He quit the room, and I lit a cigarette. A moment later, I was standing at the window, watching him walk through the dazzling square, which he did with head tilted back, and face tilted up, as though to prevent his glasses falling off his nose. That was all wrong, I thought. In a place like this, you ought to look about you. But Stevens was not apparently a curious or very intelligent sort . . . which was probably just as well.
As he disappeared into one of the alleyways, my attention was caught by an Arab appearing from another one: red fez, long black coat. I instantly ducked away from the window. It was the station master, and he was approaching the Hotel at a lick. Evidently, he had discovered the secret of the Salon de Thé. There would now be an investigation. Would he supply a description of me? A suspicious white man seen at around the right time. If so, he might be taken to be trying to throw the blame away from his own people. Most likely the Arabs would be blamed. If the poor old station master himself should come under suspicion, I would have to speak out, but what would I say? A British lieutenant colonel did this because he was in the pay of Brother Turk, and Boyd knew it.
The call to prayer was coming through the window: a sort of wandering song, rather beautiful in spite of lacking any sort of tune, and which stopped every half minute and started again after a short pause, as if the singer wasn’t happy with it, and meant to try again. It was Friday, and I had the idea that the Moslems did even more praying than usual on a Friday.
I had now written out in pencil all the station names up to Samarrah, and would trace over them in red ink. They were spaced at intervals of about fifteen miles. The first one was Mushahida station; then came Sumaika, Harba, Istabulat, Samarrah. Neither map gave any indication of any settlements, or anything at all, as being located near them. I passed the next half hour in decorating the ‘North’ arrow on the map, and wondering about Stevens. He really was a rather hazy sort of bloke – perhaps he’d boxed too much and had gone ‘punchy’.
Now the map was about finished, and it looked pretty enough. I wrote at the bottom, ‘Prepared by Captain James Stringer’, then wafted it about to dry it, and rolled it into a scroll. I would take it through to Shepherd’s office even though, or rather precisely because, I knew he would not be in there. Delivering the map would give me the chance to have a scout about.
In the corridor, an Arab was sweeping the spotless carpet with a broom. He stopped and smiled at me, and I said, ‘Salaam alaikum,’ which seemed to amuse him no end. I knocked on the door of 226; no reply. I looked back at the Arab, who was still watching me, still smiling. He said something in his native tongue, perhaps ‘It is perfectly in order for you to go in.’ Anyhow, that’s what I did.
The room was just as dark as before, but hotter. A desk stood in the middle of it, but the bed remained, and Shepherd had spread some papers over it. I turned about. I had left the door ajar, and it wouldn’t do to close it – that would be to claim possession of the room. I moved over to the bed, where I saw a plan of Baghdad station and environs, written half in German: ‘Bahnhof of Baghdad’. I identified on the plan the blockhouse in which the station master apparently lived, and there was a tiny note next to this, which I could not read, and might have been hand-written on to the printed map. This map lay at the foot of the bed. Going up towards the bolster, there were documents in French, all bearing the same stamp or seal. I saw the word ‘Decauville’ – that was a French make of light railway track. There was a pack of playing cards in their box, perfectly normal British ones; there was also a novel. I picked it up: The Good Soldier by a certain Ford Madox Ford. I flicked through the pages. It was not about soldiering.
There were two steel cabinets by the wall. I walked over and tried the handle of the first – locked. I tried the second, and it opened – nothing whatsoever inside. I moved towards the desk. Eight drawers in it. I looked towards the door, and tried the first. It held a service revolver. I stared down at the gun.
‘Captain Stringer,’ said Shepherd, and I slammed the drawer and saluted.
He seemed thinner than before – browner too, of course, but still with the redness beneath. In fact our exchange of glances had sent the colour rising as fast on his cheeks as on my own.
‘Excuse me‚ sir,’ I said. ‘I’d just come to show you this map.’ I waved the scroll about stupidly. ‘It combines two other ones. I was looking for an India rubber because there’s a mistake on it.’ I unrolled the map, held the two ends apart on the desk.
‘Very good,’ he said, examining the map. He looked up at me and smiled. ‘And what is the mistake?’