The Mamur Zapt and the Spoils of Egypt by Michael Pearce

selfcentredness—of an operatic diva.
    ‘The men have all the best parts,’ she said darkly. ‘I am not sure I like this Wagner. He is too cold, too stiff. Like an Englishman.’
    Taking this personally, Owen pointed out that he was Welsh.
    ‘Deceptive, as always,’ said Zeinab, tucking her arm beneath his.
    ‘Oh, hallo!’
    It was Carmichael, from Customs, recognizing Owen but uncertain how to take his lady, obviously on intimate terms with him but not, surely—an Arab?—his wife.
    ‘Miss Al Nuri,’ said Owen.
    ‘Oh, hallo!’ said Carmichael awkwardly. It was very rarely that one met an Egyptian woman, even in relatively westernized contexts such as the opera. One did not often meet women at all—the Mediterranean peoples were very jealous of their women—but Egyptians, never.
    The Mamur Zapt, he supposed, was different.
    Zeinab, enjoying his discomfort, flashed her eyes at him over her veil. Carmichael went pink.
    ‘Up for a visit?’ he said hurriedly to Owen.
    ‘Taking a look at Customs.’
    ‘Oh, you’ll find that very interesting,’ said Carmichael enthusiastically. ‘Hamdi Pasha runs a tight ship. One of Chitty Bey’s men.’
    Chitty Bey, the remarkable man who had set up the Customs Administration in its present form, was a legend in the land.
    ‘He certainly seemed on top of things,’ said Owen.
    A bell rang and they went back into the cream and gilt splendour of the auditorium, with its enclosed harem boxes to left and right.
    The opera came to an end with its last long bit which Owen dismissed as merely praise of the Fatherland. The audience, too, was uncertain how to take it. At last some of them made up their minds to reinterpret it in terms of Egyptian nationhood and applauded vigorously.
    ‘Bloody Nationalists!’ said Carmichael, pink again. ‘Spoil everything!’
    They emerged into the foyer.
    ‘Want a lift?’
    There was a huge rush for arabeahs as everyone came out of the theatre and they were glad to share the one he had previously booked.
    As they drove round the bay they passed the Customs area.
    ‘Tight ship,’ said Carmichael with satisfaction. ‘Not the way it used to be. See that house?’ He jerked his thumb at a sumptuous villa set deep in magnificent shrubs and trees. ‘Built by the chap in charge of valuing the cotton piece goods. Before Chitty Bey’s time, of course. Manchester House, we call it.’
    ‘Perhaps there’s one like it for antiquities,’ said Owen.
     
    There was a message from Garvin waiting for him at the hotel. It said: ‘
Get down to Der el Bahari quick. Something’s happened to Miss Skinner
.’

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CHAPTER 4
    « ^ »
    Getting down to Der al Bahari was not as straightforward as might appear. It was, to start with, over four hundred miles from Cairo and the last part of the journey would have to be by mule. The first part, however, need not be made by boat, as Miss Skinner had done. It could be covered by train; more particularly, in the splendid new Wagons-Lits which had just come into service.
    Owen boarded the train just before it departed and was relieved to see that no one was occupying the other berth. He opened the window and once the train began to move there was a pleasantly cooling draught. He would have to shut it later on when it became dark, not just because of the thieves but because of the mosquitoes. The windows were tinted to reduce the glare but anyway at this point in the day, late in the afternoon, the sun was beginning to soften.
    He sat for some time watching the fields go by with the fellahin at work in them coaxing the water along the furrows. Every so often there was a high mudbank behind which was a canal and on this high ground there was frequently someone standing; a boy with a buffalo, a woman with a water-jar, Biblical shepherds with their flocks.
    After a while, though, the fields gave way to desert and the buffalo to the occasional camel. He got up and went along to the club car for a drink and then, since