But, surely, offering money-as well as accepting money- was a grave offence and should have resulted in something more serious than a warning?
“An official warning,” said Philipides. “It would remain on his file.”
“Even so-”
“Ah, yes,” said Philipides, “but corruption was so widespread-one could almost say it was the fashion of the country- that to come down heavily on a minor individual would have been manifestly unfair. He had probably thought he was merely following normal practice.”
And then again, one had to be realistic. To proceed in too draconian a fashion might have left the Police Force so denuded of staff as to constitute a threat to public order.
It was not the way to achieve things. The Egyptian tradition had always been to combine the threat of severity with the practice of clemency. The possibility of severity was always real and if, occasionally, by chance, that was what they got in the end and not clemency, well, that was the working of fate and seen not as injustice but as God deciding to exact full measure this time. You could hardly complain about that! If, on the other hand, the threat of severity was always followed by the practice of severity, people would perceive that as most unjust. It did not give fate a chance to work on your side, it allowed no escape for human compassion or indulgence. The system would be perceived as cold and inhuman. Not everyone understood that, said Philipides pointedly.
Mahmoud, whose logic tended towards the severely linear, was probably one of those. However, Philipides’s remark was not directed at him.
“They come in from overseas,” he said bitterly, “and they think we don’t know how to do things, when it’s just that we’re doing them in a different way.”
“You are talking of Garvin effendi?”
Philipides hesitated but then committed himself.
“If he had been more patient,” he said, “he would have seen that it was not as he supposed.”
“You are saying you are innocent of the changes?”
“Garvin effendi refused to believe that we were merely setting a trap. And I ask myself why he refused to believe us.”
“And what answer do you give?”
Philipides lifted his head and looked Mahmoud in the eyes.
“Because we were Egyptian,” he said; “because we stood in the British way; because he wanted our places.”
Mahmoud said nothing but gave him the transcript to read.
The mouth beneath the moustache twitched painfully. “How does this square with your story?”
“It does not contradict it,” said Philipides defiantly.
“No? ‘He can tell them things that lead to us’?”
“I was afraid that it would look as if we really were accepting money in exchange for promotion.”
“But why should you be concerned about that? Surely, all you had to do was go to Garvin effendi and tell him this was an official inquiry?”
“I was afraid he would not believe me.”
“You could have referred him to your superior.”
“I was working on this occasion for the Mamur Zapt.”
“Why was that?”
“It was an inquiry into the police. Wainwright Pasha wanted it to be someone independent. He did not know how far it might involve senior officers. There were rumours-”
“Rumours?”
“About Garvin effendi. Some jewels. A present for his wife.”
Mahmoud glanced at Owen, then made a note.
“But you, too,” he said to Philipides, “were a member of the police, and if not a senior one, an important middle-ranking one.”
“Mustapha Mir thought he needed help.”
“Had he not men of his own?”
“No. Well, yes, but they were special men. He needed someone inside the Police Force.”
“Why did he choose you?”
“I had worked with him before. He trusted me.”
“Was this authorized by Wainwright Pasha?”
“Oh yes.”
“And known by Garvin effendi?”
“He knew I had worked with Mustapha Mir before, yes, but he did not know about this operation. That is why I was worried, why I telephoned Mustapha Mir-”
“I do not understand this,” said Mahmoud. “If it was as you say, why was not the matter quickly cleared up? Surely, all Mustapha Mir had to do was get in touch with Garvin?”
“He knew he wouldn’t believe him. That is why he went to Wainwright Pasha.”
Philipides glanced at the transcript.
“Look!” he said, pointing with his finger. “It says there that he is going to see Wainwright Pasha.”
“In that case, why did not Wainwright Pasha speak to Garvin?”
“He did. But Garvin effendi did not believe him.”
“Did not believe him?” said Mahmoud incredulously. “But surely Garvin effendi was Wainwright Pasha’s deputy at the time?
“He was. There was a terrible argument. And then Garvin effendi went over Wainwright Pasha’s head.”
“To the Ministry of Justice?” said Mahmoud, puzzled. “But that is not in my files.”
He looked at the big pile of folders on his desk.
“Not to the Ministry of Justice,” said Philipides. “To the British Consul-General.”
“Ah! Oh, I see.”
“Wainwright Pasha spoke up strongly for Mustapha Mir. He said it was an injustice. But it was no good. They wanted Mustapha out, you see. That was what it was all about. He saw it at once. That was why he kept asking me if there were others or if it was just Garvin effendi alone. I did not understand, I was just a lowly inspector, I do not know about these things. But Mustapha Mir was clever, he did know about such things and he saw at once what was happening-”
“Just one moment,” said Mahmoud. “What is it exactly that you are saying?”
“That there was a plot,” said Philipides determinedly, “a British plot. That Garvin effendi saw an opportunity to discredit Mustapha Mir and force him out.”
“Why would he do that?”
“So that,” said Philipides bitterly, looking at Owen, “his place could be taken by an Englishman.”
“A lot of nonsense,” said Owen, when they were alone.
“Is it?” said Mahmoud.
“Yes,” said Owen, “it certainly is.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Mahmoud. “Garvin is an ambitious man.”
“It wouldn’t have been Mustapha Mir’s job that he wanted,” Owen pointed out. “It would have been Wainwright’s.”
“And he got it,” said Mahmoud.
“That was later. That was nothing to do with this.”
Mahmoud, however, looked thoughtful.
“There are obvious weaknesses in the story,” said Owen.
Mahmoud nodded.
“Yes, but I will have to check them. I will have to investigate his accusations too, though.” He looked at Owen. “That means going through the files.”
“Whose files?”
“Yours, perhaps,” said Mahmoud. “Or rather, Mustapha Mir’s.”
Owen was silent. There was a lot of secret material in the Mamur Zapt’s files. Would the Administration agree?
“More to the point,” said Mahmoud, “I shall have to go through the Commandant’s files. Did Wainwright authorize Mustapha Mir to conduct an investigation into corruption in the Police Force? If he did, there ought to be some reference to it in the files.”
“Garvin’s sitting on those files now,” said Owen.
“I shall have to ask him to release them.”
Owen was silent again. Garvin, he felt sure, had nothing to hide, but he might well object to opening his files to the Parquet. It was the principle of the thing, he would say. The Commandant of the Cairo Police was such an important post that its incumbent was appointed directly by the Khedive, not by the Minister of Justice. There was a reason for that. The Ministry was responsible for the administration of justice; but the Commandant was responsible for maintaining order, and the Khedive cared a lot more about maintaining order than he did about justice.
It could be put, too, another way. The Khedive appointed the Commandant on the direct advice of the British Administration, and the British were even more interested in maintaining order than they were in the administration of justice. The niceties of the legal administration they were quite happy to leave to the Egyptians; the exercise of power, though, they wished to keep to themselves.