They Came to Baghdad Read Online Free Page B

continuing round Trafalgar Square. The private car, a grey Standard, was now close behind Anna Scheele. It contained two passengers, a fair rather vacant-looking young man at the wheel and a smartly dressed young woman beside him. The Standard followed Anna Scheele’s taxi along Piccadilly and up Bond Street. Here for a moment it paused by the kerb, and the young woman got out.
    She called brightly and conventionally.
    â€œThanks so much.”
    The car went on. The young woman walked along glancing every now and again into a window. A block held up the traffic. The young woman passed both the Standard and Anna Scheele’s taxi. She arrived at Cartier’s and went inside.
    Anna Scheele paid off her taxi and went into the jeweller’s. She spent some time looking at various pieces of jewellery. In the end she selected a sapphire and diamond ring. She wrote a cheque for it on a London bank. At the sight of the name on it, a little extra empressement came into the assistant’s manner.
    â€œGlad to see you in London again, Miss Scheele. Is Mr. Morganthal over?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI wondered. We have a very fine star sapphire here—I know he is interested in star sapphires. If you would care to see it?”
    Miss Scheele expressed her willingness to see it, duly admired it and promised to mention it to Mr. Morganthal.
    She went out again into Bond Street, and the young woman who had been looking at clip earrings expressed herself as unable to make up her mind and emerged also.
    The grey Standard car having turned to the left in Grafton Street and gone down to Piccadilly was just coming up Bond Street again. The young woman showed no signs of recognition.
    Anna Scheele had turned into the Arcade. She entered a florist’s. She ordered three dozen long stemmed roses, a bowl full of sweet big purple violets, a dozen sprays of white lilac, and a jar of mimosa. She gave an address for them to be sent.
    â€œThat will be twelve pounds, eighteen shillings, madam.”
    Anna Scheele paid and went out. The young woman who had just come in asked the price of a bunch of primroses but did not buy them.
    Anna Scheele crossed Bond Street and went along Burlington Street and turned into Savile Row. Here she entered the establishment of one of those tailors who, whilst catering essentially for men, occasionally condescend to cut a suit for certain favoured members of the feminine sex.
    Mr. Bolford received Miss Scheele with the greeting accorded to a valued client, and the materials for a suit were considered.
    â€œFortunately, I can give you our own export quality. When will you be returning to New York, Miss Scheele?”
    â€œOn the twenty-third.”
    â€œWe can manage that nicely. By the clipper, I presume?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd how are things in America? They are very sadly here—very sadly indeed.” Mr. Bolford shook his head like a doctor describing a patient. “No heart in things, if you know what I mean. And no one coming along who takes any pride in a good job of work. D’you know who will cut your suit, Miss Scheele? Mr. Lantwick—seventy-two years of age he is and he’s the only man I’ve got I can really trust to cut for our best people. All the others—”
    Mr. Bolford’s plump hands waved them away.
    â€œQuality,” he said. “That’s what this country used to be renowned for. Quality! Nothing cheap, nothing flashy. When we try mass production we’re no good at it, and that’s a fact. That’s your country’s speciality, Miss Scheele. What we ought to stand for, and I say it again, is quality. Take time over things, and trouble, and turn out an article that no one in the world can beat. Now what day shall we say for the first fitting. This day week? At 11:30? Thank you very much.”
    Making her way through the archaic gloom round bales of material, Anna Scheele emerged into daylight again. She hailed a