They Came to Baghdad (3 page)

“What do you actually
do?
” asked Victoria.

“Well, really it boils down to being the old boy's personal Yesman and Dogsbody. Buy the tickets, make the reservations, fill up the passport forms, check the packing of all the horrid little poetic manuals, run round here, there, and everywhere. Then, when we get out there I'm supposed to fraternize—kind of glorified youth movement—all nations together in a united drive for uplift.” Edward's tone became more and more melancholy. “Frankly, it's pretty ghastly, isn't it?”

Victoria was unable to administer much comfort.

“So you see,” said Edward, “if you wouldn't mind awfully—one sideways and one looking right at me—oh I say, that's wonderful—”

The camera clicked twice and Victoria showed that purring complacence displayed by young women who know they have made an impression on an attractive member of the opposite sex.

“But it's pretty foul really, having to go off just when I've met you,” said Edward. “I've half a mind to chuck it—but I suppose I
couldn't do that at the last moment—not after all those ghastly forms and visas and everything. Wouldn't be a very good show, what?”

“It mayn't turn out as bad as you think,” said Victoria consolingly.

“N-no,” said Edward doubtfully. “The funny thing is,” he added, “that I've got a feeling there's something fishy somewhere.”

“Fishy?”

“Yes. Bogus. Don't ask me why. I haven't any reason. Sort of feeling one gets sometimes. Had it once about my port oil. Began fussing about the damned thing and sure enough there was a washer wedged in the spare gear pump.”

The technical terms in which this was couched made it quite unintelligible to Victoria, but she got the main idea.

“You think
he's
bogus—Rathbone?”

“Don't see how he can be. I mean he's frightfully respectable and learned and belongs to all these societies—and sort of hobnobs with Archbishops and Principals of Colleges. No, it's just a
feeling
—well, time will show. So long. I wish you were coming, too.”

“So do I,” said Victoria.

“What are you going to do?”

“Go round to St. Guildric's Agency in Gower Street and look for another job,” said Victoria gloomily.

“Good-bye, Victoria. Partir, say mourir un peu,” added Edward with a very British accent. “These French johnnies know their stuff. Our English chaps just maunder on about parting being a sweet sorrow—silly asses.”

“Good-bye, Edward, good luck.”

“I don't suppose you'll ever think about me again.”

“Yes, I shall.”

“You're absolutely different from any girl I've ever seen before—I only wish—” The clock chimed a quarter, and Edward said, “Oh hell—I must fly—”

Retreating rapidly, he was swallowed up by the great maw of London. Victoria remaining behind on her seat absorbed in meditation was conscious of two distinct streams of thought.

One dealt with the theme of Romeo and Juliet. She and Edward, she felt, were somewhat in the position of that unhappy couple, although perhaps Romeo and Juliet had expressed their feelings in rather more high-class language. But the position, Victoria thought, was the same. Meeting, instant attraction—frustration—two fond hearts thrust asunder. A remembrance of a rhyme once frequently recited by her old nurse came to her mind:

Substitute Baghdad for America and there you were!

Victoria rose at last, dusting crumbs from her lap, and walked briskly out of FitzJames Gardens in the direction of Gower Street. Victoria had come to two decisions: the first was that (like Juliet) she loved this young man, and meant to have him.

The second decision that Victoria had come to was that as Edward would shortly be in Baghdad, the only thing to do was for her to go to Baghdad also. What was now occupying her mind was how this could be accomplished. That it could be accomplished
somehow or other, Victoria did not doubt. She was a young woman of optimism and force of character.

Parting is such sweet sorrow
appealed to her as a sentiment no more than it did to Edward.

“Somehow,” said Victoria to herself, “I've
got
to get to Baghdad!”

I

T
he Savoy Hotel welcomed Miss Anna Scheele with the
empressement
due to an old and valued client—they inquired after the health of Mr. Morganthal—and assured her that if her suite was not to her liking she had only to say so—for Anna Scheele represented DOLLARS.

