They Came to Baghdad

  The Baghdad plane left at three o’clock.

  Mrs. Pauncefoot Jones’ seat was right up in front. Victoria’s was in the tail, near the door, and across the aisle sat the fair young man who was her gaoler. Victoria had no chance of reaching the other woman or of introducing a message into any of her belongings.

  The flight was not a long one. For the second time, Victoria looked down from the air and saw the city outlined below her, the Tigris dividing it like a streak of gold.

  So she had seen it less than a month ago. How much had happened since then.

  In two days’ time the men who represented the two predominant ideologies of the world would meet here to discuss the future.

  And she, Victoria Jones, would have a part to play.

  II

  “You know,” said Richard Baker, “I’m worried about that girl.”

  Dr. Pauncefoot Jones said vaguely:

  “What girl?”

  “Victoria.”

  “Victoria?” Dr. Pauncefoot Jones peered about. “Where is—why, God bless me, we came back without her yesterday.”

  “I wondered if you’d noticed it,” said Richard.

  “Very remiss of me. I was so interested by that report of the Excavations at Tell Bamdar. Completely unsound stratification. Didn’t she know where to find the lorry?”

  “There was no question of her coming back here,” said Richard. “As a matter of fact, she isn’t Venetia Savile.”

  “Not Venetia Savile? How very odd. But I thought you said her Christian name was Victoria.”

  “It is. But she’s not an anthropologist. And she doesn’t know Emerson. As a matter of fact, the whole thing has been a—well—a misunderstanding.”

  “Dear me. That seems very odd.” Dr. Pauncefoot Jones reflected for some moments. “Very odd. I do hope—am I to blame? I know I am somewhat absentminded. The wrong letter, perhaps?”

  “I can’t understand it,” said Richard Baker, frowning and paying no attention to Dr. Pauncefoot Jones’ speculations. “She went off in a car with a young man, it seems, and she didn’t come back. What’s more, her baggage was there and she hadn’t bothered to open it. That seems to me very strange—considering the mess she was in. I’d have thought she’d be sure to doll herself up. And we agreed to meet here for lunch…No, I can’t understand it. I hope nothing’s happened to her.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think so for a moment,” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones comfortably. “I shall start going down in H. tomorrow. From the general plan I should say that would be the best chance of getting a record office. That fragment of tablet was very promising.”

  “They’ve kidnapped her once,” said Richard. “What’s to prevent their having kidnapped her again?”

  “Very improbable—very improbable,” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones. “The country’s really very settled nowadays. You said so yourself.”

  “If only I could remember the name of that man in some oil company. Was it Deacon? Deacon, Dakin? Something like that.”

  “Never heard of him,” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones. “I think I shall change over Mustafa and his gang to the northeast corner. Then we might extend Trench J—”

  “Would you mind awfully, sir, if I went into Baghdad again tomorrow?”

  Dr. Pauncefoot Jones, suddenly giving his colleague his full attention, stared at him.

  “Tomorrow? But we were there yesterday.”

  “I’m worried about that girl. I really am.”

  “Dear me, Richard, I had no idea there was anything of that kind.”

  “What kind?”

  “That you’d formed an attachment. That’s the worst of having women on a Dig—especially good-looking ones. I really did think we were safe with Sybil Muirfield the year before last, a really distressingly plain girl—and see what came of it! I ought to have listened to Claude in London—these Frenchmen always hit the nail on the head. He commented on her legs at the time—most enthusiastic about them. Of course this girl, Victoria Venetia, whatever her name is—most attractive and such a nice little thing. You’ve got good taste, Richard, I will admit that. Funny thing, she’s the first girl I’ve ever known you take any interest in.”

  “There’s nothing of that kind,” said Richard, blushing and looking even more supercilious than usual. “I’m just—er—worried about her. I must go back to Baghdad.”

  “Well, if you are going tomorrow,” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones, “you might bring back those extra picks. That fool of a driver forgot them.”

  III

  Richard started into Baghdad at early dawn and went straight to the Tio Hotel. Here he learnt that Victoria had not returned.

