‘Pass not beneath, O Caravan, or pass not singing. Have you heard
That silence where the birds are dead yet something pipeth like a bird?
Pass out beneath, O Caravan, Doom’s Caravan, Death’s Caravan!’
Something of a contrast now. Formerly the Gate of Baghdad had been the gate of Death. Four hundred miles of desert to traverse by caravan. Long weary months of travel. Now the ubiquitous petrol-fed monsters did the journey in thirty-six hours.
‘What were you saying, Mr Parker Pyne?’
It was the eager voice of Miss Netta Pryce, youngest and most charming of the tourist race. Though encumbered by a stern aunt with the suspicion of a beard and a thirst for Biblical knowledge, Netta managed to enjoy herself in many frivolous ways of which the elder Miss Pryce might possibly have not approved.
Mr Parker Pyne repeated Flecker’s lines to her.
‘How thrilling,’ said Netta.
Three men in Air Force uniform were standing near and one of them, an admirer of Netta’s, struck in.
‘There are still thrills to be got out of the journey,’ he said. ‘Even nowadays the convoy is occasionally shot up by bandits. Then there’s losing yourself–that happens sometimes. And we are sent out to find you. One fellow was lost for five days in the desert. Luckily he had plenty of water with him. Then there are the bumps. Some bumps! One man was killed. It’s the truth I’m telling you! He was asleep and his head struck the top of the car and it killed him.’
‘In the six-wheeler, Mr O’Rourke?’ demanded the elder Miss Pryce.
‘No–not in the six-wheeler,’ admitted the young man.
‘But we must do some sight-seeing,’ cried Netta.
Her aunt drew out a guide book.
Netta edged away.
‘I know she’ll want me to go to some place where St Paul was lowered out of a window,’ she whispered. ‘And I do so want to see the bazaars.’
O’Rourke responded promptly.
‘Come with me. We’ll start down the Street called Straight–’
They drifted off.
Mr Parker Pyne turned to a quiet man standing beside him, Hensley by name. He belonged to the public works department of Baghdad.
‘Damascus is a little disappointing when one sees it for the first time,’ he said apologetically. ‘A little civilized. Trams and modern houses and shops.’
Hensley nodded. He was a man of few words.
‘Not got–back of beyond–when you think you have,’ he jerked out.
Another man drifted up, a fair young man wearing an old Etonian tie. He had an amiable but slightly vacant face which at the moment looked worried. He and Hensley were in the same department.
‘Hello, Smethurst,’ said his friend. ‘Lost anything?’
Captain Smethurst shook his head. He was a young man of somewhat slow intellect.
‘Just looking round,’ he said vaguely. Then he seemed to rouse himself. ‘Ought to have a beano tonight. What?’
The two friends went off together. Mr Parker Pyne bought a local paper printed in French.
He did not find it very interesting. The local news meant nothing to him and nothing of importance seemed to be going on elsewhere. He found a few paragraphs headed Londres.
The first referred to financial matters. The second dealt with the supposed destination of Mr Samuel Long, the defaulting financier. His defalcations now amounted to the sum of three millions and it was rumoured that he had reached South America.
‘Not too bad for a man just turned thirty,’ said Mr Parker Pyne to himself.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Parker Pyne turned to confront an Italian General who had been on the same boat with him from Brindisi to Beirut.
Mr Parker Pyne explained his remark. The Italian General nodded his head several times.
‘He is a great criminal, that man. Even in Italy we have suffered. He inspired confidence all over the world. He is a man of breeding, too, they say.’
‘Well, he went to Eton and Oxford,’ said Mr Parker Pyne cautiously.
‘Will he be caught, do you think?’
‘Depends on how much of a start he got. He may be still in England. He may be–anywhere.’
‘Here with us?’ the General laughed.
‘Possibly.’ Mr Parker Pyne remained serious. ‘For all you know, General, I may be he.’
The General gave him a startled glance. Then his olive-brown face relaxed into a smile of comprehension.
‘Oh! That is very good–very good indeed. But you–’
His eyes strayed downwards from Mr Parker Pyne’s face.