Miss Scheele bathed, dressed, made a telephone call to a Kensington number and then went down in the lift. She passed through the revolving doors and asked for a taxi. It drew up and she got in and directed it to Cartier's in Bond Street.

As the taxi turned out of the Savoy approach into the Strand a little dark man who had been standing looking into a shop window suddenly glanced at his watch and hailed a taxi that was conveniently cruising past and which had been singularly blind to the hails of an agitated woman with parcels a moment or two previously.

The taxi followed along the Strand keeping the first taxi in
sight. As they were both held up by the lights in going round Trafalgar Square, the man in the second taxi looked out of the left-hand window and made a slight gesture with his hand. A private car, which had been standing in the side street by the Admiralty Arch started its engine and swung into the stream of traffic behind the second taxi.

The traffic had started on again. As Anna Scheele's taxi followed the stream of traffic going to the left into Pall Mall, the taxi containing the little dark man swung away to the right, continuing round Trafalgar Square. The private car, a grey Standard, was now close behind Anna Scheele. It contained two passengers, a fair rather vacant-looking young man at the wheel and a smartly dressed young woman beside him. The Standard followed Anna Scheele's taxi along Piccadilly and up Bond Street. Here for a moment it paused by the kerb, and the young woman got out.

She called brightly and conventionally.

“Thanks so much.”

The car went on. The young woman walked along glancing every now and again into a window. A block held up the traffic. The young woman passed both the Standard and Anna Scheele's taxi. She arrived at Cartier's and went inside.

Anna Scheele paid off her taxi and went into the jeweller's. She spent some time looking at various pieces of jewellery. In the end she selected a sapphire and diamond ring. She wrote a cheque for it on a London bank. At the sight of the name on it, a little extra
empressement
came into the assistant's manner.

“Glad to see you in London again, Miss Scheele. Is Mr. Morganthal over?”

“No.”

“I wondered. We have a very fine star sapphire here—I know he is interested in star sapphires. If you would care to see it?”

Miss Scheele expressed her willingness to see it, duly admired it and promised to mention it to Mr. Morganthal.

She went out again into Bond Street, and the young woman who had been looking at clip earrings expressed herself as unable to make up her mind and emerged also.

The grey Standard car having turned to the left in Grafton Street and gone down to Piccadilly was just coming up Bond Street again. The young woman showed no signs of recognition.

Anna Scheele had turned into the Arcade. She entered a florist's. She ordered three dozen long stemmed roses, a bowl full of sweet big purple violets, a dozen sprays of white lilac, and a jar of mimosa. She gave an address for them to be sent.

“That will be twelve pounds, eighteen shillings, madam.”

Anna Scheele paid and went out. The young woman who had just come in asked the price of a bunch of primroses but did not buy them.

Anna Scheele crossed Bond Street and went along Burlington Street and turned into Savile Row. Here she entered the establishment of one of those tailors who, whilst catering essentially for men, occasionally condescend to cut a suit for certain favoured members of the feminine sex.

Mr. Bolford received Miss Scheele with the greeting accorded to a valued client, and the materials for a suit were considered.

“Fortunately, I can give you our own export quality. When will you be returning to New York, Miss Scheele?”

“On the twenty-third.”

“We can manage that nicely. By the clipper, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“And how are things in America? They are very sadly here—very sadly indeed.” Mr. Bolford shook his head like a doctor describing a patient. “No
heart
in things, if you know what I mean. And no one coming along who takes any pride in a good job of work. D'you know who will cut your suit, Miss Scheele? Mr. Lantwick—seventy-two years of age he is and he's the only man I've got I can really trust to cut for our best people. All the others—”

Mr. Bolford's plump hands waved them away.

“Quality,” he said. “That's what this country used to be renowned for. Quality! Nothing cheap, nothing flashy. When we try mass production we're no good at it, and that's a fact. That's
your
country's speciality, Miss Scheele. What
we
ought to stand for, and I say it again, is
quality.
Take time over things, and trouble, and turn out an article that no one in the world can beat. Now what day shall we say for the first fitting. This day week? At 11:30? Thank you very much.”

