The Camel of Destruction by Michael Pearce Page B

found, with the bottle beside him—’
    Mr. Fehmi shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment that any could question.
    ‘Did anyone go in?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You’ve checked?’
    ‘I’ve checked.’
    ‘Coffee? Did he have coffee?’
    ‘Yes. I used that to establish time of death.’
    ‘Presumably Abdul Latif took it in to him?’
    ‘The orderly? Yes. But, Captain Owen, what are you suggesting? That the orderly poisoned him? Administered it with the coffee, perhaps? The taste so frightful that he couldn’t tell the difference?’
    Fearing that he had gone too far, Mr. Fehmi patted Owen apologetically on the knee. ‘A jest,’ he said, ‘a jest!’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Killed?’ He shook his head slowly but firmly. ‘No, Captain Owen, I think not.’
    He rose from his chair.
    ‘I suggest you go back to your informant and tell him that he is mistaken.’
    He reached out his hand in farewell.
    ‘There is not a shred of evidence to connect this sad event with anyone other than Mr. Fingari himself.’
    ‘Not now that you have removed his diary,’ said Owen. Mr. Fehmi fell back into his seat.
    ‘Removed his diary? Captain Owen! What are you saying? What are you saying, please? I reject this imputation. I—I—’
    ‘Do you deny that the diary is in your possession?’
    ‘Deny it? Of course I deny it!’
    ‘I would not answer so quickly, Mr. Fehmi. As the investigating official, you have every right to remove a piece of evidence. What you do not have is the power to withhold it.’
    Mr. Fehmi licked his lips.
    ‘I—I deny absolutely—Really, Captain Owen, this is outrageous!’
    ‘I would like to see it, please.’
    ‘I have not got it!’
    ‘It is no longer in your possession?’
    ‘It never was in my possession!’
    ‘You took it from Fingaris desk.’
    ‘This is—this is quite unacceptable—’
    ‘I hope not. What would be unacceptable would be for you to keep it from me.’
    ‘I object most strongly, Captain Owen—’
    ‘Unacceptable,’ said Owen with emphasis. ‘By which I mean that my Administration would not be prepared to accept it.’ Mr. Fehmi licked his lips again. Owen could see that he was weighing the rival strengths of the Minister-backed Parquet and the British Administration-backed Mamur Zapt. But this was precisely the sort of political calculation that Mr. Fehmi was not good at. He hung there uncertainly. Owen decided to make it easier for him.
    ‘I am not suggesting that you part with the diary. What I had in mind was merely that as colleagues working together we sit down here and share our impressions of the case, with the diary, and other evidence, naturally in front of us.’
    ‘That—that would be more acceptable,’ said Mr. Fehmi. He still appeared, however, to be in difficulty.
    ‘It would be in confidence, of course,’ said Owen. ‘There is no reason why anyone other than the two of us should ever know that our—our conversation had taken place.’ Some, at least, of Mr. Fehmi’s difficulties were disappearing.
    ‘And each of us, of course, will have our areas of reticence, where we would prefer the other not to press us.’
    Mr. Fehmi visibly relaxed.
    ‘I think I could cooperate on that basis,’ he said.
    ‘Good.’
    ‘But—but there’s still a difficulty. I would have to borrow the book back.’
    ‘Borrow it back? Who has it, then?’
    Mr. Fehmi hesitated.
    ‘Come, Mr. Fehmi, there has to be some basis of trust between us.’
    Mr. Fehmi still hesitated.
    ‘Cannot you at least tell me at the general level?’
    Mr. Fehmi took the plunge.
    ‘It is with the Minister,’ he said.
    ‘Minister? Which Minister? Parquet or Agriculture?’
    Mr. Fehmi hung his head.
    ‘That—that is an area of reticence,’ he said.
     
    ‘Yes, it’s beautiful, darling,’ said Owen.
    ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic,’ said Zeinab. ‘Don’t you like it?’
    ‘Oh yes, oh yes. It’s—it’s just the price.’
    ‘If you want good things you have to pay for