I nodded, being as weary as he sounded.
Foggy greeted me ecstatically. Poor little dog, he’d been left in a foreign place, surrounded by strangers and without his little cat, whom we both missed. I ruffled his fur and ears as he jumped around my knees, then placed him on the bed. He fell asleep as quickly as I did, among silken sheets and soft damask covers.
Swift didn’t arrive with the dawn.
Filtered sunlight threw lattice patterns onto the wall. Muted voices rose from the crowded streets below and, in the distance, I could hear some sort of singing call, rising and falling in quavering cadence. Dust floated upwards, caught in the spinning draught of a fan rotating in the centre of the ceiling. The warmth of the dawning day seeped into the room and I lay in soft comfort, my head resting on my folded arms on feather-filled pillows, reluctant to move, or even think – apart from wondering where breakfast was.
A hesitant knock sounded at my door, Fogg gave a small bark in reply.
‘Come in.’
Jamal peered into the room, turban first.
‘Effendi.’ He saw me and grinned. ‘You wake! It is a glorious morning.’ He went over to open the shutters and a blazing shaft of sunshine lit up the room. ‘Is it your wish to breakfast in your bed or on the garden terrace, effendi? It is most beautiful in the garden and not a person is yet present.’
‘Erm, no. I’ll take breakfast here please, old chap.’ I indicated an ornately carved red and gilt dressing table.
‘At your wishes, effendi.’ He made to bow out.
‘Jamal?’ I’d thought of something. ‘The bath-draw boy. What happened to him?’
‘Ah, I am most sorry for the inconvenience. Bath-draw boy interrupted his duties to watch the proceedings below and he suffered an injurious blow. His family removed him instantly to attend his affliction, but they inform me it was too late. His inopportune action has led to his demise.’ He shook his head in momentary sorrow. ‘But it must not hinder your enjoyment of Hotel Al Shami, effendi, we can most quickly find a new bath-draw boy.’
‘So he is dead then?’
‘Indeed, this was confirmed to me.’ Jamal tried to escape the room again.
‘Wait. Did he have any children?’
‘He did, effendi. He was head of numerous progeny and two wives.’
‘Two wives?’ My brows shot up.
‘It is the custom. One may take four, if one has the resources.’
‘Good Lord, four!’ What on earth were they thinking? Four women in the same house! ‘Erm, I assume there must be some sort of legal situation, Jamal. Compensation, perhaps?’
‘No, no, it is not necessary, effendi. We care for such unfortunate peoples as widows and orphans. It is our custom.’
‘Yes, but I really must contribute something to their futures,’ I told him.
He opened his mouth to argue but I held up my hand.
‘I insist.’
He nodded and put his hands together as though at prayer. ‘Inshallah.’
‘Right, and erm… has anyone mentioned this to Colonel Fontaine?’
‘Oh, no, effendi. That would not be well advised.’
‘Hum… well, excellent. Thank you, Jamal.’
‘American dollars are preferred.’ He smiled again and made a rapid exit.
I stared at the closed door and wondered once more where American dollars were to be found – probably from Americans, I concluded. Foggy reminded me, with a woof, that he would like breakfast and a walk in that order.
I threw back the covers, strode into the adjoining bathroom and made use of the steaming shower. Fifteen minutes later, I emerged fully dressed to find a splendid array of food waiting on the table. Fogg was seated on the chair, eyeing the feast with spaniel eyes like chocolate saucers.
I placed him on the rug and tucked in.
We shared the goodies. There were lashings of cream cheese, scrambled eggs with tomatoes and tasty herbs, and another plate of flatbread with honey and dark balls of doughnuts, all washed down with many glasses of mint tea. It was excellent and put a bit of a spring back in my step.
Swift still hadn’t shown up and neither had Greggs. I put Foggy under my arm and made for the stairs, pausing on a step halfway down to wonder how Persi was and when I would be able to talk to her.
The courtyard was quiet and now entirely free of any trace of the unfortunate Josephine Belvoir. My footsteps echoed as I bypassed the dining room and unoccupied terrace to wander onto the dew laden grass for Foggy to run around gaily. It was a haven of peace, hidden behind high walls and allowed my mind to unravel a few thoughts.
