They came to Baghdad - Agatha Christie [34]
A young man whom Victoria had at one time thought attractive had been a bird enthusiast, and she had accompanied him on several week-end tramps, to be made to stand as though paralysed in wet woods and icy winds, for what seemed like hours, to be at last told in tones of ecstasy to look through the glasses at some drab-looking bird on a remote twig which in appearance as far as Victoria could see, compared unfavourably in bird appeal with a common robin or chaffinch.
Victoria made her way downstairs, encountering Marcus Tio on the terrace between the two buildings of the hotel.
‘I see you’ve got Sir Rupert Crofton Lee staying here,’ she said.
‘Oh yes,’ said Marcus, beaming, ‘he is a nice man – a very nice man.’
‘Do you know him well?’
‘No, this is the first time I see him. Mr Shrivenham of the British Embassy bring him here last night. Mr Shrivenham, he is very nice man, too. I know him very well.’
Proceeding in to breakfast Victoria wondered if there was any one whom Marcus would not consider a very nice man. He appeared to exercise a wide charity.
After breakfast, Victoria started forth in search of the Olive Branch.
A London-bred Cockney, she had no idea of the difficulties involved in finding any particular place in a city such as Baghdad until she had started on her quest.
Coming across Marcus again on her way out, she asked him to direct her to the Museum.
‘It is a very nice museum,’ said Marcus, beaming. ‘Yes. Full of interesting, very very old things. Not that I have been there myself. But I have friends, archaeological friends, who stay here always when they come through Baghdad. Mr Baker – Mr Richard Baker, you know him? And Professor Kalzman? And Dr Pauncefoot Jones – and Mr and Mrs McIntyre – they all come to the Tio. They are my friends. And they tell me about what is in the Museum. Very very interesting.’
‘Where is it, and how do I get there?’
‘You go straight along Rashid Street – a long way – past the turn to the Feisal Bridge and past Bank Street – you know Bank Street?’
‘I don’t know anything,’ said Victoria.
‘And then there is another street – also going down to a bridge and it is along there on the right. You ask for Mr Betoun Evans, he is English Adviser there – very nice man. And his wife, she is very nice, too, she came here as Transport Sergeant during the war. Oh, she is very very nice.’
‘I don’t really want to go actually to the Museum,’ said Victoria. ‘I want to find a place – a society – a kind of club called the Olive Branch.’
‘If you want olives,’ said Marcus, ‘I give you beautiful olives – very fine quality. They keep them especially for me – for the Tio Hotel. You see, I send you some to your table tonight.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Victoria and escaped towards Rashid Street.
‘To the left,’ Marcus shouted after her, ‘not to the right. But it is a long way to the Museum. You had better take a taxi.’
‘Would a taxi know where the Olive Branch was?’
‘No, they do not know where anything is! You say to the driver left, right, stop, straight on – just where you want to go.’
‘In that case, I might as well walk,’ said Victoria.
She reached Rashid Street and turned to the left.
Baghdad was entirely unlike her idea of it. A crowded main thoroughfare thronged with people, cars hooting violently, people shouting, European goods for sale in the shop windows, hearty spitting all round her with prodigious throat-clearing as a preliminary. No mysterious Eastern figures, most of the people wore tattered or shabby Western clothes, old army and air force tunics, the occasional shuffling black-robed and veiled figures were almost inconspicuous amongst the hybrid European styles of dress. Whining beggars came up to her – women with dirty babies in their arms. The pavement under her feet was uneven with occasional gaping holes.
She pursued her way feeling