They Came to Baghdad

by Agatha Christie

  Miss Scheele bathed, dressed, made a telephone call to a Kensington number and then went down in the lift. She passed through the revolving doors and asked for a taxi. It drew up and she got in and directed it to Cartier’s in Bond Street.

  As the taxi turned out of the Savoy approach into the Strand a little dark man who had been standing looking into a shop window suddenly glanced at his watch and hailed a taxi that was conveniently cruising past and which had been singularly blind to the hails of an agitated woman with parcels a moment or two previously.

  The taxi followed along the Strand keeping the first taxi in sight. As they were both held up by the lights in going round Trafalgar Square, the man in the second taxi looked out of the left-hand window and made a slight gesture with his hand. A private car, which had been standing in the side street by the Admiralty Arch started its engine and swung into the stream of traffic behind the second taxi.

  The traffic had started on again. As Anna Scheele’s taxi followed the stream of traffic going to the left into Pall Mall, the taxi containing the little dark man swung away to the right, continuing round Trafalgar Square. The private car, a grey Standard, was now close behind Anna Scheele. It contained two passengers, a fair rather vacant-looking young man at the wheel and a smartly dressed young woman beside him. The Standard followed Anna Scheele’s taxi along Piccadilly and up Bond Street. Here for a moment it paused by the kerb, and the young woman got out.

  She called brightly and conventionally.

  “Thanks so much.”

  The car went on. The young woman walked along glancing every now and again into a window. A block held up the traffic. The young woman passed both the Standard and Anna Scheele’s taxi. She arrived at Cartier’s and went inside.

  Anna Scheele paid off her taxi and went into the jeweller’s. She spent some time looking at various pieces of jewellery. In the end she selected a sapphire and diamond ring. She wrote a cheque for it on a London bank. At the sight of the name on it, a little extra empressement came into the assistant’s manner.

  “Glad to see you in London again, Miss Scheele. Is Mr. Morganthal over?”

  “No.”

  “I wondered. We have a very fine star sapphire here—I know he is interested in star sapphires. If you would care to see it?”

  Miss Scheele expressed her willingness to see it, duly admired it and promised to mention it to Mr. Morganthal.

  She went out again into Bond Street, and the young woman who had been looking at clip earrings expressed herself as unable to make up her mind and emerged also.

  The grey Standard car having turned to the left in Grafton Street and gone down to Piccadilly was just coming up Bond Street again. The young woman showed no signs of recognition.

  Anna Scheele had turned into the Arcade. She entered a florist’s. She ordered three dozen long stemmed roses, a bowl full of sweet big purple violets, a dozen sprays of white lilac, and a jar of mimosa. She gave an address for them to be sent.

  “That will be twelve pounds, eighteen shillings, madam.”

  Anna Scheele paid and went out. The young woman who had just come in asked the price of a bunch of primroses but did not buy them.

  Anna Scheele crossed Bond Street and went along Burlington Street and turned into Savile Row. Here she entered the establishment of one of those tailors who, whilst catering essentially for men, occasionally condescend to cut a suit for certain favoured members of the feminine sex.

  Mr. Bolford received Miss Scheele with the greeting accorded to a valued client, and the materials for a suit were considered.

  “Fortunately, I can give you our own export quality. When will you be returning to New York, Miss Scheele?”

  “On the twenty-third.”

  “We can manage that nicely. By the clipper, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how are things in America? They are very sadly here—very sadly indeed.” Mr. Bolford shook his head like a doctor describing a patient. “No heart in things, if you know what I mean. And no one coming along who takes any pride in a good job of work. D’you know who will cut your suit, Miss Scheele? Mr. Lantwick—seventy-two years of age he is and he’s the only man I’ve got I can really trust to cut for our best people. All the others—”

  Mr. Bolford’s plump hands waved them away.

