Cat Among the Pigeons

  Julia was a plain freckled child, with an intelligent forehead, and an air of good humour.

  The preliminaries were quickly gone through and Julia was despatched via Margaret to Miss Johnson, saying cheerfully as she went, “So long, Mum. Do be careful lighting that gas heater now that I’m not there to do it.”

  Miss Bulstrode turned smilingly to Mrs. Upjohn, but did not ask her to sit. It was possible that, despite Julia’s appearance of cheerful common sense, her mother, too, might want to explain that her daughter was highly strung.

  “Is there anything special you want to tell me about Julia?” she asked.

  Mrs. Upjohn replied cheerfully:

  “Oh no, I don’t think so. Julia’s a very ordinary sort of child. Quite healthy and all that. I think she’s got reasonably good brains, too, but I daresay mothers usually think that about their children, don’t they?”

  “Mothers,” said Miss Bulstrode grimly, “vary!”

  “It’s wonderful for her to be able to come here,” said Mrs. Upjohn. “My aunt’s paying for it, really, or helping. I couldn’t afford it myself. But I’m awfully pleased about it. And so is Julia.” She moved to the window as she said enviously, “How lovely your garden is. And so tidy. You must have lots of real gardeners.”

  “We had three,” said Miss Bulstrode, “but just now we’re shorthanded except for local labour.”

  “Of course the trouble nowadays,” said Mrs. Upjohn, “is that what one calls a gardener usually isn’t a gardener, just a milkman who wants to do something in his spare time, or an old man of eighty. I sometimes think—Why!” exclaimed Mrs. Upjohn, still gazing out of the window—“how extraordinary!”

  Miss Bulstrode paid less attention to this sudden exclamation than she should have done. For at that moment she herself had glanced casually out of the other window which gave on to the rhododendron shrubbery, and had perceived a highly unwelcome sight, none other than Lady Veronica Carlton-Sandways, weaving her way along the path, her large black velvet hat on one side, muttering to herself and clearly in a state of advanced intoxication.

  Lady Veronica was not an unknown hazard. She was a charming woman, deeply attached to her twin daughters, and very delightful when she was, as they put it, herself—but unfortunately at unpredictable intervals, she was not herself. Her husband, Major Carlton-Sandways, coped fairly well. A cousin lived with them, who was usually at hand to keep an eye on Lady Veronica and head her off if necessary. On Sports Day, with both Major Carlton-Sandways and the cousin in close attendance, Lady Veronica arrived completely sober and beautifully dressed and was a pattern of what a mother should be.

  But there were times when Lady Veronica gave her well-wishers the slip, tanked herself up and made a beeline for her daughters to assure them of her maternal love. The twins had arrived by train early today, but no one had expected Lady Veronica.

  Mrs. Upjohn was still talking. But Miss Bulstrode was not listening. She was reviewing various courses of action, for she recognized that Lady Veronica was fast approaching the truculent stage. But suddenly, an answer to prayer, Miss Chadwick appeared at a brisk trot, slightly out of breath. Faithful Chaddy, thought Miss Bulstrode. Always to be relied upon, whether it was a severed artery or an intoxicated parent.

  “Disgraceful,” said Lady Veronica to her loudly. “Tried to keep me away—didn’t want me to come down here—I fooled Edith all right. Went to have my rest—got out car—gave silly old Edith slip … regular old maid … no man would ever look at her twice … Had a row with police on the way … said I was unfit to drive car … nonshense … Going to tell Miss Bulstrode I’m taking the girls home—want ’em home, mother love. Wonderful thing, mother love—”

  “Splendid, Lady Veronica,” said Miss Chadwick. “We’re so pleased you’ve come. I particularly want you to see the new Sports Pavilion. You’ll love it.”

  Adroitly she turned Lady Veronica’s unsteady footsteps in the opposite direction, leading her away from the house.

  “I expect we’ll find your girls there,” she said brightly. “Such a nice Sports Pavilion, new lockers, and a drying room for the swim suits—” their voices trailed away.

