of her dress.”
“For heaven’s sake! She was across the table. How could I?”
“She was leaning forward. Deliberately.”
“Anyway she didn’t have on that sort of dress.”
“You see! You did try!”
“For God’s sake!” said Owen, aware that he had lost yet another argument with Zeinab.
“Well,” demanded Nikos, “are you going to do something about it or not?”
“I’m not going to stop it, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s not what I mean. The question is: do you want it watched? We don’t have to interfere at all. We could let it all go ahead as they’ve arranged, let the money change hands, wait till Moulin is freed—and only take action afterward. That way we would get both Moulin and Zawia.”
“Nice in theory, not so easy in practice. You’d have to be able to watch them all the way. Is that possible?”
“It’s not easy,” Nikos admitted.
Owen saw why when they made a reconnaissance that evening. The gambling salon was in a block of flats on the Sharia Imad-el-Din. It was on the first floor and was disguised as a scent factory. Nikos had been informing himself of its defenses.
“You get to it through the main entrance,” he said. “There’s a door on to the stairs which is kept locked and has to be opened by the porter. At the top of the stairs there’s another door with a spyhole.”
“Pretty standard.”
“Yes. There’s an electric bell downstairs by the porter’s hand to give warning. Oh, and there’s a consular representative across the street.”
“Which nationality is Anton claiming this week?”
“Lebanese, I think.”
Since under the system of legal concessions to foreign governments known as the Capitulations the Egyptian police did not have right of entry to premises owned by foreigners, most gambling houses had taken the precaution of acquiring foreign “ownership.” To guard against misunderstandings— and misunderstandings were quite frequent as the police had often met the proprietor the week before when he was of a different nationality—the wealthier salons had taken to keeping a consular official handy on the permanent retainer for use in the event of an unexpected raid.
“We’re not thinking of a raid, though,” said Owen, “so it doesn’t matter.”
“We’ll have to have someone inside.”
Owen looked doubtful. “What good would that do? They’d have to be customers. They couldn’t hang around the cloakroom. They’d have to go inside and play. They wouldn’t be able to see anything. What’s the internal geography of the place?”
“You go through the door into a sort of vestibule. The cloakroom—it’s very small, barely room for the two attendants—is on one side. The tripot is on the other. You get to it through an arch.”
“So you might be able to see something.”
“You might. You’d be able to tell if someone left the tripot and went to the cloakroom. But my guess is that’s not how it will happen, anyway. I’ve been checking on the attendants in the cloakroom. There are two of them. One of them goes off duty at about one-thirty and another man comes in. I reckon that the one who goes off duty will be carrying the money with him. The timing fits. Berthelot gets there at about midnight and stays till two. By then there will have been time to count the money and the attendant will have been gone half an hour—long enough for him to be able to pass over the money.”
“How does he leave the building?”
“Through a side door. I’ll have him tailed.”
“He might not go that way this time.”
“I think he will. They’ll want to keep it
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