They Came to Baghdad

by Agatha Christie

  “Well, it did happen,” said Victoria touchily.

  “And all that melodramatic stuff about world forces and mysterious secret installations in the heart of Tibet or Baluchistan. I mean, all that simply couldn’t be true. Things like that don’t happen.”

  “That’s what people always say before they’ve happened.”

  “Honest to God, Charing Cross—are you making all this up?”

  “No!” cried Victoria, exasperated.

  “And you’ve come down here looking for someone called Lefarge and someone called Anna Scheele—”

  “Whom you’ve heard of yourself,” Victoria put in. “You had heard of her hadn’t you?”

  “I’d heard the name—yes.”

  “How? Where? At the Olive Branch?”

  Edward was silent for some moments, then said:

  “I don’t know if it means anything. It was just—odd—”

  “Go on. Tell me.”

  “You see, Victoria. I’m so different from you. I’m not as sharp as you are. I just feel, in a queer kind of way, that things are wrong somehow—I don’t know why I think so. You spot things as you go along and deduce things from them. I’m not clever enough for that. I just feel vaguely that things are—well—wrong—but I don’t know why.”

  “I feel like that sometimes, too,” said Victoria. “Like Sir Rupert on the balcony of the Tio.”

  “Who’s Sir Rupert?”

  “Sir Rupert Crofton Lee. He was on the plane coming out. Very haughty and showing off. A VIP. You know. And when I saw him sitting out on the balcony at the Tio in the sun, I had that queer feeling you’ve just said of something being wrong, but not knowing what it was.”

  “Rathbone asked him to lecture to the Olive Branch, I believe, but he couldn’t make it. Flew back to Cairo or Damascus or somewhere yesterday morning, I believe.”

  “Well, go on about Anna Scheele.”

  “Oh, Anna Scheele. It was nothing really. It was just one of the girls.”

  “Catherine?” said Victoria instantly.

  “I believe it was Catherine now I think of it.”

  “Of course it was Catherine. That’s why you don’t want to tell me about it.”

  “Nonsense, that’s quite absurd.”

  “Well, what was it?”

  “Catherine said to one of the other girls, ‘When Anna Scheele comes, we can go forward. Then we take our orders from her—and her alone.’”

  “That’s frightfully important, Edward.”

  “Remember, I’m not even sure that was the name,” Edward warned her.

  “Didn’t you think it queer at the time?”

  “No, of course I didn’t. I thought it was just some female who was coming out to boss things. A kind of Queen Bee. Are you sure you’re not imagining all this, Victoria?”

  Immediately he quailed before the glance his young friend gave him.

  “All right, all right,” he said hastily. “Only you’ll admit the whole story does sound queer. So like a thriller—a young man coming in and gasping out one word that doesn’t mean anything—and then dying. It just doesn’t seem real.”

  “You didn’t see the blood,” said Victoria and shivered slightly.

  “It must have given you a terrible shock,” said Edward sympathetically.

  “It did,” said Victoria. “And then on top of it, you come along and ask me if I’m making it all up.”

  “I’m sorry. But you are rather good at making things up. The Bishop of Llangow and all that!”

  “Oh, that was just girlish joie de vivre,” said Victoria. “This is serious, Edward, really serious.”

  “This man, Dakin—is that his name?—impressed you as knowing what he was talking about?”

  “Yes, he was very convincing. But, look here, Edward, how do you know—”

  A hail from the balcony interrupted her.

  “Come in—you two—drinks waiting.”

  “Coming,” called Victoria.

  Mrs. Clayton, watching them coming towards the steps, said to her husband:

  “There’s something in the wind there! Nice couple of children—probably haven’t got a bean between them. Shall I tell you what I think, Gerald?”

  “Certainly, dear. I’m always interested to hear your ideas.”

  “I think that girl has come out here to join her uncle on his Dig simply and solely because of that young man.”

  “I hardly think so, Rosa. They were quite astonished to see each other.”