  Miss Bulstrode watched. Once Lady Veronica tried to break away and return to the house, but Miss Chadwick was a match for her. They disappeared round the corner of the rhododendrons, headed for the distant loneliness of the new Sports Pavilion.

  Miss Bulstrode heaved a sigh of relief. Excellent Chaddy. So reliable! Not modern. Not brainy—apart from mathematics—but always a present help in time of trouble.

  She turned with a sigh and a sense of guilt to Mrs. Upjohn who had been talking happily for some time….

  “ … though, of course,” she was saying, “never real cloak and dagger stuff. Not dropping by parachute, or sabotage, or being a courier. I shouldn’t have been brave enough. It was mostly dull stuff. Office work. And plotting. Plotting things on a map, I mean—not the story telling kind of plotting. But of course it was exciting sometimes and it was often quite funny, as I just said—all the secret agents followed each other round and round Geneva, all knowing each other by sight, and often ending up in the same bar. I wasn’t married then, of course. It was all great fun.”

  She stopped abruptly with an apologetic and friendly smile.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been talking so much. Taking up your time. When you’ve got such lots of people to see.”

  She held out a hand, said good-bye and departed.

  Miss Bulstrode stood frowning for a moment. Some instinct warned her that she had missed something that might be important.

  She brushed the feeling aside. This was the opening day of summer term, and she had many more parents to see. Never had her school been more popular, more assured of success. Meadowbank was at its zenith.

  There was nothing to tell her that within a few weeks Meadowbank would be plunged into a sea of trouble; that disorder, confusion and murder would reign there, that already certain events had been set in motion….

  One

  REVOLUTION IN RAMAT

  About two months earlier than the first day of the summer term at Meadowbank, certain events had taken place which were to have unexpected repercussions in that celebrated girls’ school.

  In the Palace of Ramat, two young men sat smoking and considering the immediate future. One young man was dark, with a smooth olive face and large melancholy eyes. He was Prince Ali Yusuf, Hereditary Sheikh of Ramat, which, though small, was one of the richest states in the Middle East. The other young man was sandy haired and freckled and more or less penniless, except for the handsome salary he drew as private pilot to His Highness Prince Ali Yusuf. In spite of this difference in status, they were on terms of perfect equality. They had been at the same public school and had been friends then and ever since.

  “They shot at us, Bob,” said Prince Ali almost incredulously.

  “They shot at us all right,” said Bob Rawlinson.

  “And they meant it. They meant to bring us down.”

  “The bastards meant it all right,” said Bob grimly.

  Ali considered for a moment.

  “It would hardly be worthwhile trying again?”

  “We mightn’t be so lucky this time. The truth is, Ali, we’ve left things too late. You should have got out two weeks ago. I told you so.”

  “One doesn’t like to run away,” said the ruler of Ramat.

  “I see your point. But remember what Shakespeare or one of these poetical fellows said about those who run away living to fight another day.”

  “To think,” said the young Prince with feeling, “of the money that has gone into making this a Welfare State. Hospitals, schools, a Health Service—”

  Bob Rawlinson interrupted the catalogue.

  “Couldn’t the Embassy do something?”

  Ali Yusuf flushed angrily.

  “Take refuge in your Embassy? That, never. The extremists would probably storm the place—they wouldn’t respect diplomatic immunity. Be
sides, if I did that, it really would be the end! Already the chief accusation against me is of being pro-Western.” He sighed. “It is so difficult to understand.” He sounded wistful, younger than his twenty-five years. “My grandfather was a cruel man, a real tyrant. He had hundreds of slaves and treated them ruthlessly. In his tribal wars, he killed his enemies unmercifully and executed them horribly. The mere whisper of his name made everyone turn pale. And yet—he is a legend still! Admired! Respected! The great Achmed Abdullah! And I? What have I done? Built hospitals and schools, welfare, housing … all the things people are said to want. Don’t they want them? Would they prefer a reign of terror like my grandfather’s?”

  “I expect so,” said Bob Rawlinson. “Seems a bit unfair, but there it is.”

  “But why, Bob? Why?”

