They Came to Baghdad

  “I suppose that’s just the beginning,” grunted Dr. Pauncefoot Jones. “We shall have visitors every day now.”

  He took a large flap of Arab bread and covered it thickly with apricot jam.

  Richard went to his room after tea. He had letters to answer, and others to write in preparation for going into Baghdad on the following day.

  Suddenly he frowned. Not a man of particular neatness to the outward view, he yet had a way of arranging his clothes and his papers that never varied. Now he saw at once that every drawer had been disturbed. It was not the servants, of that he was sure. It must be, then, that sick visitor who had made a pretext to go down to the house, had coolly ransacked through his belongings. Nothing was missing, he assured himself of that. His money was untouched. What, then, had they been looking for? His face grew grave as he considered the implications.

  He went to the Antika Room and looked into the drawer which held the seals and seal impressions. He gave a grim smile—nothing had been touched or removed. He went into the living room. Dr. Pauncefoot Jones was out in the courtyard with the foreman. Only Victoria was there, curled up with a book.

  Richard said, without preamble, “Somebody’s been searching my room.”

  Victoria looked up, astonished.

  “But why? And who?”

  “It wasn’t you?”

  “Me?” Victoria was indignant. “Of course not? Why should I want to pry among your things?”

  He gave her a hard stare. Then he said:

  “It must have been that damned stranger—the one who shammed sick and came down to the house.”

  “Did he steal something?”

  “No,” said Richard. “Nothing was taken.”

  “But why on earth should anyone—”

  Richard cut in to say:

  “I thought you might know that.”

  “Me?”

  “Well, by your own account, rather odd things have happened to you.”

  “Oh that—yes.” Victoria looked rather startled. She said slowly: “But I don’t see why they should search your room. You’ve got nothing to do with—”

  “With what?”

  Victoria did not answer for a moment or two. She seemed lost in thought.

  “I’m sorry,” she said at last. “What did you say? I wasn’t listening.”

  Richard did not repeat his question. Instead he asked:

  “What are you reading?”

  “You don’t have much choice of light fiction here. Tale of Two Cities, Pride and Prejudice and The Mill on the Floss. I’m reading the Tale of Two Cities.”

  “Never read it before?”

  “Never. I always thought Dickens would be stuffy.”

  “What an idea!”

  “I’m finding it most exciting.”

  “Where have you got to?” He looked over her shoulder and read out: “And the knitting women count One.”

  “I think she’s awfully frightening,” said Victoria.

  “Madame Defarge? Yes, a good character. Though whether you could keep a register of names in knitting has always seemed to me rather doubtful. But then, of course, I’m not a knitter.”

  “Oh I think you could,” said Victoria, considering the point. “Plain and purl—and fancy stitches—and the wrong stitch at intervals and dropped stiches. Yes—it could be done—camouflaged, of course, so that it looked like someone who was rather bad at knitting and made mistakes….”

  Suddenly, with a vividness like a flash of lightning, two things came together in her mind and affected her with the force of an explosion. A name—a visual memory. The man with the ragged hand-knitted red scarf clasped in his hands—the scarf she had hurriedly picked up later and flung into a drawer. And together with that name. Defarge—not Lefarge—Defarge, Madame Defarge.

  She was recalled to herself by Richard saying to her courteously:

  “Is anything the matter?”

  “No—no, that is, I just thought of something.”

  “I see.” Richard raised his eyebrows in his most supercilious way.

  Tomorrow, thought Victoria, they would all go in to Baghdad. Tomorrow her respite would be over. For over a week she had had safety, peace, time to pull herself together. And she had enjoyed that time—enjoyed it enormously. Perhaps I’m a coward, thought Victoria, perhaps that’s it. She had talked gaily about adventure, but she hadn’t liked it very much when it really came. She hated that struggle against chloroform and the slow suffocation, and she had been frightened, horribly frightened, in that upper room when the ragged Arab had said “Bukra.”

