They Came to Baghdad Read online

  “What about Edward? Do I tell him?”

  “That I must leave to you. Theoretically, you’re to hold your tongue about what you’re doing to everybody. Practically!” His eyebrows went up quizzically. “You can put him in danger, too. There’s that aspect of it. Still, I gather he had a good record in the Air Force. I don’t suppose danger will worry him. Two heads are often better than one. So he thinks there’s something fishy about this ‘Olive Branch’ he’s working for? That’s interesting—very interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we think so, too,” said Dakin.

  Then he added:

  “Just two parting tips. First, if you don’t mind my saying so, don’t tell too many different kinds of lies. It’s harder to remember and live up to. I know you’re a bit of a virtuoso, but keep it simple, is my advice.”

  “I’ll remember,” said Victoria with becoming humility. “And what’s the other tip?”

  “Just keep your ears strained for any mention of a young woman called Anna Scheele.”

  “Who is she?”

  “We don’t know much about her. We could do with knowing a little more.”

  Fifteen

  I

  “Of course you must stay at the Consulate,” said Mrs. Cardew Trench. “Nonsense, my dear—you can’t stay at the Airport Hotel. The Claytons will be delighted. I’ve known them for years. We’ll send a wire and you can go down on tonight’s train. They know Dr. Pauncefoot Jones quite well.”

  Victoria had the grace to blush. The Bishop of Llangow, alias the Bishop of Languao was one thing, a real flesh and blood Dr. Pauncefoot Jones was quite another.

  “I suppose,” thought Victoria guiltily, “I could be sent to prison for that—false pretences or something.”

  Then she cheered herself up by reflecting that it was only if you attempted to obtain money by false statements that the rigours of the law were set in motion. Whether this was really so or not, Victoria did not know, being as ignorant of the law as most average people, but it had a cheering sound.

  The train journey had all the fascination of novelty—to Victoria’s idea the train was hardly an express—but she had begun to feel conscious of her Western impatience.

  A Consular car met her at the station and she was driven to the Consulate. The car drove in through big gates into a delightful garden and drew up before a flight of steps leading up to a balcony surrounding the house. Mrs. Clayton, a smiling energetic woman, came through the swinging wire mesh door to meet her.

  “We’re so pleased to see you,” she said. “Basrah’s really delightful this time of year and you oughtn’t to leave Iraq without seeing it. Luckily there’s no one much here just at the moment—sometimes we just don’t know where to turn so as to fit people in, but there’s no one here now except Dr. Rathbone’s young man who’s quite charming. You’ve just missed Richard Baker, by the way. He left before I got Mrs. Cardew Trench’s telegram.”

  Victoria had no idea who Richard Baker was—but it seemed fortunate he had left when he did.

  “He had been down to Kuwait for a couple of days,” continued Mrs. Clayton. “Now, that’s a place you ought to see—before it’s spoilt. I dare say it soon will be. Every place gets ruined sooner or later. What would you like first—a bath or some coffee?”

  “A bath, please,” said Victoria gratefully.

  “How’s Mrs. Cardew Trench? This is your room and the bathroom’s along here. Is she an old friend of yours?”

  “Oh no,” said Victoria truthfully. “I’ve only just met her.”

  “And I suppose she turned you inside out in the first quarter of an hour? She’s a terrific gossip as I expect you’ve gathered. Got quite a mania for knowing all about everybody. But she’s quite good company and a really first-class bridge player. Now are you sure you wouldn’t like some coffee or something first?”

  “No, really.”

  “Good—then I’ll see you later. Have you got everything you want?”

  Mrs. Clayton buzzed away like a cheerful bee, and Victoria took a bath, and attended to her face and her hair with the meticulous care of a young woman who is shortly going to be reunited to a young man who has taken her fancy.

  If possible, Victoria hoped to meet Edward alone. She did not think that he would make any tactless remarks—fortunately he knew her as Jones and the additional Pauncefoot would probably cause him no surprise. The surprise would be that she was in Iraq at all, and for that Victoria hoped that she could catch him alone even for a bare second or two.