Most of them spun around the singular events of the previous evening and the other hotel guests. My knowledge of America was pretty sketchy, but I knew there were deserts in Texas. The film crew could have gone there with a lot more ease than trailing all the way to Damascus. I also found it hard to believe Lady Maitland and Genevieve were here by chance and thought Genevieve was trying too hard at playing the ingenue. So, what had drawn them all to this particular spot?
Dick Dreadnaught came out onto the terrace to break into my musings. He was dressed in an immaculate pale tan suit, I felt rather a scruff in my linen, despite it having been pressed overnight by the hotel staff. The German gave a curt nod, then sat down as a waiter arrived to serve him. I’d no desire to talk to the block-head, so I scooped Fogg up and carried him off in search of Swift.
I got as far as the fountain.
‘Good morning, Major Lennox. Oh my! Pappie, the doggie! Just look at that adorable little doggie.’ The effusive tones of Mammie Vincent rung in my ears.
‘Yeah, very nice, dear,’ Vincent’s voice growled back.
There was a great bustle in process. The cameraman, the tall and lanky Bruce in overalls, was carrying the heavy camera in his arms, heading towards the arched gateway. He was followed by a stream of uniformed Arabs, laden with various boxes, tripods, lights and the essential whatnots needed for movie making.
‘Are you leaving?’ I asked as I came to a halt beside Mammie.
Vincent was dressed, as yesterday, in check shirt and braces. His forehead was damp with beads of sweat, he was red in the face and shouting out orders.
‘No, of course not, dear Heathcliff. We are going to film around the city,’ Mammie replied.
I could see she was tired, her cheeks creased with wrinkles in the bright sunlight. The flowery green dress she wore did little to enhance her colour.
‘Urm, it’s Lennox. Not keen on Heathcliff. My mother, you know, romantic…’ I tailed off and changed tack. ‘I thought you took the last scene yesterday?’
For some reason she found this terribly amusing. ‘Oh no, dear. We do not film in sequence. We have completed all the interior and close-up shots. Now we are going to take clips of the desert with palm trees and scenes of camels crossing sand dunes. It’s all about atmosphere!’
I nodded, trying to appear as fascinated as she patently was. ‘Marvellous. Very erm…’
She wasn’t listening. ‘And our lawyer, Mr Midhurst, has not returned. It is most inconvenient. We sent him to find suitable locations but now we must do it ourselves. And after last evening…’ She sighed. ‘May I pet your doggie?’
‘Yes, yes. Why did you send your lawyer to find filming locations?’
‘Oh, we all do many jobs here.’ She was ruffling the fur on Foggy’s head with red, painted nails. ‘Making movies in foreign climes is terribly expensive, so we hire locals on the spot and restrict our own crew to just the most experienced hands.’ She laughed, her curls bobbing. ‘We all throw ourselves into it.’
‘Hey, Lennox,’ Vincent waddled over to his wife’s side. ‘I got an idea. We can do a short. People love dogs, and yours is kinda cute. We can make a short movie. ‘Delilah of the Desert’, I can see it now. What d’ya think, Mammie?’ He was holding his hands
up in a sort of square as he spoke to her.
‘Oh, my dearest, yes. It sounds perfect! You are so clever with ideas.’ She turned to me. ‘How much for the doggie?’
‘What?’ I stepped back, clutching Fogg closer to my chest.
‘What d’ya want for the mutt?’ Vincent asked.
‘My dog is not for sale,’ I told them, in no uncertain terms, wondering what sort of people ask to buy someone’s dog.
‘Oh, no, we mean how much would you like for him to star in the movie?’ Mammie assured me with a tinkle of laughter. ‘It will only take one or two days. And we will make it while we’re filming locations.’
‘He can’t stay out overnight,’ I said, taking another step backwards because I wasn’t sure about this new enthusiasm.
‘We don’t never stay out at night,’ Vincent said. ‘Twenty dollars a day, plus twenty more when it’s in the can.’