  And now she’d got to go back to it all. Because she was employed by Mr. Dakin and paid by Mr. Dakin and she had to earn her pay and show a brave front! She might even have to go back to the Olive Branch. She shivered a little when she remembered Dr. Rathbone and that searching dark glance of his. He’d warned her….

  But perhaps she wouldn’t have to go back. Perhaps Mr. Dakin would say it was better not—now that they knew about her. But she would have to go back to her lodgings and get her things because thrust carelessly into her suitcase was the red knitted scarf…She had bundled everything into suitcases when she left for Basrah. Once she had put that scarf into Mr. Dakin’s hands, perhaps her task would be done. He would say to her perhaps, like on the pictures: “Oh! Good show, Victoria.”

  She looked up to find Richard Baker watching her.

  “By the way,” he said, “will you be able to get hold of your passport tomorrow?”

  “My passport?”

  Victoria considered the position. It was characteristic of her that she had not as yet defined her plan of action as regards the Expedition. Since the real Veronica (or Venetia) would shortly be arriving from England, a retreat in good order was necessary. But whether she would merely fade away, or confess her deception with suitable penitence, or indeed what she intended to do, had not yet presented itself as a problem to be solved. Victoria was always prone to adopt the Micawber-like attitude that Something would Turn Up.

  “Well,” she said temporizing, “I’m not sure.”

  “It’s needed, you see, for the police of this district,” explained Richard. “They enter its number and your name and age and special distinguishing marks, etc., all the whole caboodle. As we haven’t got the passport, I think we ought at any rate to send your name and description to them. By the way, what is your last name? I’ve always called you ‘Victoria.’”

  Victoria rallied gallantly.

  “Come now,” she said. “You know my last name as well as Ido.”

  “That’s not quite true,” said Richard. His smile curved upwards with a hint of cruelty. “I do know your last name. It’s you, I think who don’t know it.”

  Through the glasses the eyes watched her.

  “Of course I know my own name,” snapped Victoria.

  “Then I’ll challenge you to tell it to me—now.”

  His voice was suddenly hard and curt.

  “It’s no good lying,” he said. “The game’s up. You’ve been very clever about it. You’ve read up your subject, you’ve brought out very telling bits of knowledge—but it’s the kind of imposture you can’t keep up all the time. I’ve laid traps for you and you’ve fallen into them. I’ve quoted bits of sheer rubbish to you and you’ve accepted them.” He paused. “You’re not Venetia Savile. Who are you?”

  “I told you who I was the first time I met you,” said Victoria. “I’m Victoria Jones.”

  “Dr. Pauncefoot Jones’ niece?”

  “I’m not his niece—but my name is Jones.”

  “You told me a lot of other things.”

  “Yes, I did. And they were all true! But I could see you didn’t believe me. And that made me mad, because though I do tell lies sometimes—in fact quite often—what I’d just told you wasn’t a lie. And so, just to make myself more convincing, I said my name was Pauncefoot Jones—I’ve said that before out here, and it’s always gone down frightfully well. How could I tell you were
actually coming to this place?”

  “It must have been a slight shock to you,” said Richard grimly. “You carried it off very well—cool as a cucumber.”

  “Not inside,” said Victoria. “I was absolutely shaking. But I felt that if I waited to explain until I got here—well at any rate I should be safe.”

  “Safe?” he considered the word. “Look here, Victoria, was that incredible rigmarole you told me about being chloroformed really true?”

  “Of course it was true! Don’t you see, if I wanted to make up a story I could make up a much better one than that, and tell it better!”

  “Knowing you a little more closely now, I can see the force of that! But you must admit that, on first hearing, the story was wildly improbable.”

  “But you are willing to think it’s possible now. Why?”

  Richard said slowly.

  “Because if, as you say, you were mixed up in Carmichael’s death—well, then it might be true.”

  “That’s what it all began with,” said Victoria.

  “You’d better tell me about it.”

  Victoria stared at him very hard.

  “I’m wondering,” she said, “if I can trust you.”