  With this end in view, when she had put on a summer frock (for to her the climate of Basrah recalled a June day in London) she slipped out quietly through the wire door and took up her position on the balcony where she could intercept Edward when he arrived back from whatever he was doing—wrestling with the Customs officials, she presumed.

  The first arrival was a tall thin man with a thoughtful face, and as he came up the steps Victoria slipped round the corner of the balcony. As she did so, she actually saw Edward entering through a garden door that gave on to the riverbend.

  Faithful to the tradition of Juliet, Victoria leaned over the balcony and gave a prolonged hiss.

  Edward (who was looking, Victoria thought, more attractive than ever) turned his head sharply, looking about him.

  “Hist! Up here,” called Victoria in a low voice.

  Edward raised his head, and an expression of utter astonishment appeared on his face.

  “Good Lord,” he exclaimed. “It’s Charing Cross!”

  “Hush. Wait for me. I’m coming down.”

  Victoria sped round the balcony, down the steps and along round the corner of the house to where Edward had remained obediently standing, the expression of bewilderment still on his face.

  “I can’t be drunk so early in the day,” said Edward. “It is you?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” said Victoria happily and ungrammatically.

  “But what are you doing here? How did you get here? I thought I was never going to see you again.”

  “I thought so too.”

  “It’s really just like a miracle. How did you get here?”

  “I flew.”

  “Naturally you flew. You couldn’t have got here in time, otherwise. But I mean what blessed and wonderful chance brought you to Basrah?”

  “The train,” said Victoria.

  “You’re doing it on purpose, you little brute. God, I’m pleased to see you. But how did you get here—really?”

  “I came out with a woman who’d broken her arm—a Mrs. Clipp, an American. I was offered the job the day after I met you, and you’d talked about Baghdad, and I was a bit fed up with London, so I thought, well why not see the world?”

  “You really are awfully sporting, Victoria. Where’s this Clipp woman, here?”

  “No, she’s gone to a daughter near Kirkuk. It was only a journey-out job.”

  “Then what are you doing now?”

  “I’m still seeing the world,” said Victoria. “But it has required a few subterfuges. That’s why I wanted to get at you before we met in public, I mean, I don’t want any tactless references to my being a shorthand typist out of a job when you last saw me.”

  “As far as I’m concerned you’re anything you say you are. I’m ready for briefing.”

  “The idea is,” said Victoria, “that I am Miss Pauncefoot Jones. My uncle is an eminent archaeologist who is excavating in some more or less inaccessible place out here, and I am joining him shortly.”

  “And none of that is true?”

  “Naturally not. But it makes quite a good story.”

  “Oh yes, excellent. But suppose you and old Pussyfoot Jones come face to face?”

  “Pauncefoot. I don’t think that is likely. As far as I can make out once archaeologists start to dig, they go on digging like mad, and don’t stop.”

  “Rather like terriers. I say, there’s a lot in what you say. Has he got a real niece?”

  “How
should I know?” said Victoria.

  “Oh, then you’re not impersonating anybody in particular. That makes it easier.”

  “Yes, after all, a man can have lots of nieces. Or, at a pinch, I could say I’m only a cousin but that I always call him uncle.”

  “You think of everything,” said Edward admiringly. “You really are an amazing girl, Victoria. I’ve never met anyone like you. I thought I wouldn’t see you again for years, and when I did see you, you’d have forgotten all about me. And now here you are.”

  The admiring and humble glance which Edward cast on her caused Victoria intense satisfaction. If she had been a cat she would have purred.

  “But you’ll want a job, won’t you?” said Edward. “I mean, you haven’t come into a fortune or anything?”

  “Far from it! Yes,” said Victoria slowly, “I shall want a job. I went into your Olive Branch place, as a matter of fact, and saw Dr. Rathbone and asked him for a job, but he wasn’t very responsive—not to a salaried job, that is.”