  Bob Rawlinson sighed, wriggled and endeavoured to explain what he felt. He had to struggle with his own inarticulateness.

  “Well,” he said. “He put up a show—I suppose that’s it really. He was—sort of—dramatic, if you know what I mean.”

  He looked at his friend who was definitely not dramatic. A nice quiet decent chap, sincere and perplexed, that was what Ali was, and Bob liked him for it. He was neither picturesque nor violent, but whilst in England people who are picturesque and violent cause embarrassment and are not much liked, in the Middle East, Bob was fairly sure, it was different.

  “But democracy—” began Ali.

  “Oh, democracy—” Bob waved his pipe. “That’s a word that means different things everywhere. One thing’s certain. It never means what the Greeks originally meant by it. I bet you anything you like that if they boot you out of here, some spouting hot air merchant will take over, yelling his own praises, building himself up into God Almighty, and stringing up, or cutting off the heads of anyone who dares to disagree with him in any way. And, mark you, he’ll say it’s a Democratic Government—of the people and for the people. I expect the people will like it too. Exciting for them. Lots of bloodshed.”

  “But we are not savages! We are civilized nowadays.”

  “There are different kinds of civilization … ” said Bob vaguely. “Besides—I rather think we’ve all got a bit of savage in us—if we can think up a good excuse for letting it rip.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” said Ali sombrely.

  “The thing people don’t seem to want anywhere, nowadays,” said Bob, “is anyone who’s got a bit of common sense. I’ve never been a brainy chap—well, you know that well enough, Ali—but I often think that that’s what the world really needs—just a bit of common sense.” He laid aside his pipe and sat in his chair. “But never mind all that. The thing is how we’re going to get you out of here. Is there anybody in the Army you can really trust?”

  Slowly, Prince Ali Yusuf shook his head.

  “A fortnight ago, I should have said ‘Yes.’ But now, I do not know … cannot be sure—”

  Bob nodded. “That’s the hell of it. As for this palace of yours, it gives me the creeps.”

  Ali acquiesced without emotion.

  “Yes, there are spies everywhere in palaces … They hear everything—they—know everything.”

  “Even down in the hangars—” Bob broke off. “Old Achmed’s all right. He’s got a kind of sixth sense. Found one of the mechanics trying to tamper with the plane—one of the men we’d have sworn was absolutely trustworthy. Look here, Ali, if we’re going to have a shot at getting you away, it will have to be soon.”

  “I know—I know. I think—I am quite certain now—that if I stay I shall be killed.”

  He spoke without emotion, or any kind of panic: with a mild detached interest.

  “We’ll stand a good chance of being killed anyway,” Bob warned him. “We’ll have to fly out north, you know. They can’t intercept us that way. But it means going over the mountains—and at this time of year—”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve got to understand. It’s damned risky.”

  Ali Yusuf looked distressed.

  “If anything happened to you, Bob—”

  “Don’t worry about me, Ali. That’s not what I meant. I’m not important. And anyway, I’m the sort of chap that’s sure to get killed sooner or later. I’m always doing crazy things. No—it’s you—I don’t want to persuade you one way or the other. If a portion of the Army is loyal—”

  “I don’t like the idea of running away,” said Ali simply. “But I do not in the least want to be a martyr, and be cut to pieces by a mob.”

  He was silent for a moment or two.

  “Very well then,” he said at last with a sigh. “We will make the attempt. When?”

  Bob shrugged his shoulders.

  “Sooner the better. We’ve got to get you to the airstrip in some natural way … How about saying you’re going to inspect the new road construction out at Al Jasar? Sudden whim. Go this afternoon. Then, as your car passes the airstrip, stop there—I’ll have the bus all ready and tuned up. The idea will be to go up to inspect the road construction from the air, see? We take off and go! We can’t take any baggage, of course. It’s got to be all quite impromptu.”

  “There is nothing I wish to take with me—except one thing—”

  He smiled, and suddenly the smile altered his face and made a different person of him. He was no longer the modern conscientious Westernized young man—the smile held all the racial guile and craft which had enabled a long line of his ancestors to survive.

