‘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.’
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,