down.’
A few moments later and the plane had taxied sedately to its place and Shrivenham stood ready to greet the VIP.
His unprofessional eye noted ‘rather a pretty girl’ before he sprang forward to greet the buccaneer-like figure in the swirling cloak.
‘Practically fancy dress,’ he thought to himself disapprovingly as he said aloud:
‘Sir Rupert Crofton Lee? I’m Shrivenham of the Embassy.’
Sir Rupert, he thought, was slightly curt in manner – perhaps understandable after the strain of circling round the city uncertain whether a landing could be effected or not.
‘Nasty day,’ continued Shrivenham. ‘Had a lot of this sort of thing this year. Ah, you’ve got the bags. Then, if you’ll follow me, sir, it’s all laid on…’
As they left the aerodrome in the car, Shrivenham said:
‘I thought for a bit that you were going to be carried on to some other Airport, sir. Didn’t look as though the pilot could make a landing. Came up suddenly, this dust-storm.’
Sir Rupert blew out his cheeks importantly as he remarked:
‘That would have been disastrous – quite disastrous. Had my schedule been jeopardized, young man, I can tell you the results would have been grave and far-reaching in the extreme.’
‘ Lot of cock,’ thought Shrivenham disrespectfully. ‘These VIP’s think their potty affairs are what makes the world go round.’
Aloud he said respectfully:
‘I expect that’s so, sir.’
‘Have you any idea when the Ambassador will reach Baghdad?’
‘Nothing definite as yet, sir.’
‘I shall be sorry to miss him. Haven’t seen him since – let me see, yes, India in 1938.’
Shrivenham preserved a respectful silence.
‘Let me see, Rice is here, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, sir, he’s Oriental Counsellor.’
‘Capable fellow. Knows a lot. I’ll be glad to meet him again.’
Shrivenham coughed.
‘As a matter of fact, sir, Rice is on the sick list. They’ve taken him to hospital for observation. Violent type of gastroenteritis. Something a bit worse than the usual Baghdad tummy, apparently.’
‘What’s that?’ Sir Rupert turned his head sharply. ‘Bad gastroenteritis – hm. Came on suddenly, did it?’
‘Day before yesterday, sir.’
Sir Rupert was frowning. The rather affected grandiloquence of manner had dropped from him. He was a simpler man – and somewhat of a worried one.
‘I wonder,’ he said. ‘Yes, I wonder.’
Shrivenham looked politely inquiring.
‘I’m wondering,’ said Sir Rupert, ‘if it might be a case of Scheele’s Green…’
Baffled, Shrivenham remained silent.
They were just approaching the Feisal Bridge, and the car swung off to the left towards the British Embassy.
Suddenly Sir Rupert leaned forward.
‘Just stop a minute, will you?’ he said sharply. ‘Yes, right-hand side. Where all those pots are.’
The car glided in to the right-hand kerb and stopped.
It was a small native shop piled high with crude white clay pots and water-jars.
A short stocky European who had been standing talking to the proprietor moved away towards the bridge as the car drew up. Shrivenham thought it was Crosbie of the I and P whom he had met once or twice.
Sir Rupert sprang from the car and strode up to the small booth. Picking up one of the pots, he started a rapid conversation in Arabic with the proprietor. The flow of speech was too fast for Shrivenham whose Arabic was as yet slow and painstaking and distinctly limited in vocabulary.
The proprietor was beaming, his hands flew wide, he gesticulated, he explained at length. Sir Rupert handled different pots, apparently asking questions about them. Finally he selected a narrow-mouthed water-jar, tossed the man some coins and went back to the car.
‘Interesting technique,’ said Sir Rupert. ‘Been making them like this for thousands of years, same shape as in one of the hill districts in Armenia.’
His finger slipped down through the narrow aperture, twisting round and round.
‘It’s very crude stuff,’ said Shrivenham unimpressed.
‘Oh, no artistic merit! But interesting historically. See these indications of lugs here? You pick up many a historical tip from observation of the simple things in daily use. I’ve got a collection of them.’
The car turned in through the gates of the British Embassy.
Sir Rupert demanded to be taken straight to his room. Shrivenham was amused to note that, his lecture on the clay pot ended, Sir Rupert had left it nonchalantly in the car. Shrivenham made a point of carrying it upstairs and placing it meticulously upon Sir Rupert’s bedside table.
‘Your pot, sir.’
‘Eh? Oh, thank you, my boy.’
Sir Rupert appeared distrait. Shrivenham left him after repeating that luncheon would be ready shortly and drinks awaited his choice.
When the young man had left the room, Sir Rupert went to the window and unfolded the small slip of paper that had been tucked into the mouth of the pot. He smoothed it out. There were two lines of writing on it. He read them over carefully, then set light to the paper with a match.
Then he summoned a servant.
‘Yes, sir? I unpack for you, sir?’
‘Not yet. I want to see Mr Shrivenham – up here.’
Shrivenham arrived with a slightly apprehensive expression.
‘Anything I can do, sir? Anything wrong?’
‘Mr Shrivenham, a drastic change has occurred in my plans. I can count upon your discretion, of course?’
‘Oh, absolutely, sir.’
‘It is some time since I was in Baghdad, actually I have not been here since the war. The hotels lie mainly on the other bank, do they not?’
‘Yes, sir. In Rashid Street.’
‘Backing on the Tigris?’
‘Yes. The Babylonian Palace is the biggest of them. That’s the more or less official hotel.’
‘What do you know about a hotel called the Tio?’
‘Oh, a lot of people go there. Food’s rather good and it’s run by a terrific character called Marcus Tio. He’s quite an institution in Baghdad.’
‘I want you to book me a room there, Mr Shrivenham.’
‘You mean – you’re not going to stay at the Embassy?’ Shrivenham looked nervously apprehensive. ‘But – but – it’s all laid on, sir.’
‘What is laid on can be laid off,’ barked Sir Rupert.
‘Oh, of course, sir. I didn’t mean –’
Shrivenham broke off. He had a feeling that in the future someone was going to blame him.
‘I have certain somewhat delicate negotiations to carry out. I learn that they cannot be carried out from the Embassy. I want you to book me a room tonight at the Tio Hotel and I wish to leave the Embassy in a reasonably unobtrusive manner. That is to say I do not want to drive up to the Tio in an Embassy car. I also require a seat booked on the plane leaving for Cairo the day after tomorrow.’
Shrivenham looked more dismayed still.
‘But I understood you were staying five days –’
‘That is no longer the case. It is imperative that I reach Cairo as soon as my business here is terminated. It would not be safe for me to remain longer.’
