They Came to Baghdad (8 page)

“Why, that's nothing at all. You've been very very kind to me. And travelling with dollars everything is easy for us. Mrs. Kitchin—the lady with the two cute children—is very anxious to go also, so I suggested you'd join up with her—if that suits you?”

So long as she saw the world, anything suited Victoria.

“That's fine, then you'd better get off right now.”

The afternoon at the Pyramids was duly enjoyable. Victoria, though reasonably fond of children, might have enjoyed it more without Mrs. Kitchin's offspring. Children when sightseeing is in progress are apt to be somewhat of a handicap. The youngest child became so fretful that the two women returned earlier from the expedition than they had meant to do.

Victoria threw herself on her bed with a yawn. She wished very much that she could stay a week in Cairo—perhaps go up the Nile. “And what would you use for money, my girl?” she asked herself witheringly. It was already a miracle that she was being transported to Baghdad free of charge.

And what, inquired a cold inward voice, are you going to do once you are landed in Baghdad with only a few pounds in your pocket?

Victoria waved that query aside. Edward must find her a job. Or failing that, she would find herself a job. Why worry?

Her eyes, dazzled with strong sunlight, closed gently.

A knock on the door, as she thought, roused her. She called “Come in,” then as there was no response, she got off the bed, crossed to the door and opened it.

But the knock had not been at her door, but at the next door down the passage. Another of the inevitable air hostesses, dark
haired and trim in her uniform, was knocking at Sir Rupert Crofton Lee's door. He opened it just as Victoria looked out.

“What's the matter now?”

He sounded annoyed and sleepy.

“I'm so sorry to disturb you, Sir Rupert,” cooed the air hostess, “but would you mind coming to the BOAC office? It's just three doors down the passage here. Just a small detail about the flight to Baghdad tomorrow.”

“Oh, very well.”

Victoria withdrew into her room. She was less sleepy now. She glanced at her watch. Only half past four. An hour and a half until Mrs. Clipp would be requiring her. She decided to go out and walk about Heliopolis. Walking, at least, required no money.

She powdered her nose and resumed her shoes. They felt rather full of feet. The visit to the Pyramids had been hard on her feet.

She came out of her room and walked along the corridor towards the main hall of the hotel. Three doors down she passed the BOAC office. It had a card announcing the fact nailed to the door. Just as she passed it, the door opened and Sir Rupert came out. He was walking fast and he overtook her in a couple of strides. He went on ahead of her, his cloak swinging, and Victoria fancied that he was annoyed about something.

Mrs. Clipp was in a somewhat petulant mood when Victoria reported for duty at six o'clock.

“I'm worried about the excess on my baggage, Miss Jones. I took it that I'd paid for that right through, but it seems that it's only paid until Cairo. We go on tomorrow by Iraqi Airways. My ticket is a through ticket, but not the excess baggage. Perhaps you'd go
and find out if that is really so? Because maybe I ought to change another traveller's cheque.”

Victoria agreed to make inquiries. She could not find the BOAC office at first, and finally located it in the far corridor—the other side of the hall—quite a big office. The other, she supposed, had been a small office only used during the afternoon siesta hours. Mrs. Clipp's fears about the excess baggage were found to be justified, which annoyed that lady very much.

O
n the fifth floor of a block of offices in the City of London are situated the offices of the Valhalla Gramophone Co. The man who sat behind the desk in that office was reading a book on economics. The telephone rang and he picked up the receiver. He said in a quiet unemotional voice:

“Valhalla Gramophone Co.”

“Sanders here.”

“Sanders of the River? What river?”

“River Tigris. Reporting as to A. S. We've lost her.”

There was a moment's silence. Then the quiet voice spoke again, with a steely note in it.

“Did I hear what you said correctly?”

“We've lost Anna Scheele.”

“No names. This is a very serious error on your part. How did it come about?”

“She went into that nursing home. I told you before. Her sister was having an operation.”

“Well?”

