They Came to Baghdad

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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First published in Great Britain by Collins, The Crime Club 1951

They Came to Baghdad™ is a trade mark of Agatha Christie Limited and Agatha Christie® and the Agatha Christie Signature are registered trade marks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere.

Copyright © 1951 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.

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Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008196356

Ebook Edition © March 2017 ISBN: 9780007422845

Version: 2018-09-03

Dedication

To all my friends in Baghdad

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Footnote

Also by Agatha Christie

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

Captain Crosbie came out of the bank with the pleased air of one who has cashed a cheque and has discovered that there is just a little more in his account than he thought there was.

Captain Crosbie often looked pleased with himself. He was that kind of man. In figure he was short and stocky, with rather a red face and a bristling military moustache. He strutted a little when he walked. His clothes were, perhaps, just a trifle loud, and he was fond of a good story. He was popular among other men. A cheerful man, commonplace but kindly, unmarried. Nothing remarkable about him. There are heaps of Crosbies in the East.

The street into which Captain Crosbie emerged was called Bank Street for the excellent reason that most of the banks in the city were situated in it. Inside the bank it was cool and dark and rather musty. The predominant sound was of large quantities of typewriters clicking in the background.

Outside in Bank Street it was sunny and full of swirling dust and the noises were terrific and varied. There was the persistent honking of motor horns, the cries of vendors of various wares. There were hot disputes between small groups of people who seemed ready to murder each other but were really fast friends; men, boys and children were selling every type of tree, sweetmeats, oranges and bananas, bath towels, combs, razor blades and other assorted merchandise carried rapidly through the streets on trays. There was also a perpetual and ever renewed sound of throat clearing and spitting, and above it the thin melancholy wail of men conducting donkeys and horses amongst the stream of motors and pedestrians shouting, ‘Balek—Balek!’

It was eleven o’clock in the morning in the city of Baghdad.

Captain Crosbie stopped a rapidly running boy with an armful of newspapers and bought one. He turned the corner of Bank Street and came into Rashid Street which is the main street of Baghdad, running through it for about four miles parallel with the river Tigris.

Captain Crosbie glanced at the headlines in the paper, tucked it under his arm, walked for about two hundred yards and then turned down a small alleyway and into a large khan or court. At the farther side of this he pushed open a door with a brass plate and found himself in an office.

A neat young Iraqi clerk left his typewriter and came forward smiling a welcome.

‘Good morning, Captain Crosbie. What can I do for you?’

‘Mr Dakin in his room? Good, I’ll go through.’

He passed through a door, up some very steep stairs and along a rather dirty passage. He knocked at the end door and a voice said, ‘Come in.’

It was a high, rather bare room. There was an oil stove with a saucer of water on top of it, a long, low cushioned seat with a little coffee table in front of it and a large rather shabby desk. The electric light was on and the daylight was carefully excluded. Behind the shabby desk was a rather shabby man, with a tired and indecisive face—the face of one who has not got on in the world and knows it and has ceased to care.

The two men, the cheerful self-confident Crosbie, and the melancholy fatigued Dakin, looked at each other.

Dakin said, ‘Hallo, Crosbie. Just in from Kirkuk?’

The other nodded. He shut the door carefully behind him. It was a shabby looking door, badly painted, but it had one rather unexpected quality; it fitted well, with no crevices and no space at the bottom.

It was, in fact, sound-proof.

With the closing of the door, the personalities of both men changed ever so slightly. Captain Crosbie became less aggressive and cocksure. Mr Dakin’s shoulders drooped less, his manner was less hesitating. If any one had been in the room listening they would have been surprised to find that Dakin was the man in authority.

‘Any news, sir?’ asked Crosbie.

‘Yes.’ Dakin sighed. He had before him a paper which he had just been busy decoding. He dotted down two more letters and said:

‘It’s to be held in Baghdad.’

Then he struck a match, set light to the paper and watched it burn. When it had smouldered to ashes, he blew gently. The ashes flew up and scattered.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They’ve settled on Baghdad. Twentieth of next month. We’re to “preserve all secrecy”.’

‘They’ve been talking about it in the souk—for three days,’ said Crosbie drily.

The tall man smiled his weary smile.

‘Top secret! No top secrets in the East, are there, Crosbie?’

‘No, sir. If you ask me, there aren’t any top secrets anywhere. During the war I often noticed a barber in London knew more than the High Command.’

‘It doesn’t matter much in this case. If the meeting is arranged for Baghdad it will soon have to be made public. And then the fun—our particular fun—starts.’

