Cat Among the Pigeons. Agatha Christie

you are right,’ said Ali sombrely.

      ‘The thing people don’t seem to want anywhere, nowadays,’ said Bob, ‘is anyone who’s got a bit of common sense. I’ve never been a brainy chap—well, you know that well enough, Ali—but I often think that that’s what the world really needs—just a bit of common sense.’ He laid aside his pipe and sat in his chair. ‘But never mind all that. The thing is how we’re going to get you out of here. Is there anybody in the Army you can really trust?’

      Slowly, Prince Ali Yusuf shook his head.

      ‘A fortnight ago, I should have said “Yes.” But now, I do not know…cannot be sure—’

      Bob nodded. ‘That’s the hell of it. As for this palace of yours, it gives me the creeps.’

      Ali acquiesced without emotion.

      ‘Yes, there are spies everywhere in palaces…They hear everything—they—know everything.’

      ‘Even down in the hangars—’ Bob broke off. ‘Old Achmed’s all right. He’s got a kind of sixth sense. Found one of the mechanics trying to tamper with the plane—one of the men we’d have sworn was absolutely trustworthy. Look here, Ali, if we’re going to have a shot at getting you away, it will have to be soon.’

      ‘I know—I know. I think—I am quite certain now—that if I stay I shall be killed.’

      He spoke without emotion, or any kind of panic: with a mild detached interest.

      ‘We’ll stand a good chance of being killed anyway,’ Bob warned him. ‘We’ll have to fly out north, you know. They can’t intercept us that way. But it means going over the mountains—and at this time of year—’

      He shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’ve got to understand. It’s damned risky.’

      Ali Yusuf looked distressed.

      ‘If anything happened to you, Bob—’

      ‘Don’t worry about me, Ali. That’s not what I meant. I’m not important. And anyway, I’m the sort of chap that’s sure to get killed sooner or later. I’m always doing crazy things. No—it’s you—I don’t want to persuade you one way or the other. If a portion of the Army is loyal—’

      ‘I don’t like the idea of running away,’ said Ali simply. ‘But I do not in the least want to be a martyr, and be cut to pieces by a mob.’

      He was silent for a moment or two.

      ‘Very well then,’ he said at last with a sigh. ‘We will make the attempt. When?’

      Bob shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘Sooner the better. We’ve got to get you to the airstrip in some natural way…How about saying you’re going to inspect the new road construction out at Al Jasar? Sudden whim. Go this afternoon. Then, as your car passes the airstrip, stop there—I’ll have the bus all ready and tuned up. The idea will be to go up to inspect the road construction from the air, see? We take off and go! We can’t take any baggage, of course. It’s got to be all quite impromptu.’

      ‘There is nothing I wish to take with me—except one thing—’

      He smiled, and suddenly the smile altered his face and made a different person of him. He was no longer the modern conscientious Westernized young man—the smile held all the racial guile and craft which had enabled a long line of his ancestors to survive.

      ‘You are my friend, Bob, you shall see.’

      His hand went inside his shirt and fumbled. Then he held out a little chamois leather bag.

      ‘This?’ Bob frowned and looked puzzled.

      Ali took it from him, untied the neck, and poured the contents on the table.

      Bob held his breath for a moment and then expelled it in a soft whistle.

      ‘Good lord. Are they real?’

      Ali looked amused.

      ‘Of course they are real. Most of them belonged to my father. He acquired new ones every year. I, too. They have come from many places, bought for our family by men we can trust—from London, from Calcutta, from South Africa. It is a tradition of our family. To have these in case of need.’ He added in a matter of fact voice: ‘They are worth, at today’s prices, about three quarters of a million.’

      ‘Three quarters of a million pounds.’ Bob let out a whistle, picked up the stones, let them run through his fingers. ‘It’s fantastic. Like a fairy tale. It does things to you.’

      ‘Yes.’ The dark young man nodded. Again that age-long weary look was on his face. ‘Men are not the same when it comes to jewels. There is always a trail of violence to follow such things. Deaths, bloodshed, murder. And women are the worst. For with women it will not only be the value. It is something to do with the jewels themselves. Beautiful jewels drive women mad. They want to own them. To wear them round their throats, on their bosoms. I would not trust any woman with these. But I shall trust you.’

      ‘Me?’ Bob stared.

      ‘Yes. I do not want these stones to fall into the hands of my enemies. I do not know when the rising against me will take place. It may be planned for today. I may not live to reach the airstrip this afternoon. Take the stones and do the best you can.’

      ‘But look here—I don’t understand. What am I to do with them?’

      ‘Arrange somehow to get them out of the country.’

      Ali stared placidly at his perturbed friend.

      ‘You mean, you want me to carry them instead of you?’

      ‘You can put it that way. But I think, really, you will be able to think of some better plan to get them to Europe.’

      ‘But look here, Ali, I haven’t the first idea how to set about such a thing.’

      Ali leaned back in his chair. He was smiling in a quietly amused manner.

      ‘You have common sense. And you are honest. And I remember, from the days when you were my fag, that you could always think up some ingenious idea…I will give you the name and address of a man who deals with such matters for me—that is—in case I should not survive. Do not look so worried, Bob. Do the best you can. That is all I ask. I shall not blame you if you fail. It is as Allah wills. For me, it is simple. I do not want those stones taken from my dead body. For the rest—’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is as I have said. All will go as Allah wills.’

      ‘You’re nuts!’

      ‘No. I am a fatalist, that is all.’

      ‘But look here, Ali. You said just now I was honest. But three quarters of a million…Don’t you think that might sap any man’s honesty?’

      Ali Yusuf looked at his friend with affection.

      ‘Strangely enough,’ he said, ‘I have no doubt on that score.’

       Chapter 2

       The Woman on the Balcony

      As Bob Rawlinson walked along the echoing marble corridors of the Palace, he had never felt so unhappy in his life. The knowledge that he was carrying three quarters of a million pounds in his trousers pocket caused him acute misery. He felt as though every Palace official he encountered must know the fact. He felt even that the knowledge of his precious burden must show in his face. He would have been relieved to learn that his freckled countenance bore exactly its usual expression of cheerful good nature.

      The sentries outside presented arms with a clash. Bob walked down the main crowded street of Ramat, his mind still dazed. Where was he