They Came to Baghdad by Agatha Christie Page A

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 –