“The operation went off all right. We expected A. S. to return to the Savoy. She had kept on her suite. She didn't return. Watch had been kept on the nursing home and we were quite sure she hadn't left it. We assumed she was still there.”

“And she isn't?”

“We've just found out. She left there,
in an ambulance,
the day after the operation.”

“She deliberately fooled you?”

“Looks like it. I'd swear she didn't know she was being followed. We took every precaution. There were three of us and—”

“Never mind the excuses. Where did the ambulance take her?”

“To University College Hospital.”

“What have you learnt from the hospital?”

“That a patient was brought in accompanied by a hospital nurse. The hospital nurse must have been Anna Scheele. They've no idea where she went after she brought the patient in.”

“And the patient?”

“The patient knows nothing. She was under morphia.”

“So Anna Scheele walked out of University College Hospital dressed as a nurse and may now be anywhere?”

“Yes. If she goes back to the Savoy—”

The other interrupted.

“She won't go back to the Savoy.”

“Shall we check up on other hotels?”

“Yes, but I doubt if you'll get any result. That's what she'd expect you to do.”

“What instructions otherwise?”

“Check on the ports—Dover, Folkestone, etc. Check with air lines. In particular check all bookings to Baghdad by plane for the next fortnight. The passage won't be booked in her own name. Check up on all passengers of suitable age.”

“Her baggage is still at the Savoy. Perhaps she'll claim it.”

“She won't do anything of the sort.
You
may be a fool—she isn't! Does the sister know anything?”

“We're in contact with her special nurse at the home. Apparently the sister thinks A. S. is in Paris doing business for Morganthal and staying at the Ritz Hotel. She believed A. S. is flying home to States on 23rd.”

“In other words A. S. has told her nothing. She wouldn't. Check up on those air passages. It's the only hope. She's got to get to Baghdad—and air is the only way she can do it in time, and, Sanders—”

“Yes?”

“
No more failures.
This is your last chance.”

Y
oung Mr. Shrivenham of the British Embassy shifted from one foot to the other and gazed upwards as the plane zoomed over Baghdad aerodrome. There was a considerable dust storm in progress. Palm trees, houses, human beings were all shrouded in a thick brown haze. It had come on quite suddenly.

Lionel Shrivenham observed in a tone of deep distress:

“Ten to one they can't come down here.”

“What will they do?” asked his friend Harold.

“Go on to Basrah, I imagine. It's clear there, I hear.”

“You're meeting some kind of a VIP, aren't you?”

Young Mr. Shrivenham groaned again.

“Just my luck. The new Ambassador has been delayed coming out. Lansdowne, the Counsellor, is in England. Rice, the Oriental Counsellor, is ill in bed with gastric flu, dangerously high temperature. Best is in Tehran, and here am I, left with the whole bag of tricks. No end of a flap about this fellow. I don't know why. Even
the hush-hush boys are in a flap. He's one of these world travellers, always off somewhere inaccessible on a camel. Don't see why he's so important, but apparently he's absolutely the cat's whiskers, and I'm to conform to his slightest wish. If he gets carried on to Basrah he'll probably be wild. Don't know what arrangements I'd better lay on. Train up tonight? Or get the RAF to fly him up tomorrow?”

Mr. Shrivenham sighed again, as his sense of injury and responsibility deepened. Since his arrival three months ago in Baghdad he had been consistently unlucky. One more raspberry, he felt, would finally blight what might have been a promising career.

The plane swooped overhead once more.

“Evidently thinks he can't make it,” said Shrivenham, then added excitedly: “Hallo—I believe he's coming down.”

A few moments later and the plane had taxied sedately to its place and Shrivenham stood ready to greet the VIP.

His unprofessional eye noted “rather a pretty girl” before he sprang forward to greet the buccaneer-like figure in the swirling cloak.

“Practically fancy dress,” he thought to himself disapprovingly as he said aloud:

“Sir Rupert Crofton Lee? I'm Shrivenham of the Embassy.”

Sir Rupert, he thought, was slightly curt in manner—perhaps understandable after the strain of circling round the city uncertain whether a landing could be effected or not.

