Sheiks and Adders (12 page)

Appleby’s train of thought, as thus briefly summarized, might have entirely pleased a detective intelligence less experienced than his own. As far as it went, his picture of the mysterious affair at Drool hung together well enough. But it was no more than a hypothesis, and the problem now was to find some means of subjecting it to verification through experiment. The person to whom to apply this technique was certainly Richard Chitfield. To Chitfield Appleby must, as he had planned, introduce himself and he must then chat briefly in the most harmless way before suddenly springing so knowledgeable-seeming a question that the chap would be surprised into spilling any beans that he happened to be carrying round in his pocket: for example, the identity of the authentic sheik.

Primitive guile of this sort was part of the policeman’s stock-in-trade, and it was remarkable how often it worked. On the present occasion, however, the investigation went ahead for a time along different lines. This was a result of the reappearance of Colonel Pride, who had spotted Appleby under his oak and was now hurrying towards him. From afar their meeting might have been judged a wholly Arcadian encounter of the homespun English order. Here were two jolly outlaws in Lincoln green planning a little deer-stealing or the like at the expense of an overweening local magnate.

‘Glad to spot you, John,’ Pride said. ‘They’ve taken the wraps off. Message just come through. The “over to you” sort of thing.’

‘Just who have taken the wraps off?’

‘Those leather-bottoms at the FO, of course. Ghastly life they seem to have. Never stand up, except to drink tomato-juice at cocktail-parties. My father was in that outfit, you know. But he warned me off the Diplomatic when I was quite a kid. Sensible of him. Shoved me into the Brigade instead, and there I was when the
Führer
’s bloody curtain went up. Fortunate thing. Do you know that the feminine of
Führer
means a bus conductress? Poor old Adolf never thought of that one.’

‘I suppose not.’ Appleby conjectured that some state of obscure excitement was responsible for these random autobiographical excursions on Tommy Pride’s part. ‘And just what has the Foreign Office taken the wraps off?’

‘What’s cooking at Drool – or what they’ve been thinking may be cooking at Drool. It’s all about a fellow called an Emir. Now, what would you say an Emir is?’

‘My new neighbour, Professor McIlwraith, would tell you that it’s the same word as Admiral. But it can be a title of honour borne by the descendants of Mohammed, or it can mean simply a prince. Not quite a top-drawer prince, perhaps. I seem to recall Gibbon recording that the humble title of emir was no longer suitable to the Ottoman greatness.’

‘Is that so? Remarkable thing.’ Colonel Pride was accustomed to his friend Appleby sometimes exhibiting a professorial side himself. ‘Well, this chap, who’s called the Emir Afreet–’

‘Are you sure of that, Tommy? It sounds most improbable. An afreet is an evil demon or monster.’

‘Well, that’s what my man in the car-park took it down as on his radio blower affair. It’s not important. The point is that the chap’s here at this confounded jamboree.’

‘So he is, Tommy. And rather impressive, although not particularly demoniac.’

‘Ah, yes.’ For a moment the Chief Constable had received this information without surprise. But quickly his features expressed a natural bewilderment. ‘You know about him already?’

‘Well, at least I’ve seen him. And I imagine your friends at the Foreign Office believe him to be under some sort of threat. Of assassination, say. Or perhaps merely of kidnapping. He’s rather rash, you see. Perhaps “intrepid” is the worthier word. Not at all disposed to hide himself behind a massive bodyguard, or even get himself into unobtrusive western-style togs. Particularly when he has a big deal on hand with fellows like Chitfield and his associates. I think they may be trying to rescue each other – Chitfield and the Emir – from some ticklish political and financial corner.’

‘You seem to know a lot more about this Arab than I do.’ The Chief Constable was staring at Appleby much as Dr Watson had been habituated to stare at a Sherlock Holmes in full deductive spate. ‘Perhaps you can tell me where to find him.’

‘I could have told you where to find him an hour ago. But I haven’t a clue as to where he is now. On his way back to London, perhaps.’

‘I damned well hope so. But I suppose we must look around. A fellow dressed up from the family wash-basket oughtn’t to be too difficult to spot.’