Mr Parker Pyne interpreted the glance correctly.
‘You mustn’t judge by appearances,’ he said. ‘A little additional–er–embonpoint–is easily managed and has a remarkably ageing effect.’
He added dreamily:
‘Then there is hair dye, of course, and face stain, and even a change of nationality.’
General Poli withdrew doubtfully. He never knew how far the English were serious.
Mr Parker Pyne amused himself that evening by going to a cinema. Afterwards he was directed to a ‘Nightly Palace of Gaieties’. It appeared to him to be neither a palace nor gay. Various ladies danced with a distinct lack of verve. The applause was languid.
Suddenly Mr Parker Pyne caught sight of Smethurst. The young man was sitting at a table alone. His face was flushed and it occurred to Mr Parker Pyne that he had already drunk more than was good for him. He went across and joined the young man.
‘Disgraceful, the way these girls treat you,’ said Captain Smethurst gloomily. ‘Bought her two drinks–three drinks–lots of drinks. Then she goes off laughing with some dago. Call it a disgrace.’
Mr Parker Pyne sympathized. He suggested coffee.
‘Got some araq coming,’ said Smethurst. ‘Jolly good stuff. You try it.’
Mr Parker Pyne knew something of the properties of araq. He employed tact. Smethurst, however, shook his head.
‘I’m in a bit of a mess,’ he said. ‘Got to cheer myself up. Don’t know what you’d do in my place. Don’t like to go back on a pal, what? I mean to say–and yet–what’s a fellow to do?’
He studied Mr Parker Pyne as though noticing him for the first time.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded with the curtness born of his potations. ‘What do you do?’
‘The confidence trick,’ said Mr Parker Pyne gently.
Smethurst gazed at him in lively concern.
‘What–you too?’
Mr Parker Pyne drew from his wallet a cutting. He laid it on the table in front of Smethurst.
‘Are you unhappy? (So it ran.) If so, consult Mr Parker Pyne.’
Smethurst focused on it after some difficulty.
‘Well, I’m damned,’ he ejaculated. ‘You meantersay–people come and tell you things?’
‘They confide in me–yes.’
‘Pack of idiotic women, I suppose.’
‘A good many women,’ admitted Mr Parker Pyne. ‘But men also. What about you, my young friend? You wanted advice just now?’
‘Shut your damned head,’ said Captain Smethurst. ‘No business of anybody’s–anybody’s ’cept mine. Where’s that goddamed araq?’
Mr Parker Pyne shook his head sadly.
He gave up Captain Smethurst as a bad job.
II
The convoy for Baghdad started at seven o’clock in the morning. There was a party of twelve. Mr Parker Pyne and General Poli, Miss Pryce and her niece, three Air Force officers, Smethurst and Hensley and an Armenian mother and son by name Pentemian.
The journey started uneventfully. The fruit trees of Damascus were soon left behind. The sky was cloudy and the young driver looked at it doubtfully once or twice. He exchanged remarks with Hensley.
‘Been raining a good bit the other side of Rutbah. Hope we shan’t stick.’
They made a halt at midday and square cardboard boxes of lunch were handed round. The two drivers
brewed tea which was served in cardboard cups. They drove on again across the flat interminable plain.
Mr Parker Pyne thought of the slow caravans and the weeks of journeying…
Just at sunset they came to the desert fort of Rutbah.
The great gates were unbarred and the six-wheeler drove in through them into the inner courtyard of the fort.
‘This feels exciting,’ said Netta.
After a wash she was eager for a short walk. Flight-Lieutenant O’Rourke and Mr Parker Pyne offered themselves as escorts. As they started the manager came up to them and begged them not to go far away as it might be difficult to find their way back after dark.
‘We’ll only go a short way,’ O’Rourke promised.
Walking was not, indeed, very interesting owing to the sameness of the surroundings.
Once Mr Parker Pyne bent and picked something up.
‘What is it?’ asked Netta curiously.
He held it out to her.
‘A prehistoric flint, Miss Pryce–a borer.’
