They Came to Baghdad

by Agatha Christie

  “Oh! yes,” said Victoria, who loathed them.

  “Agreement, not dissension—brotherhood, not hatred. Slowly and surely it is growing—you do feel that, don’t you?”

  Victoria thought of the endless petty jealousies, the violent dislikes, the endless quarrels, hurt feelings, apologies demanded; and hardly knew what she was expected to say.

  “Sometimes,” she said cautiously, “people are difficult.”

  “I know…I know…” Dr. Rathbone sighed. His noble domed forehead furrowed itself in perplexity. “What is this I hear of Michael Rakounian striking Isaac Nahoum and cutting his lip open?”

  “They were just having a little argument,” said Victoria.

  Dr. Rathbone brooded mournfully.

  “Patience and faith,” he murmured. “Patience and faith.”

  Victoria murmured a dutiful assent and turned to leave. Then, remembering she had left her typescript, she came back again. The glance she caught in Dr. Rathbone’s eye startled her a little. It was a keen suspicious glance, and she wondered uneasily just how closely she was being watched, and what Dr. Rathbone really thought about her.

  Her instructions from Mr. Dakin were very precise. She was to obey certain rules for communicating with him if she had anything to report. He had given her an old faded pink handkerchief. If she had anything to report she was to walk, as she often did when the sun was setting along the riverbank, near her hostel. There was a narrow path in front of the houses there for perhaps a quarter of a mile. In one place a big flight of steps led down to the water’s edge and boats were constantly being tied up there. There was a rusty nail in one of the wooden posts at the top. Here she was to affix a small piece of the pink handkerchief if she wanted to get into communication with Dakin. So far, Victoria reflected bitterly, there had been no need for anything of the sort. She was merely doing an ill-paid job in a slovenly fashion. Edward she saw at rare intervals, since he was always being sent to far-off places by Dr. Rathbone. At the moment, he had just come back from Persia. During his absence, she had had one short and somewhat unsatisfactory interview with Dakin. Her instructions had been to go to the Tio Hotel and ask if she had left a cardigan behind. The answer having been in the negative, Marcus appeared and immediately swept her out on to the riverbank for a drink. During the process Dakin had shambled in from the street and had been hailed by Marcus to join them, and presently, as Dakin supped lemonade, Marcus had been called away and the two of them sat there on opposite sides of the small painted table.

  Rather apprehensively Victoria confessed her utter lack of success, but Dakin was indulgently reassuring.

  “My dear child, you don’t even know what you are looking for or even if there is anything to find. Taken by and large what is your considered opinion of the Olive Branch?”

  “It’s a thoroughly dim show,” said Victoria slowly.

  “Dim, yes. But not bogus?”

  “I don’t know,” said Victoria slowly. “People are so sold on the idea of culture if you know what I mean?”

  “You mean that where anything cultured is concerned, nobody examines bona fides in the way they would if it were a charitable or a financial proposition? That’s true. And you’ll find genuine enthusiasts there, I’ve no doubt. But is the organization being used?”

  “I think there’s a lot of Communist activity going on,” said Victoria doubtfully. “Edward thinks so too—he’s making me read Karl Marx and leave it about just to see what reactions there will be.”

  Dakin nodded.

  “Interesting. Any response so far?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “What about Rathbone? Is he genuine?”

  “I think really that he is—” Victoria sounded doubtful.

  “He’s the one I worry about, you see,” said Dakin. “Because he’s a big noise. Suppose there is a Communist plotting going on—students and young revolutionaries have very little chance of coming into contact with the President. Police measures will look after bombs thrown from the street. But Rathbone’s different. He’s one of the high-ups, a distinguished man with a fine record of public beneficence. He could come in close contact with the distinguished visitors. He probably will. I’d like to know about Rathbone.”