  “Pooh!” said Mrs. Clayton. “That’s nothing. He was astonished, I dare say.”

  Gerald Clayton shook his head at her and smiled.

  “She’s not an archaeological type,” said Mrs. Clayton. “They’re usually earnest girls with spectacles—and very often damp hands.”

  “My dear, you can’t generalize in that way.”

  “And intellectual and all that. This girl is an amiable nitwit with a lot of common sense. Quite different. He’s a nice boy. A pity he’s tied up with all this silly Olive Branch stuff—but I suppose jobs are hard to get. They should find jobs for these boys.”

  “It’s not so easy, dear, they do try. But you see, they’ve no training, no experience and usually not much habit of concentration.”

  Victoria went to bed that night in a turmoil of mixed feelings.

  The object of her quest was attained. Edward was found! She shuddered from the inevitable reaction. Do what she might a feeling of anticlimax persisted.

  It was partly Edward’s disbelief that made everything that had happened seem stagy and unreal. She, Victoria Jones, a little London typist, had arrived in Baghdad, had seen a man murdered almost before her eyes, had become a secret agent or something equally melodramatic, and had finally met the man she loved in a tropical garden with palms waving overhead, and in all probability not far from the spot where the original Garden of Eden was said to be situated.

  A fragment of a nursery rhyme floated through her head.

  How many miles to Babylon?

  Threescore and ten,

  Can I get there by candlelight?

  Yes, and back again.

  But she wasn’t back again—she was still in Babylon.

  Perhaps she would never get back—she and Edward in Babylon.

  Something she had meant to ask Edward—there in the garden. Garden of Eden—she and Edward—Ask Edward—but Mrs. Clayton had called—and it had gone out of her head—But she must remember—because it was important—It didn’t make sense—Palms—garden—Edward—Saracen Maiden—Anna Scheele—Rupert Crofton Lee—All wrong somehow—And if only she could remember—

  A woman coming towards her along a hotel corridor—a woman in a tailored suit—it was herself—but when the woman got near she saw the face was Catherine’s. Edward and Catherine—absurd! “Come with me,” she said to Edward, “we will find M. Lefarge—” And suddenly there he was, wearing lemon yellow kid gloves and a little pointed black beard.

  Edward had gone now and she was alone. She must get back from Babylon before the candles went out.

  And we are for the dark.

  Who said that? Violence, terror—evil—blood on a ragged khaki tunic. She was running—running—down a hotel corridor. And they were coming after her.

  Victoria woke with a gasp.

  IV

  “Coffee?” said Mrs. Clayton. “How do you like your eggs? Scrambled?”

  “Lovely.”

  “You look rather washed out. Not feeling ill?”

  “No, I didn’t sleep very well last night. I don’t know why. It’s a very comfortable bed.”

  “Turn the wireless on, will you, Gerald? It’s time for the news.”

  Edward came in just as the pips were sounding.

  “In the House of Commons last night, the Prime Minister gave fresh details of the cuts in dollar imports.

  “A report from Cairo announces that the body of Sir Rupert Crofton Lee has been taken from the Nile. (Victoria put down her coffee-cup sharpl
y, and Mrs. Clayton uttered an ejaculation.) Sir Rupert left his hotel after arriving by plane from Baghdad, and did not return to it that night. He had been missing for twenty-four hours when his body was recovered. Death was due to a stab wound in the heart and not to drowning. Sir Rupert was a renowned traveller, was famous for his travels through China and Baluchistan and was the author of several books.”

  “Murdered!” exclaimed Mrs. Clayton. “I think Cairo is worse than anyplace now. Did you know anything about all this, Gerry?”

  “I knew he was missing,” said Mr. Clayton. “It appears he got a note, brought by hand, and left the hotel in a great hurry on foot without saying where he was going.”

  “You see,” said Victoria to Edward after breakfast when they were alone together. “It is all true. First this man Carmichael and now Sir Rupert Crofton Lee. I feel sorry now I called him a show-off. It seems unkind. All the people who know or guess about this queer business are being got out of the way. Edward, do you think it will be me next?”

