They came to Baghdad - Agatha Christie [27]
Lionel Shrivenham observed in a tone of deep distress:
‘Ten to one they can’t come down here.’
‘What will they do?’ asked his friend Harold.
‘Go on to Basrah, I imagine. It’s clear there, I hear.’
‘You’re meeting some kind of a VIP, aren’t you?’
Young Mr Shrivenham groaned again.
‘Just my luck. The new Ambassador has been delayed coming out. Lansdowne, the Counsellor, is in England. Rice, the Oriental Counsellor, is ill in bed with gastric flu, dangerously high temperature. Best is in Tehran, and here am I, left with the whole bag of tricks. No end of a flap about this fellow. I don’t know why. Even the hush-hush boys are in a flap. He’s one of these world travellers, always off somewhere inaccessible on a camel. Don’t see why he’s so important, but apparently he’s absolutely the cat’s whiskers, and I’m to conform to his slightest wish. If he gets carried on to Basrah he’ll probably be wild. Don’t know what arrangements I’d better lay on. Train up tonight? Or get the RAF to fly him up tomorrow?’
Mr Shrivenham sighed again, as his sense of injury and responsibility deepened. Since his arrival three months ago in Baghdad he had been consistently unlucky. One more raspberry, he felt, would finally blight what might have been a promising career.
The plane swooped overhead once more.
‘Evidently thinks he can’t make it,’ said Shrivenham, then added excitedly: ‘Hallo – I believe he’s coming 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