Search for a Sultan, page 3
His pessimism proved justified. Among the appalling litter of both the main rooms, he discovered nothing of importance, which was not surprising since every cupboard had already been ransacked and the earlier searchers had probably just enough time to grab anything of interest to them. The only remaining rooms, the kitchenette and a little cubby hole in which Hassan evidently slept were equally barren of interest, and, as he announced gloomily to Bagshott, he could see no point in remaining there any longer.
“What will you do now then?” asked the Chief Superintendent.
“Well, I hate to go back to the office absolutely empty handed,” said Tommy. “So although they’ll probably set the dog on me, I did think of calling in at the Qathusian Embassy.”
“You’re certainly sticking your neck out,” said the other. “What do you hope to get from there?”
“I just want to see one of the servants. This fellow Sampiero, in fact, who used to work for the Prince. It appears he’s got a job there now which seems odd if; as Hassan said, the Prince sacked him for dishonesty.”
The uniformed man who had witnessed the scene over the gun looked up as Tommy was speaking:
“Excuse me sir,” he asked “what was that name you mentioned just then? Something—’ Piero’ was it?”
“Sampiero,” said Hambledon. “A Corsican name I believe. Why, does it mean anything to you?”
“I think it was the name of the … er . . gentleman with the gun,” said the man. “At least, the other one called him by something like that while you were out of the room.”
Tommy slapped his hand to his forehead.
“Of course!” he cried. “What an idiot I am! I might have guessed it. He looked every inch a Corsican when you come to think of it. How could I have let him go like that without realising? Why he’s probably the key man in the whole thing. Hassan was sure he was in touch with the Prince’s enemies while he was his valet and naturally he would be just the person to bring along if they wanted to delve into Achmed’s private affairs now.”
“Just the man who’d be glad of a chance to put a bullet through Hassan, too,” said Bagshott. “I wish we could have got his fingerprints.”
“Couldn’t I go to the Embassy and ask?” said Hambledon. “After all, the Ambassador would surely see that it was reasonable for us to want their prints, and Prince Achmed’s too—I mean for the purpose of elimination.”
“It’s an idea,” admitted Bagshott. “I don’t know if the lads have found any clear prints yet, but we shall of course need a set of everybody’s who’s been about in the apartment if we are to use them for identification purposes.”
The telephone rang in the next room and the sergeant who answered it called Tommy.
“It’s for you Mr. Hambledon, sir. From the Foreign Office.”
“Oh Lor’,” said Tommy “this is it!”—and it was! A very irate Assistant Secretary informed him curtly that there had been a complaint laid against him by the Qathusian Embassy that he, Hambledon, had manhandled and maltreated two of their representatives in a manner wounding to the dignity of the Qathusian nation and would the foreign Office please take steps, or else!
Tommy tried to apologise but the official cut him short. “It’s no good apologising to me,” he said. “You’d better call on the Ambassador at once and express your profound regrets. We must try to avoid this thing building up into an `incident’ whatever we do. Tell him you lost your head or something, it doesn’t matter what, as long as you can smooth him down.”
“Well, it seems I’m going to the Embassy, anyway,” said Hambledon, telling Bagshott what had happened. “Touching isn’t it, the way our people always automatically assume that we’re in the wrong?”
“It’s the same with the police,” sympathised Bagshott. “Some fellow tries to shoot us up and if we tackle him roughly the Magistrate calls us beasts.”
*
The servant who opened the door to Hambledon at the Qathusian Embassy seemed dubious about his chances of seeing the Ambassador in person.
“His Excellency had a very disturbed night and has given strict orders that he will see nobody. Would you care to see one of the Attachés instead?”
“No thank you,” said Tommy. He had had enough of Attachés that morning. “Perhaps if you told His Excellency that I have come to apologise for the unfortunate incident at Prince Achmed’s apartment he may see me. Say that I have come from the Foreign Office as a result of his complaint—he’ll understand.”
The message succeeded in as much as the Ambassador agreed to see Tommy, but he was clearly puzzled by it.
“You say you wish to apologise on behalf of the Foreign Office, Mr … er …”
“Hambledon,” prompted Tommy. “Well not exactly that, I just … er … wanted to say I was sorry I rather lost my head this morning.
The Ambassador, who looked weary and distracted, shook his head, uncomprehendingly.
“Forgive me, my dear sir, if I seem rather dull,” he said. “The last twelve hours have been like a nightmare, as you can imagine, with the sudden death of our Sultan’s son and heir right in front of our eyes. But the fact is I have no idea what you are talking about. I have made no complaint to your Office.”
“You mean your Excellency has not spoken to the Foreign Office about the way I behaved towards your Senior Attaché and his assistant this morning?”
“Most certainly not,” said the Ambassador. “To what Senior Attaché do you refer? Surely not Mr. Boukhba?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Tommy “and someone I believe is called Sampiero.”
The Ambassador sighed and put his hand to his head with a weary gesture.
“Boukhba,” he muttered, “Boukhba again! What has he been doing now?” His eyes widened suddenly. “And Sampiero, did you say?” he asked, surprised. “Was he with Sulman bin Boukhba then?”
