Parker Pyne Investigates
Agatha Christie
A collection of short stories featuring the ‘heart specialist’, Parker Pyne.Mrs Packington felt alone, helpless and utterly forlorn. But her life changed when she stumbled upon an advertisement in The Times which read: ‘ARE YOU HAPPY? IF NOT, CONSULT MR PARKER PYNE’.Equally adept at putting together the pieces of a marriage or the fragments of a murder mystery, Mr Parker Pyne was possibly the world’s most unconventional private eye – and certainly its most charming.
Agatha Christie
Parker Pyne Investigates
Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by
Collins 1936
Copyright © 1936 Agatha Christie Ltd.
All rights reserved.
www.agathachristie.com
Epub Edition 2010 ISBN: 9780007422661
The moral right of the author is asserted
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.
Version: 2017-04-12
Contents
Cover (#ulink_2810ca7f-2cf9-56e7-aa06-3ea174fac305)
Title Page
Copyright
Author’s Foreword
The Case of the Middle-Aged Wife
The Case of the Discontented Soldier
The Case of the Distressed Lady
The Case of the Discontented Husband
The Case of the City Clerk
The Case of the Rich Woman
Have You Got Everything You Want?
The Gate of Baghdad
The House at Shiraz
The Pearl of Price
Death on the Nile
The Oracle at Delphi
Problem at Pollensa Bay
The Regatta Mystery
About the Author
Other Books by Agatha Christie
Credits
About the Publisher
Author’s Foreword
One day, having lunch at a Corner House, I was enraptured by a conversation on statistics going on at a table behind me. I turned my head and caught a vague glimpse of a bald head, glasses, and a beaming smile–I caught sight, that is, of Mr Parker Pyne. I had never thought about statistics before (and indeed seldom think