7
The same day I paid a visit to Azuz, the flat rental agent. I no longer needed new information on the suspect’s personality, but I hoped to find a thread that could lead us to him. I found the man remembered the precise interaction between them, despite the passage of nearly a year.
“I could never forget that day,” he declared.
“Why is that?”
“The bargaining was done in a minute. In fact, there was no bargaining at all. He was generous to an uncanny degree. But on the same day, I discovered that my billfold was missing. That’s why it was a day I can never forget.”
“How did that happen?”
“He handed me the cash and I put it on the desk, then he left. I was distracted for a moment by a telephone call. Then I picked up the money to put it in my wallet — but discovered that the wallet was gone without a trace.”
“What was running through your mind?”
“The billfold had been with me. The only ones who entered my shop had been Makram Abd al-Qayyum, and the shoeshine man. At the time, my suspicion fell on the bootblack. I called him inside and questioned him; I was so harsh with him that he screamed. But he swore by the most sacred oath that he was innocent, and started crying.”
“Of course, you didn’t suspect the other?”
“No, sometimes I would be assailed by suspicions, but these were hard to establish. It burned me up to lose more than two hundred gunayh—but how could I level an accusation against someone like him? He was a man of influence, without the slightest doubt. What good would it do me to accuse him, except to bring his power down on my head?”
“So you surrendered this matter to God?” “As happens in most cases of pickpocketing. But I would see him sometimes when he went out in the morning and mutter to myself, ‘Our Lord is a mighty avenger.’”
8
That evening I met with my boss. I showed him the reports I had written up in meticulous detail. He began to read them with his head propped on the palm of his hand until he’d finished them. Then he stared at me, frowning.
“We have to recollect the whole picture,” he said. “There are unnerving events. Some poor people find bags stuffed with money on their balconies, left by an unnamed benefactor. Others discover safe-looking packets of sweets, only to learn that the candies are poisoned, causing the deaths of unsuspecting people. Children are reported missing. Fires break out in bars. This is on one hand.
“On the other hand, you receive a letter from an unknown person that points the finger at Makram Abd al-Qayyum. You investigate this man and come to me with a clutch of contradictions that are more like the weird happenings themselves. What do you think?”
“I’ve become totally convinced that he’s the criminal we’re seeking.”
“Convinced?”
“That’s my gut feeling,” I affirmed.
“I’m only interested in either a smoking gun or a confession.”
“Let’s not ignore the fact, sir, that the incidents stopped when he went away.”
“That period has been very short; it means nothing.”
“And don’t forget that we’ve become the talk of the town.”
“His compulsiveness will betray him sooner or later … No doubt, he’s deranged!” the chief declared.
“Deranged?” I challenged him. “Possibly — but it’s just as likely he’s a sane, clever dog with a concealed motive.”
9
I set off on the chase with dauntless energy. The patrols and the lookouts were doubled. I distributed his description to every department, outlining a comprehensive course of action to the leaders and to those experienced with criminal circles. I knew, of course, that — for me personally— he had come to define my future, and my duty. The subject took control of both my waking mind and my dreams. I thought it over, and thought it over again, and decided to put off making an appeal through the newspapers and other media, at least for the time being.
10
While we were immersed in the search, a sudden bolt of lightning struck us from the blue. The press surprised us with news of events similar to those in our district — but this time, in the Delta town of Tanta. I rushed to Tanta without even seeking leave to go, and gave all the information I had to the responsible authorities there.
As we were drawing up a new plan of attack profiting primarily from our earlier experience, the newspapers came out with stories of yet more incidents in the southern city of Asyut. Sensing that these crimes had become a national scandal, I went there immediately. When I arrived I telephoned my boss to tell him my location.
“Where are you?” he shouted. “What is this blatant insubordination?”
I tried to explain the situation but he cut me off.
“Get back here immediately,” he demanded. “The incidents have returned to our own district.”
11
I had the idea to invite a famous artist to meet with me and the eyewitnesses. I asked him to draw an accurate picture of the enigmatic culprit based on the interviewees’ statements.
“Don’t give up until you’re sure it’s a faithful portrait,” I ordered.
The media ran the picture asking anyone who recognized the subject to direct us to him. Citizens pointed us to more than one person: a village headman, a fishmonger, a luggage dealer. The image even resembled a certain powerful man of state. The uproar grew out of control until we were the laughingstock of comedians and pundits alike.
“The administration is going up in flames,” the chief sighed to me.
“You can’t fault our plan,” I countered.
“He that we haven’t sought has come to us, while he that we have sought has eluded us.”
“Maybe he’s in hiding, or in disguise.”
“No doubt the incidents investigated in all these districts are not the work of just one man,” the chief asserted.
“Perhaps he’s the head of a gang?”
“The administration is going up in flames!” he cried again in despair.
I returned to my office, blind with rage. At the doorway I heard a sharp exchange between the hall guard and another man who wanted to come in and meet me.
“I have no time for anyone now,” I blurted sternly.
In a loud, even voice, the other man declaimed, “I am Makram Abd al-Qayyum.”
12
I seized him by the arm and we went into the room. We stood there face-to-face. I was panting as he asked with calm resentment, “What is the meaning of what you published in the papers?”
“Why didn’t you come in immediately?” I asked in return, scanning him closely.
“I was at the Red Sea, a long way from the newspapers— or anything else.”
A burning, pregnant silence fell between us until he resumed questioning me.
“What’s the point of this ridiculous charge against me?” “We’ll see,” I told him, seething with pique. I decided to conduct the interrogation in my chief’s office, under his supervision.
13
What should I say?
The man answered every question quickly, with a solid simplicity — yielding not one shred of evidence against him. We showed him to the families of the victims, the informants, and the aggrieved in every part of the quarter. No one had seen him, either by day or by night. We broadcast a message to the anonymous author of the letter that had accused him, to share whatever information they had with us — but no one replied. And so Makram Abd al-Qayyum left us with head held high, while I was dealt a devastating blow.