  Yes, Victoria thought to herself, it all centred round Rathbone. On the first meeting in London, weeks ago, Edward’s vague remarks about the “fishiness” of the show had had their origin in his employer. And there must, Victoria decided suddenly, have been some incident, some word, that had awakened Edward’s uneasiness. For that, in Victoria’s belief, was how minds worked. Your vague doubt or distrust was never just a hunch—it was really always due to a cause. If Edward, now, could be made to think back, to remember; between them they might hit upon the fact or incident that had aroused his suspicions. In the same way, Victoria thought, she herself must try to think back to what it was that had so surprised her when she came out upon the balcony at the Tio and found Sir Rupert Crofton Lee sitting there in the sun. It was true that she had expected him to be at the Embassy and not at the Tio Hotel but that was not enough to account for the strong feeling she had had that his sitting there was quite impossible! She would go over and over the events of that morning, and Edward must be urged to go over and over his early association with Dr. Rathbone. She would tell him so when next she got him alone. But to get Edward alone was not easy. To begin with he had been away in Persia and now that he was back, private communications at the Olive Branch were out of the question where the slogan of the last war (“Les oreilles enemies vous écoutent”) might have been written up all over the walls. In the Armenian household where she was a paying guest, privacy was equally impossible. Really, thought Victoria to herself, for all I see of Edward, I might as well have stayed in En gland!

  That this was not quite true was proved very shortly afterwards.

  Edward came to her with some sheets of manuscripts and said:

  “Dr. Rathbone would like this typed out at once, please, Victoria. Be especially careful of the second page, there are some rather tricky Arab names on it.”

  Victoria, with a sigh, inserted a sheet of paper in her typewriter and started off in her usual dashing style. Dr. Rathbone’s handwriting was not particularly difficult to read and Victoria was just congratulating herself that she had made less mistakes than usual. She laid the top sheet aside and proceeded to the next—and at once realized the meaning of Edward’s injunction to be careful of the second page. A tiny note in Edward’s handwriting was pinned to the top of it.

  Go for a walk along the Tigris bank past the Beit Melek Ali tomorrow morning about eleven.

  The following day was Friday, the weekly holiday. Victoria’s spirits rose mercurially. She would wear her jade-green pullover. She ought really to get her hair shampooed. The amenities of the house where she lived made it difficult to wash it herself. “And it really needs it,” she murmured aloud.

  “What did you say?” Catherine, at work on a pile of circulars and envelopes, raised her head suspiciously from the next table.

  Victoria quickly crumpled up Edward’s note in her hand as she said lightly:

  “My hair wants washing. Most of these hairdressing places look so frightfully dirty, I don’t know where to go.”

  “Yes, they are dirty and expensive too. But I know a girl who washes hair very well and the towels are clean. I will take you there.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Catherine,” said Victoria.

  “We will go tomorrow. It is holiday.”

  “Not tomorrow,” said Victoria.

  “Why not tomorrow?”

  A suspicious stare was bent upon her. Victoria felt her usual annoyance and dislike of Catherine rising.

  “I’d rather go for a walk—get some air. One is so cooped up here.”

  “Where can you walk? There is nowhere to walk in Baghdad.”

  “I shall find somewhere,” said Victoria.

  “It would be better to go to the cinema. Or is there
an interesting lecture?”

  “No, I want to get out. In En gland we like going for walks.”

  “Because you are English, you are so proud and stuck up. What does it mean to be English? Next to nothing. Here we spit upon the English.”

  “If you start spitting on me you may get a surprise,” said Victoria, wondering as usual at the ease with which angry passions seemed to rise at the Olive Branch.

  “What would you do?”

  “Try and see.”

  “Why do you read Karl Marx? You cannot understand it. You are much too stupid. Do you think they would ever accept you as a member of the Communist Party? You are not well enough educated politically.”

  “Why shouldn’t I read it? It was meant for people like me—workers.”

  “You are not a worker. You are bourgeoise. You cannot even type properly. Look at the mistakes you make.”

