Death in Damascus: A 1920s Murder Mystery with Heathcliff Lennox

by Karen Baugh Menuhin

  ‘It’s possible,’ his face hardened. ‘We’d better go and hear what she has to say.’

  I was about to follow when I was hailed by Bing. He was back at the bar, indulging in its delights.

  ‘What-ho, old bean.’ He raised a glass in my direction with a grin. ‘He loved the show. Haha.’

  ‘Well done, Bing, but don’t broadcast it, there’s a good chap.’

  He replied with a shaky salute.

  We reached the terrace and were almost instantly supplied with a gin and tonic apiece. I’d barely taken a sip when Lady Maitland and Genevieve arrived to sit on the other wicker chairs at our table. Neither of them accepted the waiter’s offer to bring them a drink.

  ‘Miss Carruthers has confirmed that you have the medallion, Major Lennox,’ Lady Maitland said.

  I regarded her in silence.

  ‘Who is this tomb-robber, and Hanno the Navigator?’ Swift leaned in. ‘And why are you looking for his house?’

  ‘Chief Inspector.’ Lady Maitland paused in her reply. ‘I do not take you for a fool. You must realise this situation is of national importance. I am not at liberty to tell you any more than you need to know. Do you understand?’

  ‘Would it make any difference if we knew who Hanno the Navigator was?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t know,’ Genevieve said to her Aunt.

  The lady conceded. ‘Very well. He was a Phoenician from Carthage. I assume you know their history.’

  ‘Not in detail,’ I said – actually I’d only vaguely heard of them.

  ‘The Phoenicians were the most prolific sea-traders in the ancient world. Hanno was their greatest explorer and he retired here, to Damascus. His house is said to depict his accumulated knowledge of the Phoenician world and their craft.’ She finished her potted lecture. ‘Now do you understand?’

  ‘So it is treasure?’ Swift said.

  ‘Ha!’ I exclaimed. ‘Told you so, Swift.’

  ‘Not as such,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, well, what is it then?’ I asked in exasperation.

  ‘Major Lennox, I assume you received a good education,’ came the haughty reply. ‘You should be quite capable of devising the reason yourself.’

  I thought she was being deliberately obtuse.

  I opened my mouth to ask if she knew anything about Josephine’s bracelet, but then decided against it. Swift held his tongue, too.

  ‘Now,’ she continued. ‘I have need of your services.’

  ‘To do what?’ I enquired.

  ‘To meet the tomb-robber and exchange the medallion for the whereabouts of the house.’

  ‘Why us?’ Swift demanded.

  Genevieve leaned forward. ‘Because the Raqisa is a nightclub. It’s men only.’

  ‘What sort of nightclub only permits men?’ I asked, then realised it was probably a stupid question.

  Genevieve laughed. ‘A club with dancing girls, of course.’

  ‘Right. In that case, we’ll go,’ I decided on behalf of us both.

  Swift turned his hawkish gaze on Lady Maitland. ‘Why have you left Miss Carruthers at the mercy of the French police?’

  ‘Because it is quite possible she murdered Josephine Belvoir.’

  ‘Of course she didn’t,’ I protested.

  ‘Can you prove that?’ She regarded me.

  ‘Yes.’

  They all looked at me in surprise. ‘Well, not right at this very moment. And… and anyway…’ I was becoming a bit flustered, ‘anyway, there’s no proof she did it. In fact anyone could have done. Including you.’ I finished on a note of retaliation.

  It didn’t garner me much. Lady Maitland merely laughed. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because Josephine Belvoir betrayed Beatrice Langton. And Beatrice was one of your agents.’ It was a stab in the dark, because I had no idea if she even knew Beatrice.

  She blanched. Her thin lips trembled briefly. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to tell you.’ I threw her words back at her.

  Genevieve had been watching me, but her eyes sharpened on her Aunt. Well, I assumed she was her Aunt. Frankly, I wasn’t too sure about anything now.

  Lady Maitland took a breath, pulled herself together, then fixed us both with cold eyes.

  ‘I will make a pact with you gentlemen, you will cooperate with us and we will keep you informed, where necessary.’