‘Did they–kill each other with them?’
‘No–it had a more peaceful use. But I expect they could have killed with it if they’d wanted to. It’s the wish to kill that counts–the mere instrument doesn’t matter. Something can always be found.’
It was getting dark, and they ran back to the fort.
After a dinner of many courses of the tinned variety they sat and smoked. At twelve o’clock the six-wheeler was to proceed.
The driver looked anxious.
‘Some bad patches near here,’ he said. ‘We may stick.’ They all climbed into the big car and settled themselves. Miss Pryce was annoyed not to be able to get at one of her suitcases.
‘I should like my bedroom slippers,’ she said.
‘More likely to need your gum boots,’ said Smethurst. ‘If I know the look of things we’ll be stuck in a sea of mud.’
‘I haven’t even got a change of stockings,’ said Netta.
‘That’s all right. You’ll stay put. Only the stronger sex has to get out and heave.’
‘Always carry spare socks,’ said Hensley, patting his overcoat pocket. ‘Never know.’
The lights were turned out. The big car started out into the night.
The going was not too good. They were not jolted as they would have been in a touring car, but nevertheless they got a bad bump now and then.
Mr Parker Pyne had one of the front seats. Across the aisle was the Armenian lady shrouded in wraps and shawls. Her son was behind her. Behind Mr Parker Pyne were the two Miss Pryces. The General, Smethurst, Hensley and the R.A.F. men were at the back.
The car rushed on through the night. Mr Parker Pyne found it hard to sleep. His position was cramped. The Armenian lady’s feet stuck out and encroached on his preserve. She, at any rate, was comfortable.
Everyone else seemed to be asleep. Mr Parker Pyne felt drowsiness stealing over him, when a sudden jolt threw him towards the roof of the car. He heard a drowsy protest from the back of the six-wheeler. ‘Steady. Want to break our necks?’
Then the drowsiness returned. A few minutes later, his neck sagging uncomfortably, Mr Parker Pyne slept…
He was awakened suddenly. The six-wheeler had stopped. Some of the men were getting out. Hensley spoke briefly.
‘We’re stuck.’
Anxious to see all there was to see, Mr Parker Pyne stepped gingerly out in the mud. It was not raining now. Indeed there was a moon and by its light the drivers could be seen frantically at work with jacks and stones, striving to raise the wheels. Most of the men were helping. From the windows of the six-wheeler the three women looked out. Miss Pryce and Netta with interest, the Armenian lady with ill-concealed disgust.
At a command from the driver, the male passengers obediently heaved.
‘Where’s that Armenian fellow?’ demanded O’Rourke. ‘Keeping his toes warmed and comfortable like a cat? Let’s have him out too.’
‘Captain Smethurst too,’ observed General Poli. ‘He is not with us.’
‘The blighter’s asleep still. Look at him.’
True enough, Smethurst still sat in his armchair, his head sagging forward and his whole body slumped down.
‘I’ll rouse him,’ said O’Rourke.
He sprang in through the door. A minute later he reappeared. His voice had changed.
‘I say. I think he’s ill–or something. Where’s the doctor?’
Squadron Leader Loftus, the Air Force doctor, a quiet-looking man with greying hair, detached himself from the group at the wheel.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ he asked.
‘I–don’t know.’
The doctor entered the car. O’Rourke and Parker Pyne followed him. He bent over the sagging figure. One look and touch was enough.
‘He’s dead,’ he said quietly.
‘Dead? But how?’ Questions shot out. ‘Oh! How dreadful!’ from Netta.
Loftus turned round in an irritated manner.
‘Must have hit his head against the top,’ he said. ‘We went over one bad bump.’
‘Surely that wouldn’t kill him? Isn’t there anything else?’
‘I can’t tell you unless I examine him properly,’ snapped Loftus. He looked around him with a harassed air. The women were pressing closer. The men outside were beginning to crowd in.
Mr Parker Pyne spoke to the driver. He was a strong athletic young man. He lifted each female passenger in turn, carrying her across the mud and setting her down on dry land. Madame Pentemian and Netta he managed easily, but he staggered under the weight of the hefty Miss Pryce.