  “The old beggar’s fairly tight with his money,” said Edward. “His idea is that everybody comes and works for the love of the thing.”

  “Do you think he’s a phoney, Edward?”

  “N-o. I don’t know exactly what I do think. I don’t see how he can be anything but on the square—he doesn’t make any money out of the show. So far as I can see all that terrific enthusiasm must be genuine. And yet, you know, I don’t really feel he’s a fool.”

  “We’d better go in,” said Victoria. “We can talk later.”

  II

  “I’d no idea you and Edward knew each other,” exclaimed Mrs. Clayton.

  “Oh we’re old friends,” laughed Victoria. “Only, as a matter of fact, we’d lost sight of each other. I’d no idea Edward was in this country.”

  Mr. Clayton, who was the quiet thoughtful-looking man Victoria had seen coming up the steps, asked:

  “How did you get on this morning, Edward? Any progress?”

  “It seems very uphill work, sir. The cases of books are there, all present and correct, but the formalities needed to clear them seem unending.”

  Clayton smiled.

  “You’re new to the delaying tactics of the East.”

  “The particular official who’s wanted, always seems to be away that day,” complained Edward. “Everyone is very pleasant and willing—only nothing seems to happen.”

  Everyone laughed and Mrs. Clayton said consolingly:

  “You’ll get them through in the end. Very wise of Dr. Rathbone to send someone down personally. Otherwise they’d probably stay here for months.”

  “Since Palestine, they are very suspicious about bombs. Also subversive literature. They suspect everything.”

  “Dr. Rathbone isn’t shipping bombs out here disguised as books, I hope,” said Mrs. Clayton, laughing.

  Victoria thought she caught a sudden flicker in Edward’s eye, as though Mrs. Clayton’s remark had opened up a new line of thought.

  Clayton said, with a hint of reproof: “Dr. Rathbone’s a very learned and well-known man, my dear. He’s a Fellow of various important Societies and is known and respected all over Europe.”

  “That would make it all the easier for him to smuggle in bombs,” Mrs. Clayton pointed with irrepressible spirits.

  Victoria could see that Gerald Clayton did not quite like this lighthearted suggestion.

  He frowned at his wife.

  Business being at a standstill during the midday hours, Edward and Victoria went out together after lunch to stroll about and see the sights. Victoria was delighted with the river, the Shatt el Arab, with its bordering of date palm groves. She adored the Venetian look of the high-prowed Arab boats tied up in the canal in the town. Then they wandered into the souk and looked at Kuwait bride-chests studded with patterned brass and other attractive merchandise.

  It was not until they turned towards the Consulate and Edward was preparing himself to assail the Customs department once more that Victoria said suddenly:

  “Edward, what’s your name?”

  Edward stared at her.

  “What on earth do you mean, Victoria?”

  “Your last name. Don’t you realize that I don’t know it.”

  “Don’t you? No, I suppose you don’t. It’s Goring.”

  “Edward Goring. You’ve no idea what a fool I felt going into that Olive Branch place and wanting to ask for you and not knowing anything but Edward.”

  “Was there a dark girl there? Rather long bobbed hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s Catherine. She’s awfully nice. If you’d said Edward she’d have known at once.”

  “I dare say she would,” said Victoria with reserve.

  “She’s a frightfully nice girl. Didn’t you think so?”

  “Oh quite….”

  “Not actually good-looking—in fact nothing much to look at, but she’s frightfully sympathetic.”

  “Is she?” Victoria’s voice was now quite glacial—but Edward apparently noticed nothing.

  “I don’t really know what I should have done without her. She put me in the picture and helped me out when I might have made a fool of myself. I’m sure you and she will be great friends.”

  “I don’t suppose we shall have the opportunity.”

  “Oh yes, you will. I’m going to get you a job in the show.”

  “How are you going to manage that?”

  “I don’t know but I shall manage it somehow. Tell old Rattle-bones what a wonderful typist et cetera you are.”