  “And it was all arranged that she was to have special dinner with me,” said Marcus. “And I kept her a very nice room. It is odd, is it not?”

  “Have you been to the Police?”

  “Ah no, my dear, it would not be nice, that. She might not like it. And I certainly would not like it.”

  After a little inquiry, Richard tracked down Mr. Dakin and called upon him in his office.

  His memory of the man had not played him false. He looked at the stooping figure, the indecisive face and the slight tremor of the hands. This man was no good! He apologized to Mr. Dakin if he was wasting his time but had he seen Miss Victoria Jones.

  “She called on me the day before yesterday.”

  “Can you give me her present address?”

  “She’s at the Tio Hotel, I believe.”

  “Her luggage is there, but she isn’t.”

  Mr. Dakin raised his eyebrows slightly.

  “She has been working with us on the Excavations at Tell Aswad,” explained Richard.

  “Oh I see. Well—I’m afraid I don’t know anything that can help you. She has several friends in Baghdad, I believe—but I don’t know her well enough to say who they are.”

  “Would she be at this Olive Branch?”

  “I don’t think so. You could ask.”

  Richard said: “Look here. I’m not leaving Baghdad until I find her.”

  He frowned at Mr. Dakin and strode out of the room.

  Mr. Dakin, as the door closed behind Richard, smiled and shook his head.

  “Oh Victoria,” he murmured reproachfully.

  Fuming into the Tio Hotel, Richard was met by a beaming Marcus.

  “She’s come back,” cried Richard eagerly.

  “No, no, it’s Mrs. Pauncefoot Jones. She arrives by plane today I have just heard. Dr. Pauncefoot Jones, he told me she was coming next week.”

  “He always gets dates wrong. What about Victoria Jones?”

  Marcus’s face went grave again.

  “No, I have heard nothing of her. And I do not like it, Mr. Baker. It is not nice. She is so young a girl. And so pretty. And so gay and charming.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Richard, flinching. “I’d better wait over and greet Mrs. Pauncefoot Jones, I suppose.”

  What on earth he wondered could have happened to Victoria.

  IV

  “You!” said Victoria with undisguised hostility.

  Ushered up to her room in the Babylonian Palace Hotel, the first person she saw was Catherine.

  Catherine nodded her head with equal venom.

  “Yes,” she said. “It is I. And now please go to bed. The doctor will soon arrive.”

  Catherine was dressed as a hospital nurse and she took her duties seriously, being obviously quite determined never to leave Victoria’s side. Victoria, lying disconsolately in bed, murmured:

  “If I could get hold of Edward—”

  “Edward—Edward!” said Catherine scornfully. “Edward has never cared for you, you stupid English girl. It is me whom Edward loves!”

  Victoria looked at Catherine’s stubborn fanatical face without enthusiasm.

  Catherine went on:

  “Always I have hated you from that first morning you came in and demanded to see Dr. Rathbone with such rudeness.”

  Searching about for an irritant,
Victoria said:

  “At any rate I’m much more indispensable than you are. Anybody could do your hospital nurse act. But the whole thing depends on me doing mine.”

  Catherine said with prim smugness:

  “Nobody is indispensable. We are taught that.”

  “Well I am. For goodness’ sake order up a substantial meal. If I don’t get something to eat, how do you expect me to give a good performance of an American banker’s secretary when the time comes?”

  “I suppose you might as well eat while you can,” said Catherine grudgingly.

  Victoria took no notice of the sinister implication.

  V

  Captain Crosbie said:

  “I understand you’ve got a Miss Harden just arrived.”

  The suave gentleman in the office of the Babylonian Palace inclined his head.

  “Yes, sir. From En gland.”

  “She’s a friend of my sister’s. Will you take my card up to her.”

  He pencilled a few words on the card and sent it up in an envelope.

  Presently the boy who had taken it returned.

  “The lady is not well, sir. Very bad throat. Doctor coming soon. She has hospital nurse with her.”

  Crosbie turned away. He went along to the Tio where he was accosted by Marcus.