I blinked. That seemed quite generous and I was in need of dollars. I tried to calculate how much a dead bath-draw boy might be worth.
‘Thirty,’ I said.
‘Done,’ Vincent snapped. ‘Give him to one of the boys.’ He pointed toward the bevy of hotel staff still carrying out the equipment.
‘Absolutely not.’ I replied. ‘My butler will go with him.’
Their jaws dropped.
‘A butler,’ Mammie uttered. ‘Did you hear that, Pappie. A real butler!’
‘You have a butler?’ Vincent said with a tone verging on awe.
Well, at last I’d finally impressed somebody.
‘Yes, he’s here somewhere.’ I turned to look around and spied him returning from the direction of the dining room. ‘Greggs.’
He arrived in unhurried fashion, sporting pristine butlering togs and a trace of egg on his chin. ‘Sir?’
‘Where have you been?’ I asked.
‘Taking breakfast,’ he informed me in stately fashion. ‘You did say that I should treat this trip as a holiday, sir.’
‘Did I?’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘Well, they’re going to make a movie with Fogg, Greggs. He’s a girl; ‘Delilah of the Desert’.’
He leaned forward a touch, possibly to check if I’d been drinking. ‘Pardon, sir?’
‘It won’t take long, only a day or so,’ I continued before he could object. ‘And not overnight. They will bring you back later today so you won’t miss anything.’
‘Sir, I don’t… I…’ he stuttered.
‘It’ll give you a chance to see the place,’ I offered in persuasion.
‘You can be in a movie.’ Mammie smiled at him. ‘Just imagine telling everyone you’ve been in one of Pappie’s shorts.’
He blanched and gazed at the lady wide-eyed.
‘Mrs Vincent means a short film. Greggs,’ I explained. ‘And they’ll pay you in American dollars.’
‘Indeed?’ That diverted his mind. He turned to me. ‘Sir, may I have quiet word?’
‘Certainly, Greggs.’
We stepped out of earshot.
‘Um, sir. About the unfortunate deaths last evening…’
‘Ah, yes, old chap. Don’t worry about it, I’m pretty certain neither of these two was involved,’ I assured him. ‘Particularly not with the bath-draw boy.’
‘No, sir, but somebody did kill the lady on purpose.’
‘Yes, Greggs, but from what I understand she probably deserved it.’ I realised that sounded rather heartless and re-grouped. ‘And I wouldn’t let Fogg go if I thought there was any danger.’
He frowned at me.
‘And there’s thirty dollars a day in it.’
He leaned in. ‘For each of us?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Erm,’ he thought about it for a second. ‘Very well, sir.’
Behind his customary hangdog expression I could detect a glimmer of excitement. I knew he’d revel in the telling of his movie experience once we returned home, not to mention the princely sum of thirty dollars a day.
‘Right.’ I handed Foggy over. ‘And look after him, Greggs.’
‘Sir,’ he replied loftily. ‘You may be certain I will protect Mr Fogg from all peril.’
‘Excellent, old chap.’
We returned to Vincent, who was pulling dollar bills from a fat roll as we spoke.
‘That’s thirty a-piece and you make damn sure not a hair on their heads is harmed,’ I warned him.
‘Yeah, sure.’ He thrust a bundle of dollars into my hand and waddled off, followed by my old retainer clutching Fogg.
I stood with hands in pockets for a moment, dithering and concerned that perhaps I’d been a bit hasty in letting them go. As the last Arab bag-carrier filed out, I decided to see them off.
A crowd had gathered at the hotel entrance and formed a semi-circle around the Rolls Royce which had brought us from the airport. Greggs had got into the front seat with Fogg on his lap. The little dog was staring around with his ears perked up and tongue hanging out. Mammie and Vincent had just climbed in the back. I didn’t recognise their driver, it wasn’t Jamal.
Behind the car were three camels, each held by a turbaned Arab in flowing robes of bleached linen. Perched upon the first was Bruce, the cameraman, on a tasselled saddle clasping the camera to his chest. The second and third animals were laden with more movie making gear. Chickens pecked around their cloven feet and a small phalanx of uniformed Arabs, presumably borrowed from the hotel, brought up the rear.
