They Came to Baghdad (24 page)

I

“W
hat bothers me,” said Victoria, “is that poor Danish woman who got killed by mistake in Damascus.”

“Oh! she's all right,” said Mr. Dakin cheerfully. “As soon as your plane had taken off, we arrested the French woman and took Grete Harden to hospital. She came round all right. They were going to keep her drugged for a bit until they were sure the Baghdad business went off all right. She was one of our people of course.”

“Was she?”

“Yes, when Anna Scheele disappeared, we thought it might be as well to give the other side something to think about. So we booked a passage for Grete Harden and carefully didn't give her a background. They fell for it—jumped to the conclusion that Grete Harden must be Anna Scheele. We gave her a nice little set of faked papers to prove it.”

“Whilst the real Anna Scheele remained quietly in the nursing
home till it was time for Mrs. Pauncefoot Jones to join her husband out here.”

“Yes. Simple—but effective. Acting on the assumption that in times of stress the only people you can really trust are your own family. She's an exceedingly clever young woman.”

“I really thought I was for it,” said Victoria. “Were your people really keeping tabs on me?”

“All the time. Your Edward wasn't really quite so clever as he thought himself, you know. Actually we'd been investigating the activities of young Edward Goring for some time. When you told me your story, the night Carmichael was killed, I was frankly very worried about you.”

“The best thing I could think of was to send you deliberately into the setup as a spy. If your Edward knew that you were in touch with me, you'd be reasonably safe, because he'd learn through you what we were up to. You'd be too valuable to kill. And he could also pass on false information to us through you. You were a link. But then you spotted the Rupert Crofton Lee impersonation, and Edward decided you'd better be kept out of it until you were needed (if you should be needed) for the impersonation of Anna Scheele. Yes, Victoria, you're very very lucky to be sitting where you are now, eating all those pistachio nuts.”

“I know I am.”

Mr. Dakin said:

“How much do you mind—about Edward?”

Victoria looked at him steadily.

“Not at all. I was just a silly little fool. I let Edward pick me up and do his glamour act. I just had a thoroughly school-
girl crush on him—fancying myself Juliet and all sorts of silly things.”

“You needn't blame yourself too much. Edward had a wonderful natural gift for attracting women.”

“Yes, and he used it.”

“He certainly used it.”

“Next time I fall in love,” said Victoria, “it won't be looks that attract me, or glamour. I'd like a real man—not one who says pretty things to you. I shan't mind if he's bald or wears spectacles or anything like that. I'd like him to be interesting—and know about interesting things.”

“About thirty-five or fifty-five?” asked Mr. Dakin.

Victoria stared.

“Oh thirty-five,” she said.

“I am relieved. I thought for a moment you were proposing to me.”

Victoria laughed.

“And—I know I mustn't ask questions—but was there really a message knitted into the scarf?”

“There was a name. The
tricoteuses
of whom Madam Defarge was one, knitted a register of names. The scarf and the ‘chit' were the two halves of the clue. One gave us the name of Sheikh Hussein el Ziyara of Kerbela. The other when treated with iodine vapour gave us the words to induce the Sheikh to part with his trust. There couldn't have been a safer place to hide the thing, you know, than in the sacred city of Kerbela.”

“And it was carried through the country by those two wandering cinema men—the ones we actually met?”

“Yes. Simple well-known figures. Nothing political about them. Just Carmichael's personal friends. He had a lot of friends.”

“He must have been very nice. I'm sorry he's dead.”

“We've all got to die sometime,” said Mr. Dakin. “And if there's another life after this which I myself fully believe, he'll have the satisfaction of knowing that his faith and his courage have done more to save this sorry old world from a fresh attack of blood-letting and misery than almost anyone that one can think of.”

“It's odd, isn't it,” said Victoria meditatively, “that Richard should have had one half of the secret and I should have had the other. It almost seems as though—”

“As though it were meant to be,” finished Mr. Dakin with a twinkle. “And what are you going to do next, may I ask?”

“I shall have to find a job,” said Victoria. “I must start looking about.”

“Don't look too hard,” said Mr. Dakin. “I rather think a job is coming towards you.”

He ambled gently away to give place to Richard Baker.

“Look here, Victoria,” said Richard. “Venetia Savile can't come out after all. Apparently she's got mumps. You were quite useful on the Dig. Would you like to come back? Only your keep, I'm afraid. And probably your passage back to En gland—but we'll talk about that later. Mrs. Pauncefoot Jones is coming out next week. Well, what do you say?”

“Oh, do you really
want
me?” cried Victoria.

For some reason Richard Baker became very pink in the face. He coughed and polished his pince-nez.

“I think,” he said, “we could find you—er—quite useful.”

“I'd love it,” said Victoria.

“In that case,” said Richard, “you'd better collect your luggage and come along back to the Dig now. You don't want to hang about Baghdad, do you?”

“Not in the least,” said Victoria.

II

“So there you are, my dear Veronica,” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones. “Richard went off in a great state about you. Well, well—I hope you'll both be very happy.”

“What does he mean?” asked Victoria bewildered, as Dr. Pauncefoot Jones pottered away.

“Nothing,” said Richard. “You know what he's like. He's being—just a little—premature.”