  “Ah, my dear, let us have a drink. This evening my hotel is quite full. It is for the Conference. But what a pity, Dr. Pauncefoot Jones went back to his Expedition the day before yesterday and now here is his wife who arrives and expects that he will be here to meet her. And she is not pleased, no! She says she told him she was coming on this plane. But you know what he is like, that one. Every date, every time—he always gets it wrong. But he is a very nice man,” finished Marcus with his usual charity. “And I have had to squeeze her in somehow—I turn out a very important man from UNO—”

  “Baghdad seems quite mad.”

  “All the police they have drafted in—they are taking great precautions—they say—have you heard?—there is a Communist plot to assassinate the President. They have arrested sixty-five students! Have you seen the Russian policemen? They are very suspicious of everybody. But all this is very good for trade—very good indeed.”

  VI

  The telephone bell rang and was promptly answered.

  “American Embassy.”

  “This is the Babylonian Palace Hotel. Miss Anna Scheele is staying here.”

  Anna Scheele? Presently one of the Attachés was speaking. Could Miss Scheele come to the phone?

  “Miss Scheele is ill in bed with laryngitis. This is Dr. Smallbrook. I am attending Miss Scheele. She has some important papers with her and would like some responsible person from the Embassy to come and fetch them. Immediately? Thank you. I will be waiting for you.”

  VII

  Victoria turned from the mirror. She was wearing a well-cut tailored suit. Every blonde hair was in place. She felt nervous but exhilarated.

  As she turned, she caught the exultant gleam in Catherine’s eyes and was suddenly on her guard. Why was Catherine exultant?

  What was going on?

  “What are you so pleased about?” she asked.

  “Soon you will see.”

  The malice was quite unconcealed now.

  “You think you are so clever,” said Catherine scornfully. “You think everything depends on you. Pah, you are just a fool.”

  With a bound Victoria was upon her! She caught her by the shoulder and dug her fingers in.

  “Tell me what you mean, you horrible girl.”

  “Ach—you hurt me.”

  “Tell me—”

  A knock came on the door. A knock twice repeated and then after a pause, a single one.

  “Now you will see!” cried Catherine.

  The door opened and a man slipped in. He was a tall man, dressed in the uniform of the International Police. He locked the door behind him and removed the key. Then he advanced to Catherine.

  “Quickly,” he said.

  He took a length of thin cord from his pocket and, with Catherine’s full cooperation, bound her swiftly to a chair. Then he produced a scarf and tied it over her mouth. He stood back and nodded appreciatively.

  “So—that will do nicely.”

  Then he turned towards Victoria. She saw the heavy truncheon he was brandishing and in a moment it flashed across her brain what the real plan was. They had never intended that she should play the part of Anna Scheele at the Conference. How could they risk such a thing? Victoria was too well known in Baghdad? No, the plan was, had always been, that Anna Scheele should be attacked and killed at the last moment—killed in such a way that her features would not be recognizable…Only the papers she had brought with her—those carefully forged papers—would remain.

  Victoria turned away to the window—she screamed. And with a smile the man came at her.

  Then several things happened—there was a crash of broken glass—a heavy hand sent her headlong down—she saw stars—and blackness…Then out of the blackness a voice spoke, a reassuring English voice.

  “Are you all right, Miss?” it asked.

  Victoria murmured something.

  “What did she say?” asked a second voice.

  The first man scratched his head.

  “Said it was better to serve in Heaven than reign in Hell,” he said doubtfully.

  “That’s a quotation,” said the other. “But she’s got it wrong,” he added.

  “No, I haven’t,” said Victoria and fainted.

  VIII

  The telephone rang and Dakin picked up the receiver. A voice said:

  “Operation Victoria successfully concluded.”

  “Good,” said Dakin.

  “We’ve got Catherine Serakis and the medico. The other fellow threw himself off the balcony. He’s fatally injured.”

  “The girl’s not hurt?”

  “She fainted—but she’s OK.”

  “No news still of the real A. S.?”

  “No news whatever.”

  Dakin laid down the receiver.

