Fehmi was shocked. ‘Surely not! I thought we had agreed that this was to be a case of suicide.’ ‘We didn’t agree it was “to be” anything. We thought it was a case of suicide.’ ‘Well, yes, of course. That’s what I meant.’ The Parquet lawyer looked at Owen with injured brown eyes. ‘How could it be anything else? He took prussic acid. No shadow of doubt! The post-mortem—your own colleague, Captain Owen—’ ‘Yes, yes. I’ve no doubt about that.’ ‘Then wherein lies your doubt? We found the bottle beside him in the wastepaper basket. A small brown bottle,’ said Mr. Fehmi in injured tones, ‘which he had bought the day before. Bought it himself, Captain Owen. We found the shop. Descriptions fit. Why all this complication?’ ‘I am merely reporting an accusation.’ ‘From whom, Captain Owen? From whom?’ Mr. Fehmi’s shoulders bowed, as if they had suddenly been called on to support the weight of the whole guilty world in addition to the weight of Cairo’s guilty world, the burden which they already carried.