‘Do you think it will ever take place, sir?’ asked Crosbie sceptically. ‘Does Uncle Joe’—thus disrespectfully did Captain Crosbie refer to the head of a Great European Power—‘really mean to come?’

‘I think he does this time, Crosbie,’ said Dakin thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I think so. And if the meeting comes off—comes off without a hitch—well, it might be the saving of—everything. If some kind of understanding could only be reached—’ he broke off.

Crosbie still looked slightly sceptical. ‘Is—forgive me, sir—is understanding of any kind possible?’

‘In the sense you mean, Crosbie, probably not! If it were just a bringing together of two men representing totally different ideologies probably the whole thing would end as usual—in increased suspicion and misunderstanding. But there’s the third element. If that fantastic story of Carmichael’s is true—’

He broke off.

‘But surely, sir, it can’t be true. It’s too fantastic!’

The other was silent for a few moments. He was seeing, very vividly, an earnest troubled face, hearing a quiet nondescript voice saying fantastic and unbelievable things. He was saying to himself, as he had said then, ‘Either my best, my most reliable man has gone mad: or else—this thing is true …’

He said in the same thin melancholy voice:

‘Carmichael believed it. Everything he could find out confirmed his hypothesis. He wanted to go there to find out more—to get proof. Whether I was wise to let him or not, I don’t know. If he doesn’t get back, it’s only my story of what Carmichael told me, which again is a story of what someone told him. Is that enough? I don’t think so. It is, as you say, such a fantastic story … But if the man himself is here, in Baghdad, on the twentieth, to tell his own story, the story of an eyewitness, and to produce proof—’

‘Proof?’ said Crosbie sharply.

The other nodded.

‘Yes, he’s got proof.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The agreed formula. The message came through Salah Hassan.’ He quoted carefully: ‘A white camel with a load of oats is coming over the Pass.’

He paused and then went on:

‘So Carmichael has got what he went to get, but he didn’t get away unsuspected. They’re on his trail. Whatever route he takes will be watched, and what is far more dangerous, they’ll be waiting for him—here. First on the frontier. And if he succeeds in passing the frontier, there will be a cordon drawn round the Embassies and the Consulates. Look at this.’

He shuffled amongst the papers on his desk and read out:

‘An Englishman travelling in his car from Persia to Iraq shot dead—supposedly by bandits. A Kurdish merchant travelling down from the hills ambushed and killed. Another Kurd, Abdul Hassan, suspected of being a cigarette smuggler, shot by the police. Body of a man, afterwards identified as an Armenian lorry driver, found on the Rowanduz road. All of them mark you, of roughly the same description. Height, weight, hair, build, it corresponds with a description of Carmichael. They’re taking no chances. They’re out to get him. Once he’s in Iraq the danger will be greater still. A gardener at the Embassy, a servant at the Consulate, an official at the Airport, in the Customs, at the railway stations … all hotels watched … A cordon, stretched tight.’

Crosbie raised his eyebrows.

‘You think it’s as widespread as all that, sir?’

‘I’ve no doubt of it. Even in our show there have been leakages. That’s the worst of all. How am I to be sure that the measures we’re adopting to get Carmichael safely into Baghdad aren’t known already to the other side? It’s one of the elementary moves of the game, as you know, to have someone in the pay of the other camp.’

‘Is there any one you—suspect?’

Slowly Dakin shook his head.

Crosbie sighed.

‘In the meantime,’ he said, ‘we carry on?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about Crofton Lee?’

‘He’s agreed to come to Baghdad.’

‘Everyone’s coming to Baghdad,’ said Crosbie. ‘Even Uncle Joe, according to you, sir. But if anything should happen to the President—while he’s here—the balloon will go up with a vengeance.’

‘Nothing must happen,’ said Dakin. ‘That’s our business. To see it doesn’t.’

When Crosbie had gone Dakin sat bent over his desk. He murmured under his breath:

‘They came to Baghdad …’

On the blotting pad he drew a circle and wrote under it Baghdad—then, dotted round it, he sketched a camel, an aeroplane, a steamer, a small puffing train—all converging on the circle. Then on the corner of the pad he drew a spider’s web. In the middle of the spider’s web he wrote a name:Anna Scheele. Underneath he put a big query mark.

Then he took his hat, and left the office. As he walked along Rashid Street, some man asked another who that was.

‘That? Oh, that’s Dakin. In one of the oil companies. Nice fellow, but never gets on. Too lethargic. They say he drinks. He’ll never get anywhere. You’ve got to have drive to get on in this part of the world.’

‘Have you got the reports on the Krugenhorf property, Miss Scheele?’

‘Yes, Mr Morganthal.’