  “Quality,” he said. “That’s what this country used to be renowned for. Quality! Nothing cheap, nothing flashy. When we try mass production we’re no good at it, and that’s a fact. That’s your country’s speciality, Miss Scheele. What we ought to stand for, and I say it again, is quality. Take time over things, and trouble, and turn out an article that no one in the world can beat. Now what day shall we say for the first fitting. This day week? At 11:30? Thank you very much.”

  Making her way through the archaic gloom round bales of material, Anna Scheele emerged into daylight again. She hailed a taxi and returned to the Savoy. A taxi that was drawn up on the opposite side of the street and which contained a little dark man, took the same route but did not turn into the Savoy. It drove round to the Embankment and there picked up a short plump woman who had recently emerged from the service entrance of the Savoy.

  “What about it, Louisa? Been through her room?”

  “Yes. Nothing.”

  Anna Scheele had lunch in the restaurant. A table had been kept for her by the window. The Maître d’Hôtel inquired affectionately after the health of Otto Morganthal.

  After lunch Anna Scheele took her key and went up to her suite. The bed had been made, fresh towels were in the bathroom and everything was spick and span. Anna crossed to the two light aircases that constituted her luggage, one was open, the other locked. She cast an eye over the contents of the unlocked one, then taking her keys from her purse she unlocked the other. All was neat, folded, as she had folded things, nothing had apparently been touched or disturbed. A briefcase of leather lay on top. A small Leica camera and two rolls of films were in one corner. The films were still sealed and unopened. Anna ran her nail across the flap and pulled it up. Then she smiled, very gently. The single almost invisible blonde hair that had been there was there no longer. Deftly she scattered a little powder over the shiny leather of the briefcase and blew it off. The briefcase remained clear and shiny. There were no fingerprints. But that morning after patting a little brilliantine on to the smooth flaxen cap of her hair, she had handled the briefcase. There should have been fingerprints on it, her own.

  She smiled again.

  “Good work,” she said to herself. “But not quite good enough….”

  Deftly, she packed a small overnight case and went downstairs again. A taxi was called and she directed the driver to 17 Elmsleigh Gardens.

  Elmsleigh Gardens was a quiet, rather dingy Kensington Square. Anna paid off the taxi and ran up the steps to the peeling front door. She pressed the bell. After a few minutes an elderly woman opened the door with a suspicious face which immediately changed to a beam of welcome.

  “Won’t Miss Elsie be pleased to see you! She’s in the study at the back. It’s only the thought of your coming that’s been keeping her spirits up.”

  Anna went quickly along the dark hallway and opened the door at the far end. It was a small shabby, comfortable room with large worn leather armchairs. The woman sitting in one of them jumped up.

  “Anna, darling.”

  “Elsie.”

  The two women kissed each other affectionately.

  “It’s all arranged,” said Elsie. “I go in tonight. I do hope—”

  “Cheer up,” said Anna. “Everything is going to be quite all right.”

  II

  The small dark man in the raincoat entered a public callbox at High Street Kensington Station, and dialled a number.

  “Valhalla Gramophone Company?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sanders here.”

  “Sanders of the River? What river?”

  “River Tigris. Reporting on A. S. Arrived this morning from Ne
w York. Went to Cartier’s. Bought sapphire and diamond ring costing one hundred and twenty pounds. Went to florist’s, Jane Kent—twelve pounds eighteen shillings’ worth of flowers to be delivered at a nursing home in Portland Place. Ordered coat and skirt at Bolford and Avory’s. None of these firms known to have any suspicious contacts, but particular attention will be paid to them in future. A. S.’s room at Savoy gone through. Nothing suspicious found. Briefcase in suitcase containing papers relating to Paper Merger with Wolfensteins. All aboveboard. Camera and two rolls of apparently unexposed films. Possibility of films being photostatic records, substituted other films for them, but original films reported upon as being straightforward unexposed films. A. S. took small overnight case and went to sister at 17 Elmsleigh Gardens. Sister entering nursing home in Portland Place this evening for internal operation. This confirmed from nursing home and also appointment book of surgeon. Visit of A. S. seems perfectly aboveboard. Showed no uneasiness or consciousness of being followed. Understand she is spending tonight at nursing home. Has kept on her room at the Savoy. Return passage to New York by clipper booked for twenty-third.”

