The Baghdad Railway Club(47)

I asked him what he was doing. He took out of the sink one of the metal cups with which the scullery was equipped. He dipped the cup into the pitcher, handed me the cup.

‘You drink,’ he ordered.

‘You put . . . lime?’ I said. There was chloride of lime about the place. It was to be added to all drinking water for purification.

‘It is really clean,’ he said.

‘Not without lime it isn’t.’

‘It is.’

‘Where is the lime?’

He turned away from me. He was readjusting the linen curtain on the pantry, and I believed he said, ‘I chucked it,’ but that can’t have been right. I sipped the water, then drank it all off in an instant.

‘Give,’ said Ahmad. I handed back the cup. He dipped it again, and I drank again.

‘It is late,’ I said, taking a third cupful from him.

‘So what?’ he said. There was a swift, bitter outburst of laughter from him, as though he was amused by my inability to answer his question. ‘At night,’ he said, ‘very nice and cold.’

‘You must be bloody joking,’ I said.

‘I must?’ he said, and he frowned – it seemed a genuine question.

‘There was trouble in the town tonight,’ I said.

‘Trouble,’ he said, ‘yes,’ and he took the cup again, and put it in the sink, saying something very like ‘We boot you out.’





Chapter Ten


On Monday morning, I woke from my half doze at six when the flytrap cylinder turned over with a click. The one sheet was soaked in sweat, and located somewhere about my ankles, just as it had been on Sunday morning. That had been a day of unbearable heat, and idleness on my part. This day promised the same weather combined with hectic activity.

I kicked off the sheet, and lay in the rising heat and light until six thirty, when I heard the roar of a motor. Jarvis. He had spent the night at the Hotel, having been on driving duties until late. He would now run me to the station – ‘An easy motor ride’, he’d called it. I heard the sound of him entering the scullery. He’d left the van motor running. Presently he came through with dates, bread, coffee, and a letter for me. It had been delivered to the Hotel. I saw from the writing that it was from the wife. It must have been posted very shortly after I’d left Britain.

‘Morning, sir,’ said Jarvis. ‘A hundred and twenty, they say it’ll be today. I’ve a spare pack for you in the van: tonic water, mineral water, quinine, two hundred rounds of ammunition.’ He was in one of his chirpy phases. ‘No hurry with the food,’ he added.

It was impossible to make a breakfast with the motor running outside, so I just downed the coffee and walked to the van while chewing on bread. The letter I’d put in my tunic pocket to read later.

‘You’ll be all right on the trip, sir,’ said Jarvis as we climbed up. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Shepherd’s a pretty high class of soldier.’

‘Did you speak to him over the week-end?’

‘Me, sir?’ he said, as the van, shaking like buggery, made for the gates of Rose Court. ‘Why would I speak to him?’

‘Well, you were speaking to him the day before.’

He appeared to have forgotten, or did a good job of seeming to. Five minutes more in the sun, and the passenger seat would have been too hot to sit on. It was a good job I wasn’t in shorts.

‘I tell you who I did speak to yesterday, sir,’ said Jarvis, ‘and that was the police team at the Hotel.’

‘Have they got any further with their investigation? Regarding Captain Boyd, I mean.’

‘Nowhere at all, sir.’

That was good. It surely meant that the station master had not provided a description of me. Or perhaps that his description had not been understood. We were waiting at the gates of Rose Court. A wagon loaded with furniture approached along Park Road, the Arab driver smoking thoughtfully. ‘All we need now’, Jarvis said, ‘is a camel.’ And he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘After speaking to the police, sir, I went to Captain Boyd’s billet to see what I could find out for myself.’

‘Where’s that?’ I said.

The Arab had smoked his way past and the road was clear, yet we hadn’t pulled out. Jarvis was revolving some idea. ‘Tell you what‚ sir, we’ve got a few minutes in hand, I’ll take you there.’

So instead of turning left, which led to the river, he turned right, then quickly right again, taking us, with much revving of the engine, into the heart of the labyrinth. Numerous Arabs in numerous alleys had to press themselves practically flat up against the walls for us to pass, and one poor fellow had to dismantle the whole front of his shop in half a minute flat. Our motor creaked like an old bed on the broken cobbles. As he drove, Jarvis told me he’d ‘bumped into’ Captain Boyd twice in the fortnight before he died.