The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [185]
‘He had been battered to death in ugly enough fashion. A lot of broken crockery inside that old skin. As I examined him a phone
started to nag somewhere. Keats had got wind of something: was trying to locate the scene of the incident. It could only be a matter of time before his battered old Citroen drew up outside. Obviously a grave scandal might well be the upshot and fear lent wings to Nimrod’s imagination. “He must be got out of these clothes” he hissed and started beating out right and left with his cane, driving the policemen out into the corridor and clearing the cell. “Right”
I said, and while Nimrod stood with sweating averted face, I got the body out of its clothes as best I could. Not pleasant, but at last the old reprobate lay there “naked as a psalm” as they say in Greek. That was stage one. We mopped our faces. The little cell was like an oven.
‘ “He must” said Nimrod hysterically “be somehow got back into uniform. Before Keats comes poking around here. I tell you what, let’s go to his digs and get it. I know where he lives.” So we locked the old man into his cell: his smashed glass eye gave him a reproachful, mournful look — as if he had been subjected to an amateur taxidermist’s art. Anyway, we jumped into the car and raced across the docks to Tatwig Street while Nimrod examined the contents of the natty little leatherette handbag with which the old man had equipped himself before setting out on his adventure. In it he found a few coins, a small missal, a master’s ticket, and a packet of those old-fashioned rice-papers (one hardly ever sees them now) resembling a roll of cigarette paper. That was all. “The bloody old fool” Nimrod kept saying as we went. “The bloody old fool.”
‘We were surprised to find that all was chaos in the old man’s lodgings, for in some mysterious way the neighbourhood had al-ready got to hear of his death. At least, so I presumed. All the doors of his rooms had been burst open and cupboards rifled. In a sort of lavatory there was a bathtub full of some brew which smelt like arak and the local people had apparently been helping themselves freely, for there were prints from countless wet feet on the stairs and wet hands on the walls. The landing was awash. In the court-yard, a boab dancing round his stave and singing — a most unusual sight. Indeed, the whole neighbourhood seemed to wear an air of raffish celebration. It was most uncanny. Though most of Scobie’s things had been stolen, his uniform was hanging quite safely be-hind the door and we grabbed it. As we did so, we got a tremendous
start for a green parrot in a cage in the corner of the room said in what Nimrod swore was a perfect imitation of Scobie’s voice:
“Come the four corners of the world in arms,
We’ll ( hic) shock ’em. ”
‘It was clear that the bird was drunk. Its voice sounded so strange in that dismal empty room. (I have not told Clea any of this, for fear that it would upset her, as she too cared for him very much.)
‘Well, back to the police post with the uniform, then. We were in luck, for there was no sign of Keats. We locked ourselves into the cell again, gasping at the heat. The body was setting so fast that it seemed impossible to get the tunic on without breaking his arms
— which, God knows, were so frail that they would have snapped off like celery, or so it seemed: so I compromised by wrapping it round him. The trousers were easier. Nimrod tried to help me but was overtaken by violent nausea and spent most of the time retch-ing in a corner. He was indeed much moved by the whole thing and kept repeating under his breath “Poor old bugger”. Anyway, by a smart bit of work, the scandal he feared was averted, and hardly had we brought your Scobie into line with the general proprieties than we heard the unmistakable rumble of the Globe car at the door and the voice of Keats in the charge-room.
‘Must not forget to add that during the following few days there were two deaths and over twenty cases of acute arak poisoning in