  The man who called himself Sanders of the River paused and added a postscript off the record as it were.

  “And if you ask what I think it’s all a mare’s nest! Throwing money about, that’s all she’s doing. Twelve pounds eighteen on flowers! I ask you!”

  Four

  I

  It says a good deal for the buoyancy of Victoria’s temperament that the possibility of failing to attain her objective did not for a moment occur to her. Not for her the lines about ships that pass in the night. It was certainly unfortunate that when she had—well—frankly—fallen for an attractive young man, that that young man should prove to be just on the verge of departure to a place distant some three thousand miles. He might so easily have been going to Aberdeen or Brussels, or even Birmingham.

  That it should be Baghdad, thought Victoria, was just her luck! Nevertheless, difficult though it might be, she intended to get to Baghdad somehow or other. Victoria walked purposefully along Tottenham Court Road evolving ways and means. Baghdad. What went on in Baghdad? According to Edward: “Culture.” Could she, in some way, play up culture? Unesco? Unesco was always sending people here, there and everywhere, sometimes to the most delectable places. But these were usually, Victoria reflected, superior young women with university degrees who had got into the racket early on.

  Victoria, deciding that first things came first, finally bent her steps to a travel agency, and there made her inquiries. There was no difficulty, it seemed, in travelling to Baghdad. You could go by air, by long sea to Basrah, by train to Marseilles and by boat to Beirut and across the desert by car. You could go via Egypt. You could go all the way by train if you were determined to do so, but visas were at present difficult and uncertain and were apt to have actually expired by the time you received them. Baghdad was in the sterling area and money therefore presented no difficulties. Not, that is to say, in the clerk’s meaning of the word. What it all boiled down to was that there was no difficulty whatsoever in getting to Baghdad so long as you had between sixty and a hundred pounds in cash.

  As Victoria had at this moment three pounds ten (less ninepence), an extra twelve shillings, and five pounds in the PO Savings Bank, the simple and straightforward way was out of the question.

  She made tentative queries as to a job as air hostess or stewardess, but these, she gathered, were highly coveted posts for which there was a waiting list.

  Victoria next visited St. Guildric’s Agency where Miss Spenser, sitting behind her efficient desk, welcomed her as one of those who were destined to pass through the office with reasonable frequency.

  “Dear me, Miss Jones, not out of a post again. I really hoped this last one—”

  “Quite impossible,” said Victoria firmly. “I really couldn’t begin to tell you what I had to put up with.”

  A pleasurable flush rose in Miss Spenser’s pallid cheek.

  “Not—” she began—“I do hope not—He didn’t seem to me really that sort of man—but of course he is a trifle gross—I do hope—”

  “It’s quite all right,” said Victoria. She conjured up a pale brave smile. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Oh, of course, but it’s the unpleasantness.”

  “Yes,” said Victoria. “It is unpleasant. However—” She smiled bravely again.

  Miss Spenser consulted her books.

  “The St. Leonard’s Assistance to Unmarried Mothers want a typist,” said Miss Spenser. “Of course, they don’t pay very much—”

  “Is there any chance,” asked Victoria brusquely, “of a post in Baghdad?”

  “In Baghdad?” said Miss Spenser in lively astonishment.

  Victoria saw she might as well have said in Kamchatka or at the South Pole.

  “I should very much like to get to Baghdad,” said Victoria.

  “I hardly think—in a secretary’s post you mean?”

  “Anyhow,” said Victoria. “As a nurse or a cook, or looking after a lunatic. Anyway at all.”

  Miss Spenser shook her head.

  “I’m afraid I can’t hold out much hope. There was a lady in yesterday with two little girls who was offering a passage to Australia.”

  Victoria waved away Australia.

  She rose. “If you did hear of anything. Just the fare out—that’s all I need.” She met the curiosity in the other woman’s eye by explaining—“I’ve got—er—relations out there. And I understand there are plenty of well-paid jobs. But of course, one has to get there first.