  “The boot is on the other leg! Do you realize that I’ve had grave suspicions that you’d planted yourself here under a false name in order to get information out of me? And perhaps that is what you are doing.”

  “Meaning that you know something about Carmichael that They would like to know?”

  “Who exactly are They?”

  “I shall have to tell you all about it,” said Victoria. “There isn’t any other way—and if you are one of Them you know it already, so it doesn’t matter.”

  She told him of the night of Carmichael’s death, of her interview with Mr. Dakin, of her journey to Basrah, her employment in the Olive Branch, of Catherine’s hostility, of Dr. Rathbone and his warning and of the final denouement, including this time the enigma of the dyed hair. The only things she left out were the red scarf and Madame Defarge.

  “Dr. Rathbone?” Richard seized on that point. “You think he’s mixed up in this? Behind it? But my dear girl, he’s a very important man. He’s known all over the world. Subscriptions pour in from all over the globe for his schemes.”

  “Wouldn’t he have to be all those things?” asked Victoria.

  “I’ve always regarded him as a pompous ass,” said Richard meditatively.

  “And that’s a very good camouflage, too.”

  “Yes—yes, I suppose it is. Who was Lefarge that you asked me about?”

  “Just another name,” said Victoria. “There’s Anna Scheele, too,” she said.

  “Anna Scheele? No, I’ve never heard of her.”

  “She’s important,” said Victoria. “But I don’t know exactly how or why. It’s all so mixed-up.”

  “Just tell me again,” said Richard. “Who’s the man who started you onto all this?”

  “Edwar—oh, you mean Mr. Dakin. He’s in Oil, I think.”

  “Is he a tired, stooping, rather vacant-looking chap?”

  “Yes—but he’s not really. Vacant, I mean.”

  “Doesn’t he drink?”

  “People say so, but I don’t think he does.”

  Richard sat back and looked at her.

  “Phillips Oppenheim, William Le Queux and several distinguished imitators since? Is this real? Are you real? And are you the persecuted heroine, or the wicked adventuress?”

  Victoria said in a practical manner:

  “The real point is, what are we going to say to Dr. Pauncefoot Jones about me?”

  “Nothing,” said Richard. “It won’t be necessary.”

  Twenty-one

  They started into Baghdad early. Victoria’s spirits felt curiously low. She had almost a lump in her throat as she looked back on the Expedition House. However, the acute discomfort entailed in the mad bumping of the lorry effectively distracted her mind from anything but the torture of the moment. It seemed strange to be driving along a so-called road again, passing donkeys and meeting dusty lorries. It took nearly three hours to reach the outskirts of Baghdad. The lorry decanted them at the Tio Hotel and then went off with the cook and the driver to do all the necessary shopping. A large bundle of mail was awaiting Dr. Pauncefoot Jones and Richard. Marcus appearing suddenly, massive and beaming, welcomed Victoria with his usual friendly radiance.

  “Ah,” he said, “it is a long time since I have seen you. You do not come to my hotel. Not for a week—two weeks. Why is that? You lunch here today, you have everything you want? The baby chickens? The big steak? Only not the turkey stuffed very special with flavouring and rice, because for that you must let me know the day before.”

  It seemed clear that as far as the Tio Hotel was concerned, the kidnapping of Victoria had not been noticed. Possibly Edward, on the advice of Mr. Dakin, had not been to the police.

  “Is Mr. Dakin in Baghdad, do you know, Marcus?” she asked.

  “Mr. Dakin—ah yes, very nice man—of course, he is friend of yours. He was here yesterday—no, day before. And Captain Crosbie, you know him? A friend of Mr. Dakin’s. He arrives today from Kermanshah.”

  “You know where Mr. Dakin’s office is?”

  “Sure I know. Everybody knows the Iraqi Iranian Oil Co.”

  “Well, I want to go there now. In a taxi. But I want to be sure the taxi knows where to take me.”

  “I tell him myself,” said Marcus obligingly.