  At any rate Victoria was all right—Anna herself, he thought, must be dead…She had insisted on playing a lone hand, had reiterated that she would be in Baghdad without fail on the 19th. Today was the 19th and there was no Anna Scheele. Perhaps she had been right not to trust the official setup—he didn’t know. Certainly there had been leakages—betrayals. But apparently her own native wits had served her no better….

  And without Anna Scheele, the evidence was incomplete.

  A messenger came in with a piece of paper on which was written Mr. Richard Baker and Mrs. Pauncefoot Jones.

  “I can’t see anybody now,” said Dakin. “Tell them I am very sorry. I am engaged.”

  The messenger withdrew, but presently he returned. He handed Dakin a note.

  Dakin tore open the envelope and read:

  “I want to see you about Henry Carmichael. R. B.”

  “Show him in,” said Dakin.

  Presently Richard Baker and Mrs. Pauncefoot Jones came in. Richard Baker said:

  “I don’t want to take up your time, but I was at school with a man called Henry Carmichael. We lost sight of each other for many years, but when I was at Basrah a few weeks ago I encountered him in the Consulate waiting room. He was dressed as an Arab, and without giving any overt sign of recognition, he managed to communicate with me. Does this interest you?”

  “It interests me very much,” said Dakin.

  “I formed the idea that Carmichael believed himself to be in danger. This was very soon verified. He was attacked by a man with a revolver which I managed to knock up. Carmichael took to his heels but before he went, he slipped something into my pocket which I found later—it didn’t appear to be important—it seems to be just a ‘chit’—a reference for one Ahmed Mohammed. But I acted on the assumption that to Carmichael it was important.”

  “Since he gave me no instructions, I kept it carefully, believing that he would one day reclaim it. The o
ther day I learnt from Victoria Jones that he was dead. From other things she told me, I have come to the conclusion that the right person to deliver this object to is you.”

  He got up and placed a dirty sheet of paper with writing on it on Dakin’s desk.

  “Does this mean anything to you?”

  Dakin drew a deep sigh.

  “Yes,” he said. “It means more than you can possibly imagine.”

  He got up.

  “I’m deeply obliged to you, Baker,” he said. “Forgive my cutting this interview short, but there is a lot that I have to see to without wasting a minute.” He shook hands with Mrs. Pauncefoot Jones, saying, “I suppose you are joining your husband on his Dig. I hope you have a good season.”

  “It’s a good thing Pauncefoot Jones didn’t come into Baghdad with me this morning,” said Richard. “Dear old John Pauncefoot Jones doesn’t notice much that goes on, but he’d probably notice the difference between his wife and his wife’s sister.”

  Dakin looked with slight surprise at Mrs. Pauncefoot Jones. She said in a low pleasant voice.

  “My sister Elsie is still in England. I dyed my hair black and came out on her passport. My sister’s maiden name was Elsie Scheele. My name, Mr. Dakin, is Anna Scheele.”

  Twenty-four

  Baghdad was transformed. Police lined the streets—police drafted in from outside, the International Police. American and Russian Police stood side by side with impassive faces.

  Rumours were spreading the whole time—neither of the Great Ones was coming! Twice the Russian plane, duly escorted, landed—and proved to contain only a young Russian pilot!

  But at last the news went round that all was well. The President of the United States and the Russian Dictator were here, in Baghdad. They were in the Regent’s Palace.

  At last the historic Conference had begun.

  In a small anteroom certain events were taking place which might well alter the course of history. Like most momentous happenings, the proceedings were not at all dramatic.

  Doctor Alan Breck of the Harwell Atomic Institute contributed his quota of information in a small precise voice.

  Certain specimens had been left with him for analysis by the late Sir Rupert Crofton Lee. They had been acquired in the course of one of Sir Rupert’s journeys through China and Turkestan through Kurdistan to Iraq. Dr. Breck’s evidence then became severely technical. Metallic ores…high uranium content…Source of deposit not known exactly, since Sir Rupert’s notes and diaries had been destroyed during the war by enemy action.