They Came to Baghdad. Агата Кристи

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 empressément 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 air-cases 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 brief-case 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 brief-case and blew it off. The brief-case 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 brief-case. 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 arm-chairs. 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.’

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