  He escorted her to the head of the alleyway and yelled in his usual violent fashion. A startled minion arrived at a run. Marcus commanded him to procure a taxi. Then Victoria was escorted to the taxi and Marcus addressed the driver. Then he stepped back and waved a hand.

  “And I want a room,” said Victoria. “Can I have one?”

  “Yes, yes. I give you a beautiful room and I order you the big steak tonight I have—very special—some caviare. And before that we have a little drink.”

  “Lovely,” said Victoria. “Oh Marcus, can you lend me some money?”

  “Of course, my dear. Here you are. Take all you want.”

  The taxi started off with a violent honk and Victoria fell back on the seat clutching an assortment of coins and notes.

  Five minutes later Victoria entered the offices of the Iraqi Iranian Oil Co. and asked for Mr. Dakin.

  Mr. Dakin looked up from his desk where he was writing when Victoria was shown in. He rose and shook hands with her in a formal manner.

  “Miss—er—Miss Jones, isn’t it? Bring coffee, Abdullah.”

  As the soundproof door closed behind the clerk, he said quietly:

  “You shouldn’t really have come here, you know.”

  “I had to this time,” said Victoria. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you at once—before anything more happens to me.”

  “Happens to you? Has anything happened to you?”

  “Don’t you know?” asked Victoria. “Hasn’t Edward told you?”

  “As far as I know, you are still working at the Olive Branch. Nobody has told me anything.”

  “Catherine,” exclaimed Victoria.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “The cat Catherine! I bet she’s stuffed Edward up with some tale or other and the goop has believed her.”

  “Well, let’s hear about it,” said Mr. Dakin. “Er—if I may say so,” his eye went discreetly to Victoria’s blonde head, “I prefer you as a brunette.”

  “That’s only part of it,” said Victoria.

  There was a tap at the door and the messenger entered with two little cups of sweet coffee. When he had gone, Dakin said:

  “Now take your time and tell me all about it. We can’t be overheard here.”

  Victoria plunged into the story of her adventures. As always when she was talking to Dakin, she managed to be both coherent and concise. She finished her story with an account of the red scarf Carmichael had dropped and her association of it with Madame Defarge.

&n
bsp; Then she looked anxiously at Dakin.

  He had seemed to her when she came in, to be even more bowed and tired-looking. Now she saw a new glint come into his eye.

  “I should read my Dickens more often,” he said.

  “Then you do think I’m right? You think it was Defarge he said—and you think some message is knitted into the scarf?”

  “I think,” said Dakin, “that this is the first real break we’ve had—and we’ve got you to thank for it. But the important thing is the scarf. Where is it?”

  “With all the rest of my things. I shoved it into a drawer that night—and when I packed I remember bundling everything in without sorting or anything.”

  “And you’ve never happened to mention to anyone—to anyone at all—that that scarf belonged to Carmichael?”

  “No, because I’d forgotten all about it. I bundled it into a suitcase with some other things when I went to Basrah and I’ve never even opened the case since.”

  “Then it ought to be all right. Even if they’ve been through your things, they won’t have attached any importance to an old dirty woollen scarf—unless they were tipped off to it, which as far as I can see, is impossible. All we’ve got to do now is to have all your things collected and sent to you at—have you got anywhere to stay, by the way?”

  “I’ve booked a room at the Tio.”

  Dakin nodded.

  “Best place for you.”

  “Have I—do you want me—to go back to the Olive Branch?”

  Dakin looked at her keenly.

  “Scared?”

  Victoria stuck out her chin.

  “No,” she said with defiance. “I’ll go if you like.”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary—or even wise. However they learned it, I presume that someone there got wise to your activities. That being so, you wouldn’t be able to find out anything more, so you’d better stay clear.”

  He smiled.

  “Otherwise you may be a redhead next time I see you.”

  “That’s what I want to know most of all,” cried Victoria. “Why did they dye my hair? I’ve thought and I’ve thought and I can’t see any point in it. Can you?”