“He was indeed,” said Hambledon, beginning to see where the land lay. “And as your Excellency evidently knows nothing about this matter, I think I had better tell you just what happened.”
Tommy then told him the whole story from Hassan’s arrival at the police station until he received the message telling him of the Embassy’s complaint and when he had finished the Ambassador rose from his chair and walked up and down behind his desk in evident agitation.
“Mr. Hambledon,” he said at last, “your country and mine have always been allies and, I am proud to say, friends. I know I can trust you, therefore, to regard what I am going to tell you as absolutely confidential.”
Hambledon nodded and muttered, “Of course.” He was beginning to feel glad the Assistant Secretary had insisted on his coming there.
“Sulman bin Boukhba,” went on the Ambassador “has for some time been suspected by me as working for the Extremist Party of Qathusn and evidence which I received only yesterday confirmed this. If it had not been our National Day, this man would already have been on his way home under escort to stand his trial, but with all the arrangements to be made for the Reception I was foolish enough to leave things over until today. Mr. Hambledon,” he went on, his voice breaking with emotion, “I shall never forgive myself for that lapse.”
“But it was very understandable,” said Tommy. “And after all, not fatal. He is still in London, and you can easily get hold of him.”
The Ambassador shook his head. He was no more than middle-aged, but at that moment he looked like an old man. “You do not understand,” he said. “What I have done, even if indirectly, is to cause the death of our Sultan’s son and now, as it seems, of his faithful servant as well. For I am utterly convinced,” he said, leaning forward and fixing Hambledon with a look of dramatic intensity, “that Boukhba was in some way responsible for the death of Prince Achmed, he and this wretched Corsican Sampiero, who is no more than a bandit that robbed and exploited his late master when he was alive, and now, as you tell me, has gone on robbing him after his death.”
“If what you tell me is true,” said Hambledon “why did you not ask Scotland Yard to investigate the Prince’s death? I understand they offered their assistance.”
The Ambassador made a hopeless gesture.
“Yes, it may have been wrong of me,” he admitted. “I have acted foolishly throughout perhaps, but you must understand that my country is at present in a troubled state. There is a great deal of tension between the Extremists and the Sultan’s supporters, and I feared that a premature announcement about the Prince being assassinated might set off riots there. The Sultan, of course, has been told the truth of our suspicions, and he agrees with me that it is better the world should think his son died of heart failure than by the hand of one of his own subjects.”
“There is no reason why that should not remain the official story,” said Tommy. “It is up to you to decide whether you want to take any action against Boukhba in connection with the Prince’s death. But I must tell you that Scotland Yard will certainly proceed against him and Sampiero for the murder of Hassan—unless, that is, you extend diplomatic immunity to them.”
The Ambassador looked startled at the suggestion.
“I extend nothing but my heartiest support to any measure which will bring them to justice. Is there any possibility,” he added hopefully “that they may be hanged if they are convicted?”
“Well,” said Hambledon, “capital punishment is still the penalty for murder, committed in the course of a robbery, which is what this amounted to, I suppose.
The other man nodded. “If it is Allah’s Will, then,” he said, “your hangman may avenge our Prince’s death for us. Rest assured that I shall offer you all the assistance possible to that end.”
“In that case,” said Hambledon, “I had better telephone Chief Superintendent Bagshott at once. He must get after those two without delay.”
“Yes,” said the Ambassador. “There’s no time to lose. Boukhba, I know, has his passport, and both probably have connections abroad. I’ll call my secretary and she will give you his address and all other particulars possible.”
He picked up the house telephone and then hesitated.
“There is just one other point Mr. Hambledon,” he said. “While we are alone. You mentioned that Hassan spoke of his late Highness as having a son somewhere. I may tell you I have often suspected this. It was of course always a source of sorrow to the Sultan that his son did not marry and beget an heir and this secret ménage of the Prince’s would explain why he refused his father’s frequent entreaties to do so.
“Yes, I suppose a Western girl would not care much for the Muslim idea of polygamy,” said Tommy, “but couldn’t the Prince have told his father the truth?”
“The Sultan is very strict in his beliefs,” said the Ambassador. “He belongs to the old Order of Islam and would never recognise an Infidel as his son’s bride. Nevertheless, I am convinced that now it would bring joy to his heart if a son of his son could be found to succeed him on the throne of Qathusn. Last night on the telephone he sounded utterly broken, and part of his misery, I know, came from the knowledge that now his successor will break with all the traditions he has so carefully preserved, all our country’s ties with the West, and plunge Qathusn into the throes of unrest and dissension.”
“Well of course we should be glad if another heir could be found, too,” said Hambledon. “So would the British and American oil interests.”
The Ambassador came round the desk and put his hand on Tommy’s shoulders.
“Mr. Hambledon,” he said quietly, “when you came here this morning, I was putting my affairs in order because I did not intend to be alive tonight. I felt I could not go on living after what I had done, but now Allah has shown me how I may make amends. Find that boy for me, Mr. Hambledon, and you will have saved my life and perhaps the lives of many of my countrymen.”
