Agatha Christie - They Came to Baghdad

She noticed that the second man was a very bad colour, and that he dragged himself along without much interest. Presently he said, if Mademoiselle would excuse him, he would retire to the house. He had not felt well since early that morning – and the sun was making him worse.

He departed in the direction of the Expedition House, and the other, in suitably lowered tones explained that, unfortunately, it was his estomac . The Baghdad tummy they called it, did they not? He should not really have come out today.

The tour was completed, the Frenchman remained talking to Victoria, finally Fidos was called and Dr Pauncefoot Jones, with a determined air of hospitality suggested the guests should have tea before departing.

To this, however, the Frenchman demurred. They must not delay their departure until it was dark or they would never find the way. Richard Baker said immediately that this was quite right. The sick friend was retrieved from the house and the car rushed off at top speed.

‘I suppose that’s just the beginning,’ grunted Dr Pauncefoot Jones. ‘We shall have visitors every day now.’

He took a large flap of Arab bread and covered it thickly with apricot jam.

Richard went to his room after tea. He had letters to answer, and others to write in preparation for going into Baghdad on the following day.

Suddenly he frowned. Not a man of particular neatness to the outward view, he yet had a way of arranging his clothes and his papers that never varied. Now he saw at once that every drawer had been disturbed. It was not the servants, of that he was sure. It must be, then, that sick visitor who had made a pretext to go down to the house, had coolly ransacked through his belongings. Nothing was missing, he assured himself of that. His money was untouched. What, then, had they been looking for? His face grew grave as he considered the implications.

He went to the Antika Room and looked into the drawer which held the seals and seal impressions. He gave a grim smile – nothing had been touched or removed. He went into the living-room. Dr Pauncefoot Jones was out in the courtyard with the foreman. Only Victoria was there, curled up with a book.

Richard said, without preamble, ‘Somebody’s been searching my room.’

Victoria looked up, astonished.

‘But why? And who?’

‘It wasn’t you?’

‘Me?’ Victoria was indignant. ‘Of course not? Why should I want to pry among your things?’

He gave her a hard stare. Then he said:

‘It must have been that damned stranger – the one who shammed sick and came down to the house.’

‘Did he steal something?’

‘No,’ said Richard. ‘Nothing was taken.’

‘But why on earth should anyone –’

Richard cut in to say:

‘I thought you might know that.’

‘Me?’

‘Well, by your own account, rather odd things have happened to you .’

‘Oh that – yes.’ Victoria looked rather startled. She said slowly: ‘But I don’t see why they should search your room. You’ve got nothing to do with –’

‘With what?’

Victoria did not answer for a moment or two. She seemed lost in thought.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last. ‘What did you say? I wasn’t listening.’

Richard did not repeat his question. Instead he asked:

‘What are you reading?’

‘You don’t have much choice of light fiction here. Tale of Two Cities , Pride and Prejudice and The Mill on the Floss . I’m reading the Tale of Two Cities .’

‘Never read it before?’

‘Never. I always thought Dickens would be stuffy.’

‘What an idea!’

‘I’m finding it most exciting.’

‘Where have you got to?’ He looked over her shoulder and read out: ‘And the knitting women count One.’

‘I think she’s awfully frightening,’ said Victoria.

‘Madame Defarge? Yes, a good character. Though whether you could keep a register of names in knitting has always seemed to me rather doubtful. But then, of course, I’m not a knitter.’

‘Oh I think you could,’ said Victoria, considering the point. ‘Plain and purl – and fancy stitches – and the wrong stitch at intervals and dropped stiches. Yes – it could be done – camouflaged, of course, so that it looked like someone who was rather bad at knitting and made mistakes…’

Suddenly, with a vividness like a flash of lightning, two things came together in her mind and affected her with the force of an explosion. A name – a visual memory. The man with the ragged hand-knitted red scarf clasped in his hands – the scarf she had hurriedly picked up later and flung into a drawer. And together with that name. Defarge –not Lefarge– Defarge , Madame Defarge.

She was recalled to herself by Richard saying to her courteously:

‘Is anything the matter?’

‘No – no, that is, I just thought of something.’

‘I see.’ Richard raised his eyebrows in his most supercilious way.

Tomorrow, thought Victoria, they would all go in to Baghdad. Tomorrow her respite would be over. For over a week she had had safety, peace, time to pull herself together. And she had enjoyed that time – enjoyed it enormously. Perhaps I’m a coward, thought Victoria, perhaps that’s it. She had talked gaily about adventure, but she hadn’t liked it very much when it really came. She hated that struggle against chloroform and the slow suffocation, and she had been frightened, horribly frightened, in that upper room when the ragged Arab had said ‘Bukra.’

And now she’d got to go back to it all. Because she was employed by Mr Dakin and paid by Mr Dakin and she had to earn her pay and show a brave front! She might even have to go back to the Olive Branch. She shivered a little when she remembered Dr Rathbone and that searching dark glance of his. He’d warned her…

But perhaps she wouldn’t have to go back. Perhaps Mr Dakin would say it was better not – now that they knew about her. But she would have to go back to her lodgings and get her things because thrust carelessly into her suitcase was the red knitted scarf…She had bundled everything into suitcases when she left for Basrah. Once she had put that scarf into Mr Dakin’s hands, perhaps her task would be done. He would say to her perhaps, like on the pictures: ‘Oh! Good show, Victoria.’

She looked up to find Richard Baker watching her.

‘By the way,’ he said, ‘will you be able to get hold of your passport tomorrow?’

‘My passport?’

Victoria considered the position. It was characteristic of her that she had not as yet defined her plan of action as regards the Expedition. Since the real Veronica (or Venetia) would shortly be arriving from England, a retreat in good order was necessary. But whether she would merely fade away, or confess her deception with suitable penitence, or indeed what she intended to do, had not yet presented itself as a problem to be solved. Victoria was always prone to adopt the Micawber-like attitude that Something would Turn Up.

‘Well,’ she said temporizing, ‘I’m not sure.’

‘It’s needed, you see, for the police of this district,’ explained Richard. ‘They enter its number and your name and age and special distinguishing marks, etc., all the whole caboodle. As we haven’t got the passport, I think we ought at any rate to send your name and description to them. By the way, what is your last name? I’ve always called you “ Victoria ”.’

Victoria rallied gallantly.

‘Come now,’ she said. ‘You know my last name as well as I do.’

‘That’s not quite true,’ said Richard. His smile curved upwards with a hint of cruelty. ‘I do know your last name. It’s you , I think who don’t know it.’