The interior of the six-wheeler was left clear for the doctor to make his examination.
The men went back to their efforts to jack up the car. Presently the sun rose over the horizon. It was a glorious day. The mud was drying rapidly, but the car was still stuck. Three jacks had been broken and so far no efforts had been of any avail. The driver started preparing breakfast–opening tins of sausages and boiling tea.
A little way apart Squadron Leader Loftus was giving his verdict.
‘There’s no mark or wound on him. As I said, he must have hit his head against the top.’
‘You’re satisfied he died naturally?’ asked Mr Parker Pyne.
There was something in his voice that made the doctor look at him quickly.
‘There’s only one other possibility.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that someone hit him on the back of the head with something in the nature of a sandbag.’ His voice sounded apologetic.
‘That’s not very likely,’ said Williamson, the other Air Force officer. He was a cherubic-looking youth. ‘I mean, nobody could do that without our seeing.’
‘If we were asleep,’ suggested the doctor.
‘Fellow couldn’t be sure of that,’ pointed out the other.
‘Getting up and all that would have roused someone or other.’
‘The only way,’ said General Poli, ‘would be for anyone sitting behind him. He could choose his moment and need not even rise from his seat.’
‘Who was sitting behind Captain Smethurst?’ asked the doctor.
O’Rourke replied readily.
‘Hensley, sir–so that’s no good. Hensley was Smethurst’s best pal.’
There was a silence. Then Mr Parker Pyne’s voice rose with quiet certainty.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that Flight Lieutenant Williamson has something to tell us.’
‘I, sir? I–well–’
‘Out with it, Williamson,’ said O’Rourke.
‘It’s nothing, really–nothing at all.’
‘Out with it.’
‘It’s only a scrap of conversation I overheard–at Rutbah–in the courtyard. I’d got back into the six-wheeler to look for my cigarette case. I was hunting about. Two fellows were just outside talking. One of them was Smethurst. He was saying–’
He paused.
‘Come on, man, out with it.’
&
nbsp; ‘Something about not wanting to let a pal down. He sounded very distressed. Then he said: “I’ll hold my tongue till Baghdad–but not a minute afterwards. You’ll have to get out quickly”.’
‘And the other man?’
‘I don’t know sir. I swear I don’t. It was dark and he only said a word or two and that I couldn’t catch.’
‘Who amongst you knows Smethurst well?’
‘I don’t think the words–a pal–could refer to anyone but Hensley,’ said O’Rourke slowly. ‘I knew Smethurst, but very slightly. Williamson is new out–so is Squadron Leader Loftus. I don’t think either of them have ever met him before.’
Both men agreed.
‘You, General?’
‘I never saw the young man until we crossed the Lebanon in the same car from Beirut.’
‘And that Armenian rat?’
‘He couldn’t be a pal,’ said O’Rourke with decision. ‘And no Armenian would have the nerve to kill anyone.’
‘I have, perhaps, a small additional piece of evidence,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.
He repeated the conversation he had had with Smethurst in the café at Damascus.
‘He made use of the phrase–“don’t like to go back on a pal,” said O’Rourke thoughtfully. ‘And he was worried.’
‘Has no one else anything to add?’ asked Mr Parker Pyne.
The doctor coughed.
‘It may have nothing to do with–’ he began.
He was encouraged.
‘It was just that I heard Smethurst say to Hensley, “You can’t deny that there is a leakage in your department”.’
‘When was this?’
‘Just before starting from Damascus yesterday morning. I thought they were just talking shop. I didn’t imagine–’ He stopped.
‘My friends, this is interesting,’ said the General. ‘Piece by piece you assemble the evidence.’
‘You said a sandbag, doctor,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Could a man manufacture such a weapon?’
‘Plenty of sand,’ said the doctor drily. He took some up in his hand as he spoke.
‘If you put some in a sock,’ began O’Rourke and hesitated.
Everyone remembered the two short sentences spoken by Hensley the night before.
‘Always carry spare socks. Never know.’