‘My dear Tommy, haven’t you noticed? One emir- or sheik-like character has recently retired from the field in the person of a certain Tibby Fancroft. But there is a minimum of eight others still enjoying the fun. Mind you, I could myself pick out the real one from quite a distance away. But the position holds possibilities of some confusion, all the same. And what are you meant to do about the Emir Afreet, anyway? Bundle him into his Rolls and tell the chauffeur to drive him back to town? It’s just conceivable that he might regard you as taking something of a liberty. And the FO wouldn’t care for that at all.’

‘Confound the Foreign Office – and the Home Office as well. I’m asked to keep things under observation, and act only in an emergency.’

‘I’ve heard that one before.’ It was obvious that Appleby didn’t think highly of it. ‘Are your two men armed, Tommy?’

‘Of course they’re not armed!’ The Chief Constable was scandalized. ‘Where do you think we are, my dear John: the streets of Chicago?’ Although there was nobody within a couple of hundred yards, he cautiously lowered his voice. ‘Although, as a matter of fact, I do carry a little toy affair myself.’

‘Well, why not? I don’t think I’d suspect you of being a trigger-happy type. But some of those pseudo-sheiks may be.’

‘What do you mean, John – pseudo-sheiks?’

‘It’s like this. As well as your Emir, there are at least seven men dressed up as Arabs at this party. And I do mean
dressed up
. Not one of them could sit a camel, or would know how to enter a mosque. But they divide into two groups. Four of them are, I think, minor associates of Chitfield’s, and at least one of them is here dressed as he is at Chitfield’s direct suggestion.’

‘That’s uncommonly odd.’

‘Yes, it is. But remember how mediaeval kings would dress up half-a-dozen unfortunate fellows exactly like themselves – crown and all, no doubt – and shove them into the battle to bamboozle the enemy. It’s something like that. The other group is a trio – and all three of them have simply turned themselves into Arabs at short notice with the aid of stuff that can be hired near the main gate.’

‘Why ever should they do that? And is Chitfield at the bottom of this ploy too?’

‘I’m pretty sure that Chitfield knows nothing about it. But your first question, Tommy, I can’t answer at all.’

‘I suppose it’s natural that you should preserve a scrap of ignorance here and there.’ The Chief Constable produced this sally with considerable satisfaction. ‘Is there anything else that it would be only kind to apprise me of?’

‘Only that you were quite right in suspecting a high-level hinterland to the whole affair. A ruler, or a government, in your Emir’s part of the world in danger of toppling, and Chitfield and his crowd likely to tumble with them. That kind of thing. Fishing in troubled waters – but with no shortage of oil to pour on them.’ Appleby paused expectantly on this witticism – which, however, the Chief Constable was too preoccupied to appreciate. ‘All, of course, comparatively small fry. Chitfield’s middle name isn’t exactly BP or Shell. But the affair is big enough to be of international concern.’

‘Puts us on our toes, eh?’ Colonel Pride suddenly chuckled happily. ‘I’m relieved, you know, about one thing. I had that notion of being involved in a thoroughly discreditable show. Letting
A
damn-well mow down
B
if he wanted to, but with a vague suggestion that somebody was around trying to keep the Queen’s peace. There’s a lot of that sort of no-holds-barred stuff nowadays.’

‘Mostly in thrillers, my dear Tommy. And you’re quite justified in concluding it’s not that kind of thing on the present occasion. You locate the Emir, and protect him as effectively as you can without anybody remarking the fact. Probably – and quite apart from the personal intrepidity stuff – he wouldn’t like it to be known at home that he required the protection of the British police.’

‘Don’t you think he may tote around an unobtrusive bodyguard of his own?’

‘Yes, I do. I’ve got my bearings in all this, as a matter of fact, partly from having blundered in on a kind of directors’ meeting earlier in the afternoon. There was the Emir, and there was Chitfield, and there were half a dozen other people too. But there was also a fellow with a gun. Whether he was the Emir’s property, or Chitfield’s, I wouldn’t know.’ Appleby stood up from his seat beneath the oak. ‘I suppose we’d better be getting back on the beat.’

For a short space the two men walked in thoughtful silence, and then it was Pride who first spoke.

‘So just what now?’ he asked.

