They Came to Baghdad. Агата Кристи

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      ‘One of the local sheikhs, I suppose,’ said Mrs Clayton. ‘They are so excitable and they do so love firearms.’

      ‘On the contrary,’ said Richard. ‘It was an Englishman. His intention seemed to be to take a potshot at an Arab.’ He added gently, ‘I knocked his arm up.’

      ‘So you were in it all,’ said Clayton. ‘I didn’t realize that.’ He fished a card out of his pocket. ‘Robert Hall, Achilles Works, Enfield, seems to be his name. I don’t know what he wanted to see me about. He wasn’t drunk, was he?’

      ‘He said it was a joke,’ said Richard drily, ‘and that the gun went off by accident.’

      Clayton raised his eyebrows.

      ‘Commercial travellers don’t usually carry loaded guns in their pockets,’ he said.

      Clayton, Richard thought, was no fool.

      ‘Perhaps I ought to have stopped him going away.’

      ‘It’s difficult to know what one should do when these things happen. The man he fired at wasn’t hurt?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Probably was better to let the thing slide, then.’

      ‘I wonder what was behind it?’

      ‘Yes, yes … I wonder too.’

      Clayton looked a little distrait.

      ‘Well, I must be getting back,’ he said and hurried away.

      Mrs Clayton took Richard into the drawing-room, a large inside room, with green cushions and curtains and offered him a choice of coffee or beer. He chose beer and it came deliciously iced.

      She asked him why he was going to Kuwait and he told her.

      She asked him why he hadn’t got married yet and Richard said he didn’t think he was the marrying kind, to which Mrs Clayton said briskly, ‘Nonsense.’ Archaeologists, she said, made splendid husbands—and were there any young women coming out to the Dig this season? One or two, Richard said, and Mrs Pauncefoot Jones of course.

      Mrs Clayton asked hopefully if they were nice girls who were coming out, and Richard said he didn’t know because he hadn’t met them yet. They were very inexperienced, he said.

      For some reason this made Mrs Clayton laugh.

      Then a short stocky man with an abrupt manner came in and was introduced as Captain Crosbie. Mr Baker, said Mrs Clayton, was an archaeologist and dug up the most wildly interesting things thousands of years old. Captain Crosbie said he never could understand how archaeologists were able to say so definitely how old these things were. Always used to think they must be the most awful liars, ha ha, said Captain Crosbie. Richard looked at him in a rather tired kind of way. No, said Captain Crosbie, but how did an archaeologist know how old a thing was? Richard said that that would take a long time to explain, and Mrs Clayton quickly took him away to see his room.

      ‘He’s very nice,’ said Mrs Clayton, ‘but not quite quite, you know. Hasn’t got any idea of culture.’

      Richard found his room exceedingly comfortable, and his appreciation of Mrs Clayton as a hostess rose still higher.

      Feeling in the pocket of his coat, he drew out a folded-up piece of dirty paper. He looked at it with surprise, for he knew quite well that it had not been there earlier in the morning.

      He remembered how the Arab had clutched him when he stumbled. A man with deft fingers might have slipped this into his pocket without his being aware of it.

      He unfolded the paper. It was dirty and seemed to have been folded and refolded many times.

      In six lines of rather crabbed handwriting, Major John Wilberforce recommended one Ahmed Mohammed as an industrious and willing worker, able to drive a lorry and do minor repairs and strictly honest—it was, in fact, the usual type of ‘chit’ or recommendation given in the East. It was dated eighteen months back, which again is not unusual as these chits are hoarded carefully by their possessors.

      Frowning to himself, Richard went over the events of the morning in his precise orderly fashion.

      Fakir Carmichael, he was now well assured, had been in fear of his life. He was a hunted man and he bolted into the Consulate. Why? To find security? But instead of that he had found a more instant menace. The enemy or a representative of the enemy had been waiting for him. This commercial traveller chap must have had very definite orders—to be willing to risk shooting Carmichael in the Consulate in the presence of witnesses. It must, therefore, have been very urgent. And Carmichael had appealed to his old school friend for help, and had managed to pass this seemingly innocent document into his possession. It must, therefore, be very important, and if Carmichael’s enemies caught up with him, and found that he no longer possessed this document, they would doubtless put two and two together and look for any person or persons to whom Carmichael might conceivably have passed it on.

      What then was Richard Baker to do with it?

      He could pass it on to Clayton, as His Britannic Majesty’s representative.

      Or he could keep it in his own possession until such time as Carmichael claimed it?

      After a few minutes’ reflection he decided to do the latter.

      But first he took certain precautions.

      Tearing a blank half sheet of paper off an old letter, he sat down to compose a reference for a lorry driver in much the same terms, but using different wording—if this message was a code that took care of that—though it was possible, of course, that there was a message written in some kind of invisible ink.

      Then he smeared his own composition with dust from his shoes—rubbed it in his hands, folded and refolded it—until it gave a reasonable appearance of age and dirt.

      Then he crumpled it up and put it into his pocket. The original he stared at for some time whilst he considered and rejected various possibilities.

      Finally, with a slight smile, he folded and refolded it until he had a small oblong. Taking a stick of plasticine (without which he never travelled) out of his bag, he first wrapped his packet in oilskin cut from his sponge-bag, then encased it in plasticine. This done he rolled and patted out the plasticine till he had a smooth surface. On this he rolled out an impression from a cylinder seal that he had with him.

      He studied the result with grim appreciation.

      It showed a beautifully carved design of the Sun God Shamash armed with the Sword of Justice.

      ‘Let’s hope that’s a good omen,’ he said to himself.

      That evening, when he looked in the pocket of the coat he had worn in the morning, the screwed-up paper had gone.

       CHAPTER 7

      Life, thought Victoria, life at last! Sitting in her seat at Airways Terminal there had come the magic moment when the words ‘Passengers СКАЧАТЬ