  ‘Very well,’ Swift agreed.

  ‘Good,’ she nodded. ‘Go to the Raqisa club. Exchange the medallion for the directions to Hanno’s house and return with it to me. Do you agree?’

  ‘We agree.’ Swift spoke. My mind was still fixed on the previous conversation.

  ‘Very well.’ She turned toward me. ‘Major Lennox, tell me how you knew Beatrice Langton was my agent.’

  ‘I didn’t, but it seemed logical and you’ve just confirmed it.’

  She looked furious, rose to her feet and stalked off with Genevieve in her wake.

  We stood as they departed, before dropping back into our chairs. I was glad to see them go. I stretched, being somewhat stiff after the rope climbing exertions.

  ‘If that’s an example of our secret service at work, we can all rest easy in our beds,’ I remarked while looking around for another gin and tonic.

  ‘I assume that was meant as sarcasm,’ Swift replied dryly.

  Hamid came in with a silver tray supporting two glasses, a small dish of sliced lemons and some crunchy cheese things.

  ‘What news from the courtyard, Hamid?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah, effendi, it is as feared, another tragedy. We suffer war beyond our city walls and now death sneaks like a thief into our haven. I am a man distraught,’ he said in mordant tones. ‘And the Al Shami is once more overrun by our Lordly Masters, the French.’

  Poor chap, seemed like we were all having a difficult day.

  We drank in silence, both of us deep in thought.

  I churned events in my mind. After that whole damn palaver, I thought, all Lady Maitland wanted us to do was go to a nightclub and watch dancing girls. Quite frankly I’d have gone anyway.

  ‘Our lady spies didn’t murder Josephine,’ Swift said at last.

  ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘They’re here to rescue Langton.’

  ‘They’re here to rescue Langton’s mission,’ Swift corrected.

  ‘These Phoenicians – I thought they were some sort of myth. Don’t happen to know who they were, do you?’

  ‘No, but then I haven’t had the benefit of your expensive education.’

  ‘Hum.’ Can’t say I’d made much use of it either. ‘Persi will be able to tell us all about it.’

  ‘Once we manage to talk to her. Look, I need a shower.’ He stood up.

  ‘Um.’ So did I after all that rope climbing.

  ‘We’ll meet at dusk.’

  I nodded and followed him through to the courtyard. It was as busy as a train station with Gendarmes firing questions at the staff and anyone else they’d been able to corner. The sergeant tried to intercept us but Fontaine was there; he knew we couldn’t have been involved in the lawyer’s murder and waved us away.

  ‘Swift,’ I said as I was about to enter my rooms.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where is the Raqisa?’

  He paused for a moment. ‘We will have to find out. But Lennox,’ he warned, ‘don’t tell anyone, it must be absolutely hush-hush.’

  ‘Yes, of course!’ I replied. ‘I’m perfectly capable of keeping secrets, Swift.’

  Chapter 15

  I emerged from the shower in my dressing gown to discover my little dog had returned. He greeted me ecstatically and I gave his ears a good ruffle as he leapt about my knees. Greggs was still wearing his butlering togs with a smidgeon of sand about his person. He wa
s fidgeting about my room, picking up towels and socks and what have you.

  ‘Greetings, old chap.’

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ he intoned. ‘There were a number of Frenchmen in the courtyard.’

  ‘Yes, another body, Greggs,’ I told him.

  ‘Another, sir?’

  ‘Um, the lawyer, Midhurst, I think.’

  ‘Dead, sir?’ His brows had shot up.

  ‘Yes, that’s the nature of bodies, Greggs.’

  His mouth opened and closed. I gave him a moment but he just stared, so I began donning my linen suit.

  ‘How went Fogg’s foray into films?’ I asked while buttoning up my shirt.

  ‘Erm… Mr Fogg wore a ribbon, sir. It was pink.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ I picked the little dog up to give him a reassuring cuddle. ‘Where?’

  ‘On his topknot, sir.’ Greggs reached a hand above his head as though pinching some hair, he looked like a ponderous ballerina.

  ‘Ah.’ I hid a smile. ‘And the movie making?’