  “You are my friend, Bob, you shall see.”

  His hand went inside his shirt and fumbled. Then he held out a little chamois leather bag.

  “This?” Bob frowned and looked puzzled.

  Ali took it from him, untied the neck, and poured the contents on the table.

  Bob held his breath for a moment and then expelled it in a soft whistle.

  “Good lord. Are they real?”

  Ali looked amused.

  “Of course they are real. Most of them belonged to my father. He acquired new ones every year. I, too. They have come from many places, bought for our family by men we can trust—from London, from Calcutta, from South Africa. It is a tradition of our family. To have these in case of need.” He added in a matter-of-fact voice: “They are worth, at today’s prices, about three-quarters of a million.”

  “Three-quarters of a million pounds.” Bob let out a whistle, picked up the stones, let them run through his fingers. “It’s fantastic. Like a fairy tale. It does things to you.”

  “Yes.” The dark young man nodded. Again that age-long weary look was on his face. “Men are not the same when it comes to jewels. There is always a trail of violence to follow such things. Deaths, bloodshed, murder. And women are the worst. For with women it will not only be the value. It is something to do with the jewels themselves. Beautiful jewels drive women mad. They want to own them. To wear them round their throats, on their bosoms. I would not trust any woman with these. But I shall trust you.”

  “Me?” Bob stared.

  “Yes. I do not want these stones to fall into the hands of my enemies. I do not know when the rising against me will take place. It may be planned for today. I may not live to reach the airstrip this afternoon. Take the stones and do the best you can.”

  “But look here—I don’t understand. What am I to do with them?”

  “Arrange somehow to get them out of the country.”

  Ali stared placidly at his perturbed friend.

  “You mean, you want me to carry them instead of you?”

  “You can put it that way. But I think, really, you will be able to think of some better plan to get them to Europe.”

  “But look here, Ali, I haven’t the first idea how to set about such a thing.”

  Ali leaned back in his chair. He was smiling in a quietly amused manner.

  “You have common sense. And you are honest. And I remember, from the days when you were my fag, that you could always think up some ingenious idea … I will give you the name and address of a man who
deals with such matters for me—that is—in case I should not survive. Do not look so worried, Bob. Do the best you can. That is all I ask. I shall not blame you if you fail. It is as Allah wills. For me, it is simple. I do not want those stones taken from my dead body. For the rest—” he shrugged his shoulders. “It is as I have said. All will go as Allah wills.”

  “You’re nuts!”

  “No. I am a fatalist, that is all.”

  “But look here, Ali. You said just now I was honest. But three-quarters of a million … Don’t you think that might sap any man’s honesty?”

  Ali Yusuf looked at his friend with affection.

  “Strangely enough,” he said, “I have no doubt on that score.”

  Two

  THE WOMAN ON THE BALCONY

  I

  As Bob Rawlinson walked along the echoing marble corridors of the Palace, he had never felt so unhappy in his life. The knowledge that he was carrying three-quarters of a million pounds in his trousers pocket caused him acute misery. He felt as though every Palace official he encountered must know the fact. He felt even that the knowledge of his precious burden must show in his face. He would have been relieved to learn that his freckled countenance bore exactly its usual expression of cheerful good nature.

  The sentries outside presented arms with a clash. Bob walked down the main crowded street of Ramat, his mind still dazed. Where was he going? What was he planning to do? He had no idea. And time was short.

  The main street was like most main streets in the Middle East. It was a mixture of squalor and magnificence. Banks reared their vast newly built magnificence. Innumerable small shops presented a collection of cheap plastic goods. Babies’ bootees and cheap cigarette lighters were displayed in unlikely juxtaposition. There were sewing machines, and spare parts for cars. Pharmacies displayed flyblown proprietary medicines, and large notices of penicillin in every form and antibiotics galore. In very few of the shops was there anything that you could normally want to buy, except possibly the latest Swiss watches, hundreds of which were displayed crowded into a tiny window. The assortment was so great that even there one would have shrunk from purchase, dazzled by sheer mass.