  “He’ll soon find out that I’m not,” said Victoria.

  “Anyway, I shall get you into the Olive Branch somehow. I’m not going to have you beetling round on your own. Next thing I know, you’d be heading for Burma or darkest Africa. No, young Victoria, I’m going to have you right under my eyes. I’m not going to take any chances on your running out on me. I don’t trust you an inch. You’re too fond of seeing the world.”

  “You sweet idiot,” thought Victoria, “don’t you know wild horses wouldn’t drive me away from Baghdad!”

  Aloud she said: “Well, it would be quite fun to have a job at the Olive Branch.”

  “I wouldn’t describe it as fun. It’s all terribly earnest. As well as being absolutely goofy.”

  “And you still think there’s something wrong about it?”

  “Oh, that was only a wild idea of mine.”

  “No,” said Victoria thoughtfully, “I don’t think it was only a wild idea. I think it’s true.”

  Edward turned on her sharply.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Something I heard—from a friend of mine.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Just a friend.”

  “Girls like you have too many friends,” grumbled Edward. “You are a devil, Victoria. I love you madly and you don’t care a bit.”

  “Oh yes, I do,” said Victoria. “Just a little bit.”

  Then, concealing her delighted satisfaction, she asked:

  “Edward, is there anyone called Lefarge connected with the Olive Branch or with anything else?”

  “Lefarge?” Edward looked puzzled. “No, I don’t think so, Who is he?”

  Victoria pursued her inquiries.

  “Or anyone called Anna Scheele?”

  This time Edward’s reaction was very different. He turned on her abruptly, caught her by the arm and said:

  “What do you know about Anna Scheele?”

  “Ow! Edward, let go! I don’t know anything about her. I just wanted to know if you did.”

  “Where did you hear about her? Mrs. Clipp?”

  “No—not Mrs. Clipp—at least I don’t think so, but actually she talked so fast and so unendingly about everyone and everything that I probably wouldn’t remember if she mentioned her.”

  “But what made you think this Anna Scheele had anything to do with the Olive Branch?”

  “Has she?”

  Edward said slowly, �
�I don’t know…It’s all so—so vague.”

  They were standing outside the garden door to the Consulate. Edward glanced at his watch. “I must go and do my stuff,” he said. “Wish I knew some Arabic. But we’ve got to get together, Victoria. There’s a lot I want to know.”

  “There’s a lot I want to tell you,” said Victoria.

  Some tender heroine of a more sentimental age might have sought to keep her man out of danger. Not so, Victoria. Men, in Victoria’s opinion, were born to danger as the sparks fly upwards. Edward wouldn’t thank her for keeping him out of things. And, on reflection, she was quite certain that Mr. Dakin hadn’t intended her to keep him out of things.

  III

  At sunset that evening Edward and Victoria walked together in the Consulate garden. In deference to Mrs. Clayton’s insistence that the weather was wintry Victoria wore a woollen coat over her summer frock. The sunset was magnificent but neither of the young people noticed it. They were discussing more important things.

  “It began quite simply,” said Victoria, “with a man coming into my room at the Tio Hotel and getting stabbed.”

  It was not, perhaps, most people’s idea of a simple beginning. Edward stared at her and said: “Getting what?”

  “Stabbed,” said Victoria. “At least I think it was stabbed, but it might have been shot only I don’t think so because then I would have heard the noise of the shot. Anyway,” she added, “he was dead.”

  “How could he come into your room if he was dead?”

  “Oh Edward, don’t be stupid.”

  Alternately baldly and vaguely, Victoria told her story. For some mysterious reason Victoria could never tell of truthful occurrences in a dramatic fashion. Her narrative was halting and incomplete and she told it with the air of one offering a palpable fabrication.

  When she had come to the end, Edward looked at her doubtfully and said, “You do feel all right, Victoria, don’t you? I mean you haven’t had a touch of the sun or—a dream, or anything?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Because, I mean, it seems such an absolutely impossible thing to have happened.”