  ‘It was… singular, sir.’

  ‘Singular?’

  ‘Indeed, sir. The cameraman, Mr Bruce, first recorded various shots of the city and the desert under the direction of Mrs Vincent and then Mr Vincent began the ‘short’. He directed the hired hands to race from one side of an area to the other, and then they had to hold up their arms in fear and run through a gate.’

  ‘And this was outside of the city walls?’ I asked.

  ‘It was, sir. I assumed you would have understood that to be the case.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Greggs. Carry on.’

  He sniffed. ‘Mr Vincent had devised a story, ‘Delilah of the Desert’. Mr Fogg was lost in the desert when the aeroplane he and his owners were travelling in crashed. Mr Fogg was the only survivor.’

  ‘And did the Vincents have an aeroplane?’

  ‘No, sir. The opening scene was written on a board called an ‘inter-title’ and held before the camera. With this being merely a short movie, there is no need for extravagance.’

  ‘Oh.’ Obviously he was an expert now. ‘Well, carry on.’

  ‘A local boy was used for the role of the shepherd boy. He found Mr Fogg and carried him to a tribal group, seated about a fire.’

  ‘And these were also locals?’

  ‘Yes, sir, there was nowhere else they could have come from.’ He sounded a tad testy. ‘The chieftain snatched Mr Fogg from the arms of the boy, knocking him into the sand to crawl away. Then the chieftain tied Mr Fogg up and placed him next to another boy who was already tied up.’

  He paused to wait for me to say something, but I refrained from comment. ‘The next scene was explained by another inter-title board. These ruffians had kidnapped a young Prince from a neighbouring tribe and were holding him to ransom. But, the shepherd boy had a good and brave heart, sir. So he sneaked into the camp while the tribe was carousing around the fire and attempted to cut through the ropes.’

  ‘And he released them?’

  ‘Unhappily, he was discovered and he too was made a prisoner.’

  ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed. It sounded like quite a good story, actually.

  ‘And then Mr Fogg chewed through the ropes – it was part of the movie.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, it was ‘staged’, sir, I gave him a sausage which looked like a rope.’

  ‘Ah, excellent, Greggs. Well done, old chap!’

  He puffed out his chest. ‘But just at the very moment of their freedom, warriors from a warring tribe appeared on the horizon galloping on horses and waving swords.’

  ‘Good Lord! And this was the Prince’s father?’

  ‘Alas no, sir. It was indeed a warring tribe and we had to gather ourselves, the equipment and camels and make haste for the safety of the city. I saved Mr Fogg, sir.’

  ‘Marvellous! So you are the hero of the day?’

  ‘Oh,’ he demurred, ‘I would not go so far as to say that, sir.’ He smiled, making his chins wobble.

  ‘Greggs, you are too modest.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ He gave a small bow.

  ‘And is the movie making finished now?’

  ‘No, sir, Mrs Vincent has informed me we will be venturing out again tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah, well there’s no need to hand over the dibs until it’s all over, is there,’ I told him, because I only had a few dollars of my own left and I had no idea what expenses would be required at the Raqisa.

  He frowned.

  ‘Don’t worry, you will get it!’

  ‘Humm, very well, sir. May I enquire of your day?’

  ‘Erm…’ I thought of Persi, the souk, the rope, the corpse, Lady Maitland holding a gun and said, ‘This and that, you know.’

  ‘Ah, in that case, sir, do you mind if I retire early? It has been a somewhat adventurous day.’

  ‘Certainly, Greggs. I’m just going to, erm… have a drink, early dinner and all that. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  ‘Fogg?’ I called. ‘Foggy?’ He had burrowed under the bed covers, but he raised his head when I called, yawned, stretched, wagged his tail and jumped down to the floor. He was a game little dog.

  I picked him up and carried him to the roof garden, which he hadn’t explored yet. He found a nest of mice in one of the pots which was terribly exciting. While he yapped and raced around the urn, I sat on a wicker chair in contemplation. The sun was dropping below the distant mountains, sending pastel colours to play along low strung clouds. A camel bellowed somewhere in the city, followed by a braying donkey.