“Nasty day,” continued Shrivenham. “Had a lot of this sort of thing this year. Ah, you've got the bags. Then, if you'll follow me, sir, it's all laid on….”

As they left the aerodrome in the car, Shrivenham said:

“I thought for a bit that you were going to be carried on to
some other Airport, sir. Didn't look as though the pilot could make a landing. Came up suddenly, this dust storm.”

Sir Rupert blew out his cheeks importantly as he remarked:

“That would have been disastrous—quite disastrous. Had my schedule been jeopardized, young man, I can tell you the results would have been grave and far-reaching in the extreme.”

“Lot of cock,” thought Shrivenham disrespectfully. “These VIP's think their potty affairs are what makes the world go round.”

Aloud he said respectfully:

“I expect that's so, sir.”

“Have you any idea when the Ambassador will reach Baghdad?”

“Nothing definite as yet, sir.”

“I shall be sorry to miss him. Haven't seen him since—let me see, yes, India in 1938.”

Shrivenham preserved a respectful silence.

“Let me see, Rice is here, isn't he?”

“Yes, sir, he's Oriental Counsellor.”

“Capable fellow. Knows a lot. I'll be glad to meet him again.”

Shrivenham coughed.

“As a matter of fact, sir, Rice is on the sick list. They've taken him to hospital for observation. Violent type of gastroenteritis. Something a bit worse than the usual Baghdad tummy, apparently.”

“What's that?” Sir Rupert turned his head sharply. “Bad gastroenteritis—hm. Came on suddenly, did it?”

“Day before yesterday, sir.”

Sir Rupert was frowning. The rather affected grandiloquence of manner had dropped from him. He was a simpler man—and somewhat of a worried one.

“I wonder,” he said. “Yes, I wonder.”

Shrivenham looked politely inquiring.

“I'm wondering,” said Sir Rupert, “if it might be a case of Scheele's Green….”

Baffled, Shrivenham remained silent.

They were just approaching the Feisal Bridge, and the car swung off to the left towards the British Embassy.

Suddenly Sir Rupert leaned forward.

“Just stop a minute, will you?” he said sharply. “Yes, right-hand side. Where all those pots are.”

The car glided into the right-hand kerb and stopped.

It was a small native shop piled high with crude white clay pots and water jars.

A short stocky European who had been standing talking to the proprietor moved away towards the bridge as the car drew up. Shrivenham thought it was Crosbie of the I and P whom he had met once or twice.

Sir Rupert sprang from the car and strode up to the small booth. Picking up one of the pots, he started a rapid conversation in Arabic with the proprietor. The flow of speech was too fast for Shrivenham whose Arabic was as yet slow and painstaking and distinctly limited in vocabulary.

The proprietor was beaming, his hands flew wide, he gesticulated, he explained at length. Sir Rupert handled different pots, apparently asking questions about them. Finally he selected a narrow-mouthed water jar, tossed the man some coins and went back to the car.

“Interesting technique,” said Sir Rupert. “Been making them like this for thousands of years, same shape as in one of the hill districts in Armenia.”

His finger slipped down through the narrow aperture, twisting round and round.

“It's very crude stuff,” said Shrivenham unimpressed.

“Oh, no artistic merit! But interesting historically. See these indications of lugs here? You pick up many a historical tip from observation of the simple things in daily use. I've got a collection of them.”

The car turned in through the gates of the British Embassy.

Sir Rupert demanded to be taken straight to his room. Shrivenham was amused to note that, his lecture on the clay pot ended, Sir Rupert had left it nonchalantly in the car. Shrivenham made a point of carrying it upstairs and placing it meticulously upon Sir Rupert's bedside table.

“Your pot, sir.”

“Eh? Oh, thank you, my boy.”

Sir Rupert appeared distrait. Shrivenham left him after repeating that luncheon would be ready shortly and drinks awaited his choice.

When the young man had left the room, Sir Rupert went to the window and unfolded the small slip of paper that had been tucked into the mouth of the pot. He smoothed it out. There were two lines of writing on it. He read them over carefully, then set light to the paper with a match.

