They came to Baghdad - Agatha Christie [19]
The Arab had passed through the doorway and had turned towards the Consul’s office, but he paused suddenly, and turning he ran swiftly the other way to the door by which he had entered and into the busy street.
The kavass ran to Richard’s side where he stood holding the stout man’s arm. Of the other occupants of the room, the Iraqi clerk was dancing excitedly on his feet, the dark thin man was staring and the elderly Persian gazed into space unmoved.
Richard said:
‘What the devil are you doing, brandishing a revolver like that?’
There was just a moment’s pause, and then the stout man said in a plaintive Cockney voice:
‘Sorry, old man. Absolute accident. Just clumsy.’
‘Nonsense. You were going to shoot at that Arab fellow who’s just run out.’
‘No, no, old man, not shoot him. Just give him a fright. Recognized him suddenly as a fellow who swindled me over some antikas. Just a bit of fun.’
Richard Baker was a fastidious soul who disliked publicity of any kind. His instincts were to accept the explanation at its face value. After all, what could he prove? And would old Fakir Carmichael thank him for making a song and dance about the matter. Presumably if he were on some hush-hush, cloak-and-dagger business he would not.
Richard relaxed his grasp on the man’s arm. The fellow was sweating, he noticed.
The kavass was talking excitedly. It was very wrong, he was saying, to bring firearms into the British Consulate. It was not allowed. The Consul would be very angry.
‘I apologize,’ said the fat man. ‘Little accident – that’s all.’ He thrust some money into the kavass’s hand who pushed it back again indignantly.
‘I’d better get out of this,’ said the stout man. ‘I won’t wait to see the Consul.’ He thrust a card suddenly on Richard. ‘That’s me and I’m at the Airport Hotel if there’s any fuss, but actually it was a pure accident. Just a joke if you know what I mean.’
Reluctantly, Richard watched him walk with an uneasy swagger out of the room and turn towards the street.
He hoped he had done right, but it was a difficult thing to know what to do when one was as much in the dark as he was.
‘Mr Clayton, he is disengaged now,’ said the kavass.
Richard followed the man along the corridor. The open circle of sunlight at the end grew larger. The Consul’s room was on the right at the extreme end of the passage.
Mr Clayton was sitting behind his desk. He was a quiet grey-haired man with a thoughtful face.
‘I don’t know whether you remember me?’ said Richard. ‘I met you in Tehran two years ago.’
‘Of course. You were with Dr Pauncefoot Jones, weren’t you? Are you joining him again this year?’
‘Yes. I’m on my way there now, but I’ve got a few days to spare, and I rather wanted to run down to Kuwait. There’s no difficulty I suppose?’
‘Oh, no. There’s a plane tomorrow morning. It’s only about an hour and a half. I’ll wire to Archie Gaunt – he’s the Resident there. He’ll put you up. And we can put you up here for the night.’
Richard protested slightly.
‘Really – I don’t want to bother you and Mrs Clayton. I can go to the hotel.’
‘The Airport Hotel’s very full. We’d be delighted to have you here. I know my wife would like to meet you again. At the moment – let me see – we’ve got Crosbie of the Oil Company and some young sprig of Dr Rathbone’s who’s down here clearing some cases of books through the customs. Come upstairs and see Rosa.’
He got up and escorted Richard out through the door and into the sunlit garden. A flight of steps led up to the living quarters of the Consulate.
Gerald Clayton pushed open the wire door at the top of the steps and ushered his guest into a long dim hallway with attractive rugs on the floor and choice examples of furniture on either side. It was pleasant coming into the cold dimness after the glare outside.
Clayton called, ‘Rosa, Rosa,’ and Mrs Clayton, whom Richard remembered as a buoyant personality with abounding vitality, came out of an end room.
‘You remember Richard Baker, dear? He came to