  “For Heaven’s sake don’t look so pleased by the idea, Victoria! Your sense of drama is much too strong. I don’t see why anyone should eliminate you because you don’t really know anything—but do, please, do, be awfully careful.”

  “We’ll both be careful. I’ve dragged you into it.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. Relieves the monotony.”

  “Yes, but take care of yourself.” She gave a sudden shiver.

  “It’s rather awful—he was so very much alive—Crofton Lee, I mean—and now he’s dead too. It’s frightening, really frightening.”

  Sixteen

  I

  “Find your young man?” asked Mr. Dakin.

  Victoria nodded.

  “Find anything else?”

  Rather mournfully, Victoria shook her head.

  “Well, cheer up,” said Mr. Dakin. “Remember, in this game, results are few and far between. You might have picked up something there—one never knows, but I wasn’t in any way counting on it.”

  “Can I still go on trying?” asked Victoria.

  “Do you want to?”

  “Yes, I do. Edward thinks he can get me a job at the Olive Branch. If I keep my ears and eyes open, I might find out something, mightn’t I? They know something about Anna Scheele there.”

  “Now that’s very interesting, Victoria. How did you learn that?”

  Victoria repeated what Edward had told her—about Catherine’s remark that when “Anna Scheele came” they would take their orders from her.

  “Very interesting,” said Mr. Dakin.

  “Who is Anna Scheele?” asked Victoria. “I mean, you must know something about her—or is she just a name?”

  “She’s more than a name. She’s confidential secretary to an American banker—head of an international banking firm. She left New York and came to London about ten days ago. Since then she’s disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? She’s not dead?”

  “If so, her dead body hasn’t been found.”

  “But she may be dead?”

  “Oh yes, she may be dead.”

  “Was she—coming to Baghdad?”

  “I’ve no idea. It would seem from the remarks of this young woman Catherine, that she was. Or shall we say—is—since as yet there’s no reason to believe she isn’t still alive.”

  “Perhaps I can find out more at the Olive Branch.”

  “Perhaps you can—but I must warn you once more to be very careful, Victoria. The organization you are up against is quite ruthless. I would much rather not have your dead body found floating down the Tigris.”

  Victoria gave a little shiver and murmured:

  “Like Sir Rupert Crofton Lee. You know that morning he was at the hotel here there was something odd about him—something that surprised me. I wish I could remember what it was….”

  “In what way—odd?”

  “Well—different.” Then in response to the inquiring look, she shook her head vexedly. “It will come back to me, perhaps. Anyway I don’t suppose it really matters.”

  “Anything might matter.”

  “If Edward gets me a job, he thinks I ought to get a room like the other girls in a sort of boardinghouse or paying guest place, not stay on here.”

  “It would create less surmise. Baghdad hotels are very expensive. Your young man seems to have his head screwed on the right way.”

  “Do you want to see him?”

  Dakin shook his head emphatically.

  “No, tell him to keep right away from me. You, unfortunately, owing to the circumstances on the night of Carmichael’s death, are bound to be suspect. But Edward is not linked with that occurrence or with me in any way—and that’s valuable.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” said Victoria. “Who actually did stab Carmichael? Was it someone who followed him here?”

  “No,” said Dakin slowly. “That couldn’t have been so.”

  “Couldn’t?”

  “He came in a gufa—one of those native boats—and he wasn’t followed. We know that because I had someone watching the river.”

  “Then it was someone—in the hotel?”

  “Yes, Victoria. And what is more someone in one particular wing of the hotel—for I myself was watching the stairs and no one came up them.”

  He watched her rather puzzled face and said quietly:

  “That doesn’t really give us very many names. You and I and Mrs. Cardew Trench, and Marcus and his sisters. A couple of elderly servants who have been here for years. A man called Harrison from Kirkuk against whom nothing is known. A nurse who works at the Jewish Hospital…It might be any of them—yet all of them are unlikely for one very good reason.”

