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raising a gun.”
    “How
close?”
    “From me to you. Perhaps
a little more.”
    Mahmoud
waited for Nuri to think back.
    “And
then?”
    Nuri
frowned.
    “And
then I don’t know what happened.” “Were you conscious of the gun going off?”
    “I
heard a shot. Yes, I certainly heard a shot. And I fell down. Though whether
before or after or at the same time I really cannot remember. Everything is
very hazy.”
    “You
may have dazed yourself in falling,” said Mahmoud.
    “The
doctor thinks so,” said Nuri. “He claims to detect a bruise on the back of my
head. I must say, I am not conscious of it myself, but then, my livelihood does
not depend on finding bumps on other people.”
    “You
did see the man with the gun, though. Could you describe him?”
    “Not very well. I saw him only
fleetingly.”
    “Was
he dressed in European clothes?”
    Nuri
looked at him. “I have heard the accounts of my would-be assassin,” he said
drily, “and you yourself confirmed that he was a fellah.”
    Mahmoud
apologized.
    “I
was merely trying to prompt you to recall exactly what you saw,” he said. “Was
he young or old, for instance, what kind of galabeah was he wearing?”
    “I
do not,” said Nuri Pasha, “bother to distinguish one fellah from another.”
    There
was a little silence.
    “In
any case,” said Nuri, “the fellah is not the one that matters. He is merely a
tool.”
    “Have
you any idea,” asked Owen, “who might be using him as a tool?”
    “I
am afraid not.”
    “Can
you think of anyone who would wish to kill you?”
    Nuri
looked at Owen with surprise.
    “Mon cher , ” he said, “Everybody wants to kill me. Tout le monde. ” “Come,” said Owen, “you have enemies
enough, I am sure, anyone in your position is bound to, but there is a
difference between having an enemy and having an enemy who wants to kill you.”
    “You
are right,” said Nuri Pasha, “if a trifle literal. I am plainly guilty of
exaggeration. Let me try to be more accurate. Only half the population of Egypt
wants to kill me. The other half would just be happy to see it happen.” He
laughed, and then put his hand on Owen’s arm. “I joke, mon cher,” he said, “but it is no joke really.” Owen nodded.
    The
word “Denshawai” did not need to be spoken.
    Nuri’s
eyes wandered away again across the garden. The girl had gone, however.
    “The
fellah who tried to shoot you,” said Mahmoud, “had a personal grudge against
you.”
    “Oh
yes,” said Nuri.
    “It
appears you took a liking to his wife’s sister—a peasant girl, like the one we
saw. Only on that occasion you did send for her.”
    “Really?”
said Nuri, without much interest. “If so, she would have been
well paid.”
    “It
is just that it gives a motive,” said Mahmoud, “sufficient in itself. We do not
necessarily have to look for an ulterior one. The affair, that is,” he ended
carefully, “may be merely a private one.”
    “Since when,” asked Nuri, “has the Mamur
Zapt been interested in affairs which are merely private?”
    “Have
you received any threatening letters?” asked Owen.
    Nuri
made a gesture of dismissal.
    “Mon cher !” he said, almost
reproachfully. “Dozens!”
    “Recently? In the last two
weeks?”
    “I
expect so,” said Nuri. “It is not the part of my mail to which I give the
greatest attention.”
    He
looked at Owen.
    “You
would not expect a killer to give warning, surely?”
    “It
happens surprisingly often,” said Owen.
    Nuri
laughed. “I expect it is the weakness for rhetoric characteristic of those
engaged in politics,” he said.
    He
glanced at Mahmoud.
    “Especially Egyptian politics.”
    “Not
just Egyptian,” said Owen. “However, there is a different explanation. The
terrorist clubs tend to contact their targets first. Especially,” he added,
looking directly at Nuri, “when they are trying to extort money.”
    Nuri
shook his head.
    “If
they had asked for money I would probably have