Making her way through the archaic gloom round bales of material, Anna Scheele emerged into daylight again. She hailed a taxi and returned to the Savoy. A taxi that was drawn up on the opposite side of the street and which contained a little dark man, took the same route but did not turn into the Savoy. It drove round to the Embankment and there picked up a short plump woman who had recently emerged from the service entrance of the Savoy.

“What about it, Louisa? Been through her room?”

“Yes. Nothing.”

Anna Scheele had lunch in the restaurant. A table had been kept for her by the window. The Maître d'Hôtel inquired affectionately after the health of Otto Morganthal.

After lunch Anna Scheele took her key and went up to her suite. The bed had been made, fresh towels were in the bathroom and everything was spick and span. Anna crossed to the two light aircases that constituted her luggage, one was open, the other locked. She cast an eye over the contents of the unlocked one, then taking her keys from her purse she unlocked the other. All was neat, folded, as she had folded things, nothing had apparently been touched or disturbed. A briefcase of leather lay on top. A small Leica camera and two rolls of films were in one corner. The films were still sealed and unopened. Anna ran her nail across the flap and pulled it up. Then she smiled, very gently. The single almost invisible blonde hair that had been there was there no longer. Deftly she scattered a little powder over the shiny leather of the briefcase and blew it off. The briefcase remained clear and shiny. There were no fingerprints. But that morning after patting a little brilliantine on to the smooth flaxen cap of her hair, she had handled the briefcase. There
should
have been fingerprints on it, her own.

She smiled again.

“Good work,” she said to herself. “But not quite good enough….”

Deftly, she packed a small overnight case and went downstairs again. A taxi was called and she directed the driver to 17 Elmsleigh Gardens.

Elmsleigh Gardens was a quiet, rather dingy Kensington Square. Anna paid off the taxi and ran up the steps to the peeling front door. She pressed the bell. After a few minutes an elderly woman opened the door with a suspicious face which immediately changed to a beam of welcome.

“Won't Miss Elsie be pleased to see you! She's in the study at
the back. It's only the thought of your coming that's been keeping her spirits up.”

Anna went quickly along the dark hallway and opened the door at the far end. It was a small shabby, comfortable room with large worn leather armchairs. The woman sitting in one of them jumped up.

“Anna, darling.”

“Elsie.”

The two women kissed each other affectionately.

“It's all arranged,” said Elsie. “I go in tonight. I do hope—”

“Cheer up,” said Anna. “Everything is going to be quite all right.”

II

The small dark man in the raincoat entered a public callbox at High Street Kensington Station, and dialled a number.

“Valhalla Gramophone Company?”

“Yes.”

“Sanders here.”

“Sanders of the River? What river?”

“River Tigris. Reporting on A. S. Arrived this morning from New York. Went to Cartier's. Bought sapphire and diamond ring costing one hundred and twenty pounds. Went to florist's, Jane Kent—twelve pounds eighteen shillings' worth of flowers to be delivered at a nursing home in Portland Place. Ordered coat and skirt at Bolford and Avory's. None of these firms known to have any suspicious contacts, but particular attention will be paid to them in future. A. S.'s room at Savoy gone through. Nothing sus
picious found. Briefcase in suitcase containing papers relating to Paper Merger with Wolfensteins. All aboveboard. Camera and two rolls of apparently unexposed films. Possibility of films being photostatic records, substituted other films for them, but original films reported upon as being straightforward unexposed films. A. S. took small overnight case and went to sister at 17 Elmsleigh Gardens. Sister entering nursing home in Portland Place this evening for internal operation. This confirmed from nursing home and also appointment book of surgeon. Visit of A. S. seems perfectly aboveboard. Showed no uneasiness or consciousness of being followed. Understand she is spending tonight at nursing home. Has kept on her room at the Savoy. Return passage to New York by clipper booked for twenty-third.”

The man who called himself Sanders of the River paused and added a postscript off the record as it were.

“And if you ask what I think it's all a mare's nest! Throwing money about, that's all
she's
doing. Twelve pounds eighteen on flowers! I ask you!”