Miss Scheele, cool and efficient, slipped the papers in front of her employer.

He grunted as he read.

‘Satisfactory, I think.’

‘I certainly think so, Mr Morganthal.’

‘Is Schwartz here?’

‘He’s waiting in the outer office.’

‘Have him sent in right now.’

Miss Scheele pressed a buzzer—one of six.

‘Will you require me, Mr Morganthal?’

‘No, I don’t think so, Miss Scheele.’

Anna Scheele glided noiselessly from the room.

She was a platinum blonde—but not a glamorous blonde. Her pale flaxen hair was pulled straight back from her forehead into a neat roll at the neck. Her pale blue intelligent eyes looked out on the world from behind strong glasses. Her face had neat small features, but was quite expressionless. She had made her way in the world not by her charm but by sheer efficiency. She could memorize anything, however complicated, and produce names, dates and times without having to refer to notes. She could organize the staff of a big office in such a way that it ran as by well-oiled machinery. She was discretion itself and her energy, though controlled and disciplined, never flagged.

Otto Morganthal, head of the firm of Morganthal, Brown and Shipperke, international bankers, was well aware that to Anna Scheele he owed more than mere money could repay. He trusted her completely. Her memory, her experience, her judgement, her cool level head were invaluable. He paid her a large salary and would have made it a larger one had she asked for it.

She knew not only the details of his business but the details of his private life. When he had consulted her in the matter of the second Mrs Morganthal, she had advised divorce and suggested the exact amount of alimony. She had not expressed sympathy or curiosity. She was not, he would have said, that kind of woman. He didn’t think she had any feelings, and it had never occurred to him to wonder what she thought about. He would indeed have been astonished if he had been told that she had any thoughts—other, that is, than thoughts connected with Morganthal, Brown and Shipperke and with the problems of Otto Morganthal.

So it was with complete surprise that he heard her say as she prepared to leave his office:

‘I should like three weeks’ leave of absence if I might have it, Mr Morganthal. Starting from Tuesday next.’

Staring at her, he said uneasily: ‘It will be awkward—very awkward.’

‘I don’t think it will be too difficult, Mr Morganthal. Miss Wygate is fully competent to deal with things. I shall leave her my notes and full instructions. Mr Cornwall can attend to the Ascher Merger.’

Still uneasily he asked:

‘You’re not ill, or anything?’

He couldn’t imagine Miss Scheele being ill. Even germs respected Anna Scheele and kept out of her way.

‘Oh no, Mr Morganthal. I want to go to London to see my sister there.’

‘Your sister?’ He didn’t know she had a sister. He had never conceived of Miss Scheele as having any family or relations. She had never mentioned having any. And here she was, casually referring to a sister in London. She had been over in London with him last fall but she had never mentioned having a sister then.

With a sense of injury he said:

‘I never knew you had a sister in England?’

Miss Scheele smiled very faintly.

‘Oh yes, Mr Morganthal. She is married to an Englishman connected with the British Museum. It is necessary for her to undergo a very serious operation. She wants me to be with her. I should like to go.’

In other words, Otto Morganthal saw, she had made up her mind to go.

He said grumblingly, ‘All right, all right … Get back as soon as you can. I’ve never seen the market so jumpy. All this damned Communism. War may break out at any moment. It’s the only solution, I sometimes think. The whole country’s riddled with it—riddled with it. And now the President’s determined to go to this fool conference at Baghdad. It’s a put-up job in my opinion. They’re out to get him. Baghdad! Of all the outlandish places!’

‘Oh I’m sure he’ll be very well guarded,’ Miss Scheele said soothingly.

‘They got the Shah of Persia last year, didn’t they? They got Bernadotte in Palestine. It’s madness—that’s what it is—madness.

‘But then,’ added Mr Morganthal heavily, ‘all the world is mad.’

CHAPTER 2

Victoria Jones was sitting moodily on a seat in FitzJames Gardens. She was wholly given up to reflections—or one might almost say moralizations—on the disadvantages inherent in employing one’s particular talents at the wrong moment.

Victoria was like most of us, a girl with both qualities and defects. On the credit side she was generous, warmhearted and courageous. Her natural leaning towards adventure may be regarded as either meritorious or the reverse in this modern age which places the value of security high. Her principal defect was a tendency to tell lies at both opportune and inopportune moments. The superior fascination of fiction to fact was always irresistible to Victoria. She lied with fluency, ease, and artistic fervour. If Victoria was late for an appointment (which was often the case) it was not sufficient for her to murmur an excuse of her watch having stopped (which actually was quite often the case) or of an unaccountably delayed bus. It would appear preferable to Victoria to tender the mendacious explanation that she had been hindered by an escaped elephant lying across a main bus route, or by a thrilling smash-and-grab raid in which she herself had played a part to aid the police. To Victoria an agreeable world would be one where tigers lurked in the Strand and dangerous bandits infested Tooting.

