Read Online The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet by Michael Pearce - Free Book Online Page B

butt.”
    “And you think that’s what may have happened
here?”
    “Can’t swear to it,
sir. But the skylight was open the morning after, and it was only big enough for a
kid.”
    “Could be,” Owen agreed.
    “ ’Course , it was my fault,
sir,” said the man. “I admit that. I should have kept my eyes open. I made a
mistake. But I’ve paid for it.”
    The weathered, experienced face, which
retained a sunburn despite nearly a year’s
confinement, assumed a virtuous expression.
    An old hand at the game, thought Owen.
Twenty-five years in the Army, fifteen of them in India. There was not much he
didn’t know. Three times reduced, each time made up again. Crafty, plausible,
he would know how to make himself useful. How willing would he be to be useful
now?
    “Pity
to get into trouble just because of a Gyppy,” he said aloud. “I know, sir,”
said the ex-sergeant, as if ruefully. “I could have kicked myself.”
    “It’s easy done,” said Owen.
    “My mistake was to trust the bleeders. I
treated them decent. That ’Assan was a useful bloke. Smart. He did me a favour
or two, and I did him a few. Used to give him fags. And not say nothing if I caught him smoking in the armoury.” He grimaced. “Should have. That was my mistake.”
    “In the armoury?”
    “I know, sir. I dare say that’s what gave
him the idea.”
    Thin trickles of sweat ran down on either
side of the man’s nose.
    There
was no fan in the room and it was very hot. The one window, high up in the
wall, was shuttered. The door was closed.
    “Did
he ever talk?”
    “ ’Assan ? He went missing
that night.”
    Very convenient, thought Owen. And part of it
might even be true. They might well have used the skylight, might even have
slipped a boy in, as the man had said. Only, of course, he knew more about it
than he had let on. How much did he know? Not much, if it was just a matter of
money passing and agreement to turn a blind eye. Hassan could even have been
the go-between. In which case the ex-sergeant would not know
anyone else.
    Owen
looked through the file in front of him. One of the times the ex-sergeant had
been reduced was for selling Army equipment. Not weaponry—the Army took that
seriously. Odds and ends from the stores. At least,
that was all they had caught him for. The chances were that he had flogged
quite a lot more. And once a seller … The idea might have come to him
again. He had been running a woman in Ismailia and had needed the cash. He
might have approached somebody. There was always a ready market for weapons. He
might have known someone. Worth a try.
    Owen
studied the face opposite him. Shrewd, Army-wise, hard. A drinker’s face. Little red veins beneath the tan,
tell-tale puffiness below the eyes. In certain circumstances, thought Owen, I
could crack this man.
    But not easily. Not here, and
probably not now. He was sitting there at ease. He knew he was coming out on
Thursday. All he had to do was to sit tight and say nothing. There was no way
of putting him under pressure.
    Outside
in the corridor he heard the guards’ feet shuffling. It would take too long to
break the man, and before then he would have been interrupted.
    He
had to find a way of getting the man to cooperate. He might be willing if he
thought there was something in it for him.
    “You’ve
been reduced before,” said Owen. “Three times.”
    “Yes,
sir,” said the man equably.
    “Gets harder.”
    The
man gave a little shrug.
    Used
to it, thought Owen.
    “How
much longer have you got?” he asked.
    The
man looked slightly surprised.
    “To serve, sir? Four years.” “Time
enough to get made up again,” said Owen. “It would be nice to go out with a bit
of money in your pocket.”
    The
man looked at him cautiously, but his interest was aroused. “Help me,” said
Owen, “and I might help you.”
    He
waited.
    After
a moment, the man responded.
    “Exactly
how could I help you, sir?”
    “A name. All I want is a
name.”
    The
man rubbed