  “Some of the cleverest people can’t spell,” said Victoria with dignity. “And how can I work when you keep talking to me?”

  She rattled off a line at break-neck speed—and was then somewhat chagrined to find that as a result of unwittingly depressing the shift key, she had written a line of exclamation marks, figures and brackets. Removing the sheet from the machine she replaced it with another and applied herself diligently until, her task finished, she took the result in to Dr. Rathbone.

  Glancing over it and murmuring, “Shiraz is in Iran not Iraq—and anyway you don’t spell Iraq with a k…Wasit—not Wuzle—er—thank you, Victoria.”

  Then as she was leaving the room he called her back.

  “Victoria, are you happy here?”

  “Oh yes, Dr. Rathbone.”

  The dark eyes under the massive brows were very searching. She felt uneasiness rising.

  “I’m afraid we do not pay you very much.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Victoria. “I like to work.”

  “Do you really?

  “Oh yes,” said Victoria. “One feels,” she added, “that this sort of thing is really worthwhile.”

  Her limpid gaze met the dark searching eyes and did not falter.

  “And you manage—to live?”

  “Oh yes—I’ve found quite a good cheap place—with some Armenians. I’m quite all right.”

  “There is a shortage at present of shorthand typists in Baghdad,” said Dr. Rathbone. “I think, you know, that I could get you a better position than the one you have here.”

  “But I don’t want any other position.”

  “You might be wise to take one.”

  “Wise?” Victoria faltered a little.

  “That is what I said. Just a word of warning—of advice.”

  There was something faintly menacing now in his tone.

  Victoria opened her eyes still wider.

  “I really don’t understand, Dr. Rathbone,” she said.

  “Sometimes it is wiser not to mix oneself up in things one does not understand.”

  She felt quite sure of the menace this time, but she continued to stare in kitten-eyed innocence.

  “Why did you come and work here, Victoria? Because of Edward?”

  Victoria flushed angrily.

  “Of course not,” she said indignantly. She was much annoyed.

  Dr. Rathbone nodded his head.

  “Edward has his way to make. It will be many many years before he is in a position to be of any use to you. I should give up thinking of Edward if I were you. And, as I say, there are good positions to be obtained at present, with a good salary and prospects—and which will bring you amongst your own kind.”

  He was still watching her, Victoria thought, very closely. Was this a test? She said with an affectation of eagerness:

  “But I really am very keen on the Olive Branch, Dr. Rathbone.”

  He shrugged his shoulders then and she left him, but she could feel his eyes in the centre of her spine as she left the room.

  She was somewhat disturbed by the interview. Had something occurred to arouse his suspicions? Did he guess that she might be a spy placed in the Olive Branch to find out its secrets? His voice and manner had made her feel unpleasantly afraid. His suggestion that she had come there to be near Edward had made her angry at the time and she had vigorously denied it, but she realized now that it was infinitely safer that Dr. Rathbone should suppose her to have come to the Olive Branch for Edward’s sake than to have even an inkling that Mr. Dakin had been instrumental in the matter. Anyway, owing to her idiotic blush, Rathbone probably did think that it was Edward—so that all had really turned out for the best.

  Nevertheless she went to sleep that night with an unpleasant little clutch of fear at her heart.

  Seventeen

  I

  It proved fairly simple on the following morning for Victoria to go out by herself with few explanations. She had inquired about the Beit Melek Ali and had learnt it was a big house built right out on the river some way down the West Bank.