‘I do my best to locate the Emir. It may be, of course, that having concluded his business with the Chitfield crowd, he has driven, as I suggested, straight back to London. But somehow I don’t think so. For I have this impression that he is a pretty regal character, and that notions of courtesy would require him a little to participate in – or at least view – the entertainments on offer before making off. Particularly if he’s anxious to give the impression of being able to move about England quite securely. So, as I say, I do my best to find him. I then tip you off about him, and you tip off your two men – supposing you’re able to find them. Between them they need never be far away, quite without his tumbling to their identity. And you remember that trio of pseudo-sheiks? It’s a long shot, but I do in an obscure and groping way see them as a point of danger. Were they suddenly to converge on the Emir, that would be the moment to look out for the daggers. Quite like Julius Caesar on the Capitol – particularly with the whole lot of them giving that laundry-basket effect.’

‘I wonder whether it would be discreet to have a word with Chitfield? John, what do you think? He might well take offence at discovering I was prowling around here in this absurd pantomime dress, and that I had a couple of Dicks on the premises without so much as a by-your-leave.’

‘I think you’re right. Better leave it to me. I’ve been invited to this nonsense by his favourite child, you know – so I can’t easily be taken exception to. But first things first. Hunt the Emir.’

On this occasion Appleby had barely parted from Colonel Pride when he was accosted by Professor McIlwraith. The eminent philologist, indeed, appeared to have been in two minds as to which of these policemanly characters he wanted to address. And when he spoke it was to reveal a surprising state of perturbation.

‘Sir John,’ he said abruptly, ‘I must know, please, whether you are present at this absurd affair in an official character.’

‘No, I am not.’ Appleby was considerably astonished by this brusque demand. ‘I thought I’d made that clear when we ran into one another. I was simply invited to come along by Cherry Chitfield.’

‘And that man – that other Robin Hood – who has just left you? I gathered that he is the Chief Constable of the county. Is that so?’

‘Well, not exactly of the county, any longer. But that’s the general idea. Colonel Pride.’

‘Is Colonel Pride here officially?’

‘My dear sir, I can tell you nothing about Colonel Pride.’ Appleby’s surprise had increased, and he felt that he had perhaps spoken more stiffly than was required. He was certainly not entitled to give this slightly dotty scholar any information about Tommy Pride, nor had he any immediate impulse to be more communicative about himself than he had been. On the other hand, McIlwraith’s odd state of mind appeared to require explanation, and merited as much investigation as any of the other current puzzles at Drool. So Appleby spoke again. ‘Has anything happened to disturb you, Professor? Can I help you in any way?’

‘That young man called Fancroft, Sir John.’ McIlwraith had now a little composed himself. ‘Mark Chitfield has told me a very disconcerting yarn about him. Unfortunately it is often impossible to tell when Mark is romancing and when he is not.’

‘That I can well believe.’

‘The story is that Fancroft was anxious for some trivial reason to appear at this fête in Arab costume, and that Richard Chitfield forbad him to do so in the most peremptory fashion. I am aware that you don’t know any of these people particularly well, Appleby. But have you any reason to believe that this is true?’

‘Yes, I have. It is almost certainly true.’ Appleby produced this reply at once. He was suddenly convinced that McIlwraith was in some way bound in with whatever design was at present weaving itself at Drool Court, and that it was desirable to encourage him to talk. ‘And it seems,’ he went on, ‘that there is an explanation of sorts – what might be called an ostensible explanation – connected with the afternoon’s theatrical activities. Cherry has wanted to be a modern English girl carried off by a desert lover, and her father has judged that to be indelicate. He has wanted her to be a mediaeval maiden, rescued by a knight from a dragon or a sorceress or something of the sort. What do you make of that, McIlwraith?’

‘Absolute nonsense!’

‘Quite so.’

‘My dear Appleby, I must confide in you.’ Professor McIlwraith took a cautious glance around him. ‘The true explanation–’

‘The true explanation is that some serious risk attends being dressed up as an Arab at Drool this afternoon, and that our host didn’t want his daughter’s young man to be exposed to it. So much I can make out for myself. But your attitude makes me feel you know more about it all than I do. And as I am in a sense taking a professional interest in what’s going on, I’ll be glad to hear anything you have to say. For instance, perhaps you can tell me why the place is stuffing with fellows dressed up as Arabs. It’s a fact that can scarcely have escaped your observation.’