‘What’s wrong with them?’ he said defensively. For one terrible moment he thought perhaps he’d sewn Cutler’s rank badges on his shoulder straps the wrong way up. He’d sewn the crowns onto his old working uniform. He’d had to use that one so that he could dirty the sleeves a little to hide the places where his stripes had been. But it made him feel out of place amongst all the ‘gabardine swine’ here in Groppi’s.
‘Nothing. They are fine. But … I’m sure one of the girls in the office would do it more neatly. Or I will, if you like. But why don’t you get a new uniform? There’s an awfully good tailor just a hundred yards from here in Kasr el Nil. My father had suits made there.’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’
‘He will do them in two or three days, but you have to bully him.’
‘You’d better come with me.’
‘Is it all right then? The undercover job? The Magnifico?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘That’s very encouraging,’ she said bitterly, suddenly forgetting that she was a lowly subordinate.
He smiled. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘It might help. Wear the corporal’s outfit,’ she said.
‘Don’t be bossy,’ he said. ‘But yes, I will.’
‘It’s not going to be easy getting a room there. We’ll have to give them a sob story.’
‘We’ll think of something,’ he said. Already there was an intimacy between them. At least he felt there was. Perhaps she had that effect on every man she met.
‘Can I get you something else, sir?’ said the waiter.
Ross was hungry. Maybe he should hang on here for a couple more days before disappearing. Not longer. He certainly didn’t want to find himself giving evidence to an inquiry about his own death.
5
Having finished her shift at the Base Hospital, Peggy West arrived at the hotel in which she lived, thinking only of a hot scented bath. In the hotel lobby she found an army corporal and a tall long-haired civilian girl. The soldier was arguing with Ahmed, a tall Arab with dyed red hair, who was sweeping the tiled floor in that dreamy way that all the hotel servants seemed to assume when working. The soldier seemed to speak no Arabic beyond the half dozen words that every foreigner learns in the first couple of days. He was getting nowhere. Peggy had to sort things out. ‘You can’t have a room here, because this is not a hotel,’ she explained.
‘It says hotel on the sign outside,’ the soldier protested.
Peggy looked at him. His uniform was the ill-fitting khaki trousers and baggy khaki jacket that the British wore in winter. The corporal was in his middle to late twenties, older than most of the soldiers to be seen in the streets. The coloured patches were from some unit she’d not noticed before. The heavy boots, so painstakingly shined, made her guess he was from one of the new transit camps that had been built on the Canal Road. At his feet there rested a crocodile leather suitcase bearing the labels of exclusive hotels: Lotti, Gritti Palace and Bayerischer Hof. It obviously belonged to the girl.
‘My cousin desperately needs a place to sleep,’ he said indicating the young woman at his side. ‘Everywhere’s been requisitioned.’
‘Surely there are lots of places,’ said Peggy. The girl was very beautiful in that way that rich English girls sometimes were. Her face was composed and detached. She said nothing. It was almost as if she were deaf.
‘If she was in the army, it would be simple enough,’ said the corporal. ‘But none of these damned clubs and hostels will take civvies. Only the YWCA, and that’s full.’ Peggy looked at him more closely. He was a tough fellow. Despite the faint Scots accent, she decided that he was like an English foxhound, dogs noted for their pace, their nose and their stamina.
‘This place was a hotel once, long ago,’ said Peggy feeling that some explanation was due. ‘Now people live here on a permanent basis. We never have vacant rooms – everyone wants them.’
The corporal glanced round the lobby, and Peggy saw it through his eyes. It looked like a hotel. There was the unmanned reception desk and behind it a long mail rack, each pigeonhole bearing a painted room number and a hook. Stuffed under a large brass ornamental scarab, there was a pile of uncollected mail, with postage stamps from Britain, South Africa and Australia. Some of the letters had grown dusty with age. From hooks there hung room keys with the Hotel Magnifico’s heavy brass tags. Along the right-hand-wall, four tall amphorae were arranged. Above them there was an ancient engraving of a view of Cairo seen from the Citadel. In the corner an imposing mahogany cubicle, with oriental motifs and a frosted glass window, was marked ‘telephone’ in English, Italian and Arabic. Immediately inside the front door a green baize noticeboard was buried under typewritten notices and posters of all shapes and sizes and colours: dances and concerts, whist drives and jumble sales, tours and lectures, voluntary nursing and language lessons. Cairo had never been more active.
‘It says Hotel Magnifico on the sign,’ said the corporal again.
‘I know it does,’ said Peggy. The late Signor Mario Magnifico – whose daughter Lucia inherited the place – commissioned the sign, after hearing his establishment rightfully called a pension by a client he didn’t like.
‘Then can we sit down here for a minute? I need to talk with my cousin,’ said the corporal. ‘It’s a private matter, and very urgent.’
There were no seats in sight. Peggy looked round. Where the lobby ended at a staircase, glass-panelled doors gave onto the bar. One door was partly open and Peggy could see one of the residents – Captain Robin Darymple – holding forth to the usual crowd. Darymple turned in time to see Peggy looking at him. He gave her a wonderful smile that lit up his face. She smiled back. Robin’s charm was unassailable. She knew this would not be the right time to take two strangers into the bar. ‘Perhaps you could sit in the dining room,’ said Peggy.
Net curtains obscured the oval-shaped little windows in the dark mahogany doors. She swung one open and ushered them through. The dining room was gloomy, only one electric light bulb was lit. There was no one else there.
Through the doors Peggy heard footsteps on the marble as someone came out of the bar, leaving the doors wide open. Darymple’s high-pitched voice was now clearly audible. It was the tone he used when telling his stories. ‘So he said he had spent all night with the carps. Fish? I said. He said, No, dead carps! Crikey, I thought, he means a corpse. I said, And this all happened in Belgravia? And the big fellow with the beard said, No, Bulgaria.’ There was appreciative laughter from throats down which much drink had been poured. She recognised it as one of Darymple’s stories. His skill as a storyteller was renowned throughout the clubs and bars of Cairo.
For the two strangers, Peggy indicated a small table near the window. Again there came the sound of footsteps across the lobby and of the doors swinging closed to hush Darymple’s voice. The corporal put down the brown leather suitcase and looked round. It was very still, as only a well swept, carefully prepared, empty dining room can be. He said, ‘This will do nicely. Can we sit here for half an hour?’
Peggy nodded.
The girl watched her corporal. Only when he seemed to approve it did the girl sit down.
‘They’ll start coming in for dinner soon,’ said Peggy. ‘There are no spare tables so –’
‘We understand,’ said the corporal. ‘I suppose it’s officers only.’
Peggy West was too tired to be provoked into argument. She said, ‘Tell them Peggy said it was all right. Peggy West.’
‘Thank