  So far Victoria had had very little time to explore her surroundings and she was agreeably surprised when she came to the end of the narrow street and found herself actually on the riverbank. She turned to her right and made her way slowly along the edge of the high bank. Sometimes the going was precarious—the bank had been eaten away and had not always been repaired or built-up again. One house had steps in front of it which, if you took one more, would land you in the river on a dark night. Victoria looked down at the water below and edged her way round. Then, for a while, the way was wide and paved. The houses on her right hand had an agreeable air of secrecy. They offered no hint as to their occupancy. Occasionally the central door stood open and peering inside Victoria was fascinated by the contrasts. On one such occasion she looked into a courtyard with a fountain playing and cushioned seats and deck chairs round it, with tall palms growing up and a garden beyond, that looked like the backcloth of a stage set. The next house, looking much the same outside, opened on a litter of confusion and dark passages, with five or six dirty children playing in rags. Then she came to palm gardens in thick groves. On her left she had passed uneven steps leading down to the river and an Arab boatman seated in a primitive rowing boat gesticulated and called, asking evidently if she wanted to be taken across to the other side. She must by now, Victoria judged, be just about opposite the Tio Hotel, though it was hard to distinguish differences in the architecture viewed from this side and the hotel buildings looked more or less alike. She came now to a road leading down through the palms and then to two tall houses with balconies. Beyond was a big house built right out on to the river with a garden and balustrade. The path on the bank passed on the inside of what must be the Beit Melek Ali or the House of King Ali.

  In a few minutes more Victoria had passed its entrance and had come to a more squalid part. The river was hidden from her by palm plantations fenced off with rusty barbed wire. On the right were tumbledown houses inside rough mudbrick walls, and small shanties with children playing in the dirt and clouds of flies hanging over garbage heaps. A road led away from the river and a car was standing there—a somewhat battered and archaic car. By the car, Edward was standing.

  “Good,” said Edward, “you’ve got here. Get in.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Victoria, entering the battered automobile with delight. The driver, who appeared to be an animate bundle of rags, turned round and grinned happily at her.

  “We’re going to Babylon,” said Edward. “It’s about time we had a day out.”

  The car started with a terrific jerk and bumped madly over the rude paving stones.

  “To Babylon?” cried Victoria. “How lovely it sounds. Really to Babylon?”

  The car swerved to the left and they were bowling along upon a well-paved road of imposing width.

  “Yes, but don’t expect too much. Babylon—if you know what I mean—isn’t quite what it was.”

  Victoria hummed.

  “How many miles to Babylon?

  Threescore and ten,

&nbs
p; Can I get there by candlelight?

  Yes, and back again.”

  “I used to sing that when I was a small child. It always fascinated me. And now we’re really going there!”

  “And we’ll get back by candlelight. Or we should do. Actually you never know in this country.”

  “This car looks very much as though it might break down.”

  “It probably will. There’s sure to be simply everything wrong with it. But these Iraqis are frightfully good at tying it up with string and saying Inshallah and then it goes again.”

  “It’s always Inshallah, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, nothing like laying the responsibility upon the Almighty.”

  “The road isn’t very good, is it?” gasped Victoria, bouncing in her seat. The deceptively well-paved and wide road had not lived up to its promise. The road was still wide but was now corrugated with ruts.

  “It gets worse later on,” shouted Edward.

  They bounced and bumped happily. The dust rose in clouds round them. Large lorries covered with Arabs tore along in the middle of the track and were deaf to all intimations of the horn.

  They passed walled-in gardens, and parties of women and children and donkeys and to Victoria it was all new and part of the enchantment of going to Babylon with Edward beside her.

  They reached Babylon bruised and shaken in a couple of hours. The meaningless pile of ruined mud and burnt brick was somewhat of a disappointment to Victoria, who expected something in the way of columns and arches, looking like pictures she had seen of Baalbek.

  But little by little her disappointment ebbed as they scrambled over mounds and lumps of burnt brick led by the guide. She listened with only half an ear to his profuse explanations, but as they went along the Processional Way to the Ishtar Gate, with the faint reliefs of unbelievable animals high on the walls, a sudden sense of the grandeur of the past came to her and a wish to know something about this vast proud city that now lay dead and abandoned. Presently, their duty to Antiquity accomplished, they sat down by the Babylonian Lion to eat the picnic lunch that Edward had brought with him. The guide moved away, smiling indulgently and telling them firmly that they must see the Museum later.