  What time was it at home? I wondered. Tea-time probably. Cook would be taking hot scones from the oven, Tommy would be sitting on the rocking chair near the stove with Tubbs curled snuggly on his lap. There would be a kettle on the boil and steam rising to mist the windows. Snow was probably piling on the sills as winter set in and down in the village, they would be hanging Christmas wreathes and candle lanterns. I sighed.

  ‘Come on Foggy,’ I called and we made our way back to my rooms.

  I settled at my desk with my dog at my feet, opened my notebook on a blank page and started to write.

  Did Josephine truly betray Beatrice? Then added, Lady Maitland knew Beatrice Langton, and paused again before jotting down, Lawyer most probably killed by Josephine. Were Fontaine and Josephine working together? If so, Fontaine could have killed Josephine? I struck a line through the last sentence because I couldn’t imagine why he would have done. I paused to consider Lady Maitland’s entirely inadequate history lesson. Hanno was a Phoenician, his house contains a map, or something, which is of national interest – beyond gold and riches. What could an ancient house contain that is of interest to a modern-day government?

  I paused to stare at the page a few seconds and then stopped because no amount of thinking on my part was making matters any clearer. I blotted the page, tossed my book back on top of a wardrobe and went off in search of a drink and Swift in that order.

  Bing was still at the bar, he waved.

  ‘Lennox, all hail, old bean.’ His words were slightly slurred.

  ‘Greetings, Bing.’ I slid onto a stool next to him as the excellent bartender placed a snifter in front of me.

  ‘They found the lawyer,’ he confided. ‘Someone stabbed him with a stiletto. No prizes for guessing who did it, eh?’ He ended on a laugh devoid of all humour.

  ‘She wasn’t worth the heartache, Harry. Cut out the booze, it’s not helping.’

  He was propped up by the elbows on the mahogany counter. ‘Become a bit of a habit.’

  ‘Haven’t seen Swift or Mrs Vincent, have you?’ I asked as I took an appreciative sip of excellent brandy.

  ‘No idea where Sherlock is, but Mammie was being interrogated by the French fuzz. They found her lawyer – he’s dead you know. Gett
ing bally dangerous around here!’ He hiccupped and reached for the bottle of whisky next to his glass but the barman beat him to it.

  I held my hand up. ‘Put it away. Mr Bing has had enough.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Yes, you have.’ And I was right because he gave a groan and slumped to the bar.

  The bartender and I looked at him and shrugged, then I thought of something and leaned in.

  ‘Don’t happen to know the whereabouts of the Raqisa, do you?’ I asked the man quietly.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Doesn’t speak English,’ Harry whispered loudly.

  ‘Thought you were out of it?’ I frowned at him, he was still face down on the woodwork.

  ‘Fooled you, haha.’ He gave a drunken giggle.

  ‘Bing,’ I warned, although there wasn’t much I could do to the damn sot.

  ‘Wait.’ He sat up. ‘I know where it is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Raqisa. I’ve been there.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’ He pushed his empty glass aside. ‘But I can show you.’

  ‘You’re not coming.’

  ‘You won’t find it on your own.’ He smoothed his tie down and then his hair.

  ‘I’ll ask the staff.’

  ‘Fontaine’s got them lined up for questioning too.’

  I looked around. He was right, apart from the barman there was no-one else to be seen.

  ‘I promise not to drink.’ Bing held a hand up. ‘Scouts’ honour!’

  I let loose a quiet curse as Swift came down the stairs.

  ‘Ready, Lennox?’ He was wearing his trench coat over cream slacks and a white shirt and tie, hardly the sort of attire for an evening watching dancing girls.

  ‘I’m taking you to the Raqisa,’ Bing called.

  ‘What?’ Swift glared at me. ‘You told him! Good God, Lennox, what the devil did you do that for?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I protested. ‘Well, not on purpose. Anyway, there was no one else to ask.’

  ‘Hamid will know,’ he marched off before I had a chance to tell him about Fontaine and the staff.

  He came back after a fruitless circuit. ‘Where is everyone?’