  “What is that?”

  “Carmichael was on his guard. He knew that the peak moment of his mission was approaching. He was a man with a very keen instinct for danger. How did that instinct let him down?”

  “Those police that came—” began Victoria.

  “Ah, they came after—up from the street. They’d had a signal, I suppose. But they didn’t do the stabbing. That must have been done by someone Carmichael knew well, whom he trusted…or alternatively whom he judged negligible. If I only knew….”

  II

  Achievement brings with it its own anticlimax. To get to Baghdad, to find Edward, to penetrate the secrets of the Olive Branch: all this had appeared as an entrancing programme. Now, her objective attained, Victoria, in a rare moment of self-questioning, sometimes wondered what on earth she was doing! The rapture of reunion with Edward had come and gone. She loved Edward, Edward loved her. They were, on most days, working under the same roof—but thinking about it dispassionately, what on earth were they doing?

  By some means or other, sheer force of determination, or ingenious persuasion, Edward had been instrumental in Victoria’s being offered a meagrely-paid job at the Olive Branch. She spent most of her time in a small dark room with the electric light on, typing on a very faulty machine various notices and letters and manifestos of the milk and water programme of the Olive Branch activities. Edward had had a hunch there was something wrong about the Olive Branch. Mr. Dakin had seemed to agree with that view. She, Victoria, was here to find out what she could, but as far as she could see, there was nothing to find out! The Olive Branch activities dripped with the honey of international peace. Various gatherings were held with orangeade to drink and depressing edibles to go with it, and at these Victoria was supposed to act as quasi-hostess; to mix, to introduce, to promote general good feeling amongst various foreign nationals, who were inclined to stare with animosity at one another and wolf refreshments hungrily.

  As far as Victoria could see, there were no undercurrents, no conspiracies, no inner rings. All was aboveboard, mild as milk and water, and desperately dull. Various dark-skinned young men made tentative love to her, others lent her books to read which she skimmed through and found tedious. She had, by now, left the Tio Hotel and had taken up her quarters with some other
young women workers of various nationalities in a house on the west bank of the river. Amongst these young women was Catherine, and it seemed to Victoria that Catherine watched her with a suspicious eye, but whether this was because Catherine suspected her of being a spy on the activities of the Olive Branch or whether it was the more delicate matter of Edward’s affections, Victoria was unable to make up her mind. She rather fancied the latter. It was known that Edward had secured Victoria her job and several pairs of jealous dark eyes looked at her without undue affection.

  The fact was, Victoria thought moodily, that Edward was far too attractive. All these girls had fallen for him, and Edward’s engaging friendly manner to one and all did nothing to help. By agreement between them, Victoria and Edward were to show no signs of special intimacy. If they were to find out anything worth finding out, they must not be suspected of working together. Edward’s manner to her was the same as to any of the other young women, with an added shade of coldness.

  Though the Olive Branch itself seemed so innocuous Victoria had a distinct feeling that its head and founder was in a different category. Once or twice she was aware of Dr. Rathbone’s dark thoughtful gaze resting upon her and though she countered it with her most innocent and kitten-like expression, she felt a sudden throb of something like fear.

  Once, when she had been summoned to his presence (for explanation of a typing error), the matter went farther than a glance.

  “You are happy working with us, I hope?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, indeed, sir,” said Victoria, and added: “I’m sorry I make so many mistakes.”

  “We don’t mind mistakes. A soulless machine would be no use to us. We need youth, generosity of spirit, broadness of outlook.”

  Victoria endeavoured to look eager and generous.

  “You must love the work…love the object for which you are working…look forward to the glorious future. Are you truly feeling all that, dear child?”

  “It’s all so new to me,” said Victoria. “I don’t feel I have taken it all in yet.”

  “Get together—get together—young people everywhere must get together. That is the main thing. You enjoy your evenings of free discussion and comradeship?”