  “Yes,” repeated Victoria to herself as she walked away from St. Guildric’s Bureau. “One has to get there.”

  It was an added annoyance to Victoria that, as is customary, when one has had one’s attention suddenly focused on a particular name or subject, everything seemed to have suddenly conspired to force the thought of Baghdad onto her attention.

  A brief paragraph in the evening paper she bought stated that Dr. Pauncefoot Jones, the well-known archaeologist, had started excavation on the ancient city of Murik, situated a hundred and twenty miles from Baghdad. An advertisement mentioned shipping lines to Basrah (and thence by train to Baghdad, Mosul, etc.). In the newspaper that lined her stocking drawer, a few lines of print about students in Baghdad leapt to her eyes. The Thief of Baghdad was on at the local cinema, and in the high-class highbrow bookshop into whose window she always gazed, a New Biography of Haroun el Rashid, Caliph of Baghdad, was prominently displayed.

  The whole world, it seemed to her, had suddenly become Baghdad conscious. And until that afternoon at approximately 1:45 she had, for all intents and purposes never heard of Baghdad, and certainly never thought about it.

  The prospects of getting there were unsatisfactory, but Victoria had no idea of giving up. She had a fertile brain and the optimistic outlook that if you want to do a thing there is always some way of doing it.

  She employed the evening in drawing up a list of possible approaches. It ran:

  Try Foreign Office?

  Insert advertisement?

  Try Iraq Legation?

  What about date firms?

  Ditto shipping firms?

  British Council?

  Selfridge’s Information Bureau?

  Citizen’s Advice Bureau?

  None of them, she was forced to admit, seemed very promising. She added to the list:

  Somehow or other, get hold of a hundred pounds?

  II

  The intense mental efforts of concentration that Victoria had made overnight, and possibly the subconscious satisfaction at no longer having to be punctually in the office at nine a.m., made Victoria oversleep herself.

  She awoke at five minutes past ten, and immediately jumped out of bed and began to dress. She was just passing a final comb through her rebellious dark hair when the telephone rang.

  Victoria reached for the receiver.

  A positively agitated Miss Spenser
was at the other end.

  “So glad to have caught you, my dear. Really the most amazing coincidence.”

  “Yes?” cried Victoria.

  “As I say, really a startling coincidence. A Mrs. Hamilton Clipp—travelling to Baghdad in three days’ time—has broken her arm—needs someone to assist her on journey—I rang you up at once. Of course I don’t know if she has also applied to any other agencies—”

  “I’m on my way,” said Victoria. “Where is she?”

  “The Savoy.”

  “And what’s her silly name? Tripp?”

  “Clipp, dear. Like a paper clip, but with two P’s—I can’t think why, but then she’s an American,” ended Miss Spencer as if that explained everything.

  “Mrs. Clipp at the Savoy.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton Clipp. It was actually the husband who rang up.”

  “You’re an angel,” said Victoria. “Good-bye.”

  She hurriedly brushed her suit and wished it were slightly less shabby, recombed her hair so as to make it seem less exuberant and more in keeping with the role of ministering angel and experienced traveller. Then she took out Mr. Greenholtz’s recommendation and shook her head over it.

  We must do better than that, said Victoria.

  From a No. 19 bus, Victoria alighted at Green Park, and entered the Ritz Hotel. A quick glance over the shoulder of a woman reading in the bus had proved rewarding. Entering the writing room Victoria wrote herself some generous lines of praise from Lady Cynthia Bradbury who had been announced as having just left England for East Africa…“excellent in illness,” wrote Victoria, “and most capable in every way.…”

  Leaving the Ritz she crossed the road and walked a short way up Albemarle Street until she came to Balderton’s Hotel, renowned as the haunt of the higher clergy and of old-fashioned dowagers up from the country.

  In less dashing handwriting, and making neat small Greek “E’s, she wrote a recommendation from the Bishop of Llangow.