Then he summoned a servant.

“Yes, sir? I unpack for you, sir?”

“Not yet. I want to see Mr. Shrivenham—up here.”

Shrivenham arrived with a slightly apprehensive expression.

“Anything I can do, sir? Anything wrong?”

“Mr. Shrivenham, a drastic change has occurred in my plans. I can count upon your discretion, of course?”

“Oh, absolutely, sir.”

“It is some time since I was in Baghdad, actually I have not been here since the war. The hotels lie mainly on the other bank, do they not?”

“Yes, sir. In Rashid Street.”

“Backing on the Tigris?”

“Yes. The Babylonian Palace is the biggest of them. That's the more or less official hotel.”

“What do you know about a hotel called the Tio?”

“Oh, a lot of people go there. Food's rather good and it's run by a terrific character called Marcus Tio. He's quite an institution in Baghdad.”

“I want you to book me a room there, Mr. Shrivenham.”

“You mean—you're not going to stay at the Embassy?” Shrivenham looked nervously apprehensive. “But—but—it's all laid on, sir.”

“What is laid on can be laid off,” barked Sir Rupert.

“Oh, of course, sir. I didn't mean—”

Shrivenham broke off. He had a feeling that in the future someone was going to blame him.

“I have certain somewhat delicate negotiations to carry out. I learn that they cannot be carried out from the Embassy. I want you to book me a room tonight at the Tio Hotel and I wish to leave the Embassy in a reasonably unobtrusive manner. That is to say I do not want to drive up to the Tio in an Embassy car. I also require a seat booked on the plane leaving for Cairo the day after tomorrow.”

Shrivenham looked more dismayed still.

“But I understood you were staying five days—”

“That is no longer the case. It is imperative that I reach Cairo as soon as my business here is terminated. It would not be safe for me to remain longer.”

“Safe?”

A sudden grim smile transformed Sir Rupert's face. The manner which Shrivenham had been likening to that of a Prussian drill sergeant was laid aside. The man's charm became suddenly apparent.

“Safety hasn't usually been one of my preoccupations, I agree,” he said. “But in this case it isn't only my own safety I have to consider—my safety includes the safety of a lot of other people as well. So make those arrangements for me. If the air passage is difficult, apply for priority. Until I leave here tonight, I shall remain in my room.” He added, as Shrivenham's mouth opened in surprise, “Officially, I'm sick. Touch of malaria.” The other nodded. “So I shan't need food.”

“But surely we can send you up—”

“Twenty-four hours' fast is nothing to me. I've gone hungry longer than that on some of my journeys. You just do as I tell you.”

Downstairs Shrivenham was greeted by his colleagues and groaned in answer to their inquiries.

“Cloak and dagger stuff in a big way,” he said. “Can't quite make his grandiloquence Sir Rupert Crofton Lee out. Whether it's genuine or playacting. The swirling cloak and bandit's hat and all the rest of it. Fellow who'd read one of his books told me that although he's a bit of a self-advertiser, he really
has
done all these things and been to these places—but I don't know…Wish
Thomas Rice was up and about to cope. That reminds me, what's Scheele's Green?”

“Scheele's Green?” said his friend, frowning. “Something to do with wallpaper, isn't it? Poisonous. It's a form of arsenic, I think.”

“Cripes!” said Shrivenham, staring. “I thought it was a disease. Something like amoebic dysentery.”

“Oh, no, it's something in the chemical line. What wives do their husbands in with, or vice versa.”

Shrivenham had relapsed into startled silence. Certain disagreeable facts were becoming clear to him. Crofton Lee had suggested, in effect, that Thomas Rice, Oriental Counsellor to the Embassy, was suffering, not from gastroenteritis, but from arsenical poisoning. Added to that Sir Rupert had suggested that his own life was in danger, and his decision not to eat food and drink prepared in the kitchens of the British Embassy shook Shrivenham's decorous British soul to the core. He couldn't imagine what to make of it all.