The Rolls set off at a dignified pace; one of the camels bellowed, causing the crowd to take a step backwards. With assorted grunts and snorts, the caravan trundled off, followed by the paid help. I watched as they disappeared down the dust-hazed street, then wandered back into the courtyard.
Swift was talking to Hamid at the reception desk, but called out when he saw me. ‘Lennox, where have you been?’
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ I replied. ‘Thought you said you were coming to see me at breakfast.’
‘You didn’t come to the dining room.’ He too looked tired, but his cream suit was immaculate.
‘I ate in my room and you said…’
‘Yes, well… Actually, I overslept.’ He looked a bit sheepish. ‘Anyway, Colonel Fontaine is here. He’s been questioning the staff and he said he wants to talk to us. They’re going to interview Persi.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because he thinks we’re involved.’
‘What? You mean we’re suspects?’
‘Yes. Come on.’ He headed off.
Chapter 8
We passed the terrace and crossed the lawn to the folly in the centre of the garden. It had an elegant facade built of eight columns with walls of white stone and black wrought-iron grills for windows. Actually, it was hard to see much detail because most of the building was smothered in roses, climbing up and over the domed roof.
Fontaine was seated at a teak table, pen in hand, the sergeant hovering behind him. They were both uniformed, although Fontaine had removed his kepi and placed it next to an open notebook on the table. He motioned for us to sit.
The place was furnished with a couple of chairs, two white couches covered in pastel cushions and a rug on the stone floor which was scattered with rose petals. It would have been rather romantic in different circumstances.
Persi was already seated on a sofa, she gave me a wan smile as we entered. Her blonde hair was again caught in a bun, she wore a peach dress which looked as washed-out as she did.
‘Hello, old stick.’ I sat next to her, placing an arm around her shoulders to give her a comforting hug.
‘Move away from the prisoner,’ Fontaine ordered. ‘Do not touch her.’
‘Why the devil shouldn’t I?’
Persi reached out her han
d, and in so doing, dropped something into my pocket.
‘Major Lennox,’ Fontaine insisted as the sergeant stepped forward.
I got up and moved to a chair, wondering what Persi had slipped to me. Swift was watching from the other chair.
‘Major Lennox, Chief Inspector Swift.’ The Colonel wrote both our names in his book. ‘You gentlemen have come here all the way from England to aid this lady?’ Fontaine started without preamble.
We nodded.
‘By helping her kill her rival, Josephine Belvoir?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Swift replied.
Fontaine’s pale blue eyes narrowed. ‘Mademoiselle Carruthers has been most active in her attempts to have Monsieur Langton released.’
‘Not to the point of murder,’ Swift said.
‘And how do you know this?’ Fontaine snapped.
Swift hesitated and countered. ‘What evidence do you have to justify holding Miss Carruthers?’
‘Her fingerprints were on the weapon.’
‘Among others.’ Swift remained calm, although I could hear anger rising in his voice.
I jumped in. ‘I gave her the gun to hold when I emptied the magazine.’ I turned towards her. ‘Isn’t that right, Persi?’
She nodded, tension etched on her face.
‘Her prints were also on the magazine,’ Fontaine continued.
I glanced at Persi again, but she had shifted her gaze to her hands clasped in her lap.
‘What of it?’ I asked.
‘There were two magazines. We found another one in a plant pot by the bar.’
Swift leaned forward. ‘Loaded with blanks or live ammunition?’
‘Blanks. It was evidently discarded,’ Fontaine replied. ‘The magazines were switched, it would have been quite simple.’ He paused to scrawl a brief note, then looked up again. ‘Did you supply the weapon and magazines?’
Swift bristled. ‘I told you last evening. Lennox and I didn’t arrive until around four in the afternoon. That gun had been used in the rehearsals the same morning. There are witnesses who can attest to it.’
Fontaine didn’t respond, he made more notes in his book. I thought it was a bit of an act because he would have known about the rehearsal already.
Death in Damascus: A 1920s Murder Mystery with Heathcliff Lennox Page 6