A slender girl, with an agreeable figure and first-class legs, Victoria’s features might actually have been described as plain. They were small and neat. But there was a piquancy about her, for ‘little india-rubber face,’ as one of her admirers had named her, could twist those immobile features into a startling mimicry of almost anybody.

It was this last-named talent that had led to her present predicament. Employed as a typist by Mr Greenholtz of Greenholtz, Simmons and Lederbetter, of Graysholme Street, WC2, Victoria had been whiling away a dull morning by entertaining the three other typists and the office boy with a vivid performance of Mrs Greenholtz paying a visit to her husband’s office. Secure in the knowledge that Mr Greenholtz had gone round to his solicitors, Victoria let herself go.

‘Why do you say we not have that Knole settee, Daddee?’ she demanded in a high whining voice. ‘Mrs Dievtakis she have one in electric blue satin. You say it is money that is tight? But then why you take that blonde girl out dining and dancing—Ah! you think I do not know—and if you take that girl—then I have a settee and all done plum coloured and gold cushions. And when you say it is a business dinner you are a damn’ fool—yes—and come back with lipstick on your shirt. So I have the Knole settee and I order a fur cape—very nice—all like mink but not really mink and I get him very cheap and it is good business—’

The sudden failure of her audience—at first entranced, but now suddenly resuming work with spontaneous agreement, caused Victoria to break off and swing round to where Mr Greenholtz was standing in the doorway observing her.

Victoria, unable to think of anything relevant to say, merely said, ‘Oh!’

Mr Greenholtz grunted.

Flinging off his overcoat, Mr Greenholtz proceeded to his private office and banged the door. Almost immediately his buzzer sounded, two shorts and a long. That was a summons for Victoria.

‘It’s for you, Jonesey,’ a colleague remarked unnecessarily, her eyes alight with the pleasure occasioned by the misfortunes of others. The other typists collaborated in this sentiment by ejaculating: ‘You’re for it, Jones,’ and ‘On the mat, Jonesey.’ The office boy, an unpleasant child, contented himself with drawing a forefinger across his throat and uttering a sinister noise.

Victoria picked up her notebook and pencil and sailed into Mr Greenholtz’s office with such assurance as she could muster.

‘You want me, Mr Greenholtz?’ she murmured, fixing a limpid gaze on him.

Mr Greenholtz was rustling three pound notes and searching his pockets for coin of the realm.

‘So there you are,’ he observed. ‘I’ve had about enough of you, young lady. Do you see any particular reason why I shouldn’t pay you a week’s salary in lieu of notice and pack you off here and now?’

Victoria (an orphan) had just opened her mouth to explain how the plight of a mother at this moment suffering a major operation had so demoralized her that she had become completely light-headed, and how her small salary was all the aforesaid mother had to depend upon, when, taking an opening glance at Mr Greenholtz’s unwholesome face, she shut her mouth and changed her mind.

‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ she said heartily and pleasantly. ‘I think you’re absolutely right, if you know what I mean.’

Mr Greenholtz appeared slightly taken aback. He was not used to having his dismissals treated in this approving and congratulatory spirit. To conceal a slight discomfiture he sorted through a pile of coins on the desk in front of him. He then sought once more in his pockets.

‘Ninepence short,’ he murmured gloomily.

‘Never mind,’ said Victoria kindly. ‘Take yourself to the pictures or spend it on sweets.’

‘Don’t seem to have any stamps, either.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I never write letters.’

‘I could send it after you,’ said Mr Greenholtz but without much conviction.

‘Don’t bother. What about a reference?’ said Victoria.

Mr Greenholtz’s choler returned.

‘Why the hell should I give you a reference?’ he demanded wrathfully.

‘It’s usual,’ said Victoria.

Mr Greenholtz drew a piece of paper towards him and scrawled a few lines. He shoved it towards her.

‘That do for you?’

Miss Jones has been with me two months as a shorthand typist. Her shorthand is inaccurate and she cannot spell. She is leaving owing to wasting time in office hours.

Victoria made a grimace.

‘Hardly a recommendation,’ she observed.

‘It wasn’t meant to be,’ said Mr Greenholtz.

‘I think,’ said Victoria, ‘that you ought at least to say I’m honest, sober and respectable. I am, you know. And perhaps you might add that I’m discreet.’

‘Discreet?’ barked Mr Greenholtz.