Chapter III. Morning In Paris
BY the time the Ambassador’s secretary had produced Boukhba’s address, Bagshott had already left the Prince’s apartment, and Hambledon decided to go straight to the Yard with his information about the Attaché.
“Of course I shall have to ask for official authority to undertake this search,” he told the Ambassador. “But I see no reason why it should not be granted. Anyhow, I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve been to the Yard and had time to call in at my office.”
The Chief Superintendent had just returned to Scotland Yard when Hambledon arrived there, and, having heard the news, he sent a squad car to the Attaché’s house to pick him up, or at any rate search the premises if he were not there, himself.
“Meantime,” said Tommy, “I’ll get over to the Foreign Office. I’m longing to tell that Assistant Secretary fellow the truth about these important characters I insulted this morning!”
“Before you go,” said Bagshott, “there’s something down in the fingerprint department which might interest you. Let’s call in there on the way.”
As usual there had been a great many fingerprints found on various objects in the Prince’s apartment,. but some of them looked as if they might tie up with the murder committed there.
“For example,” said the Officer who had been in charge of that side of the investigation, “on the window sill of the bathroom and along the wall outside there were three distinct sets of dabs—one we were able to eliminate at once as Hassan’s, the other two were found on various objects in both the rooms where the furniture was disturbed but nowhere else.”
“Unless the Prince was given to entering his flat via the wall and the window, then,” suggested Hambledon, “the other two sets were presumably those of the murderer and his pal.”
“Exactly,” said Bagshott, “and as I take it we can now get a specimen of the Prince’s fingerprints from the Embassy, there should be no difficulty in eliminating his from the other ones.”
“What was it you thought would interest me specially?” asked Tommy.
“Ah, yes,” said the Superintendent. “Where is it now … here we are … this picture. It’s such a nice glossy surface we hoped for a whole lot of dabs from it, but there’s only one clear print and that’s probably the Prince’s.”
“It’s the same as the prints we have found on the shaving brush and other personal items,” said the Officer in charge, handing Tommy the photo, “And we suppose it is unlikely the intruders would have handled those.”
Hambledon examined the photograph with interest. It was apparently a commercial photographer’s print of three people taken on board a ship. One of them he recognised at once, from photographs he had seen at the Embassy, as the late Prince Achmed; the other two were a youngish-looking woman and a boy of about four or five years old.
Tommy whistled.
“This is quite something,” he said. “Just the sort of thing we were looking for, in fact. Where did you find it?”
“It was at the back of a framed photo, a portrait of the Sultan, on the bedside table,” explained Bagshott. “Quite a good hiding-place, really. It was only because the Sultan’s picture seemed unusually thick that I thought to prize open the back.”
“Did it look fairly undisturbed?” asked Hambledon.
“Completely, and the fingerprints on it seemed to confirm that only one person has looked at it in recent years.”
“From the woman’s clothes,” said Tommy, “I should say this was taken just before the war, and from the way the Prince has got his arm round them both it really looks as if this might be the secret wife and son. Can you read the name on that lifebelt?” he said. “Ile de something or other it looks like.”
“Yes, the rest of the name has been scratched out,” said Bagshott. “Also the rubber stamp of the photographer has been carefully erased from the back, which sounds as if someone, presumably the Prince, wanted to make sure that anyone who came across it shouldn’t be able to track down the original.”
“Which again suggests,” said Tommy, “that there’s something to hide. Also his keeping it behind his own father’s picture suggests that he prized it very specially! Yes, this really is a break. I take it you can let me have a copy.”
Bagshott nodded.
“I’ll have one done right away,” he said. “Of course I’ll have to keep this one in case it’s needed in evidence.”
“There was nothing else, I suppose, that might help me?” asked Hambledon.
“Not a thing I’m afraid. There was very little personal stuff there, so either the Prince didn’t keep much in London or else our friends got away with it.”
“Well, this is something they didn’t get away with,” said Hambledon, “and it might give me just that much start over them if they’re looking for the long-lost heir, which quite likely they are.”
“What will be your first move then?” asked Bagshott. “France, I suppose?”
“Paris would seem the best starting point,” agreed Tommy. “It shouldn’t be difficult to find a ship called the Ile of something, and then from the passenger lists I might get an address. In any case, if you remember, Hassan thought the wife and family of the Prince were living somewhere in France. I’ll get back to my office now and tell them what’s happened and if all goes well I’ll be off tonight.”
“O.K.,” said Bagshott. “Do you want me to send that photo over or will you collect?”
“I’ll collect it from here,” said Hambledon, “because in any case I’ll want to know whether you’ve got hold of Boukhba and Sampiero. I’d rather like to see those two again myself now I know just how much diplomatic immunity they can count on!”
The Foreign Office turned out to be rather dubious about Hambledon taking on the job of finding the missing heir, and it was only after the Minister himself had been consulted that a somewhat reluctant O.K. was given.
“But for goodness sake don’t involve us in any embarrassment,” warned the Junior Assistant Secretary. “As the Minister has just pointed out, Great Britain has been accused so often of interfering in Arab affairs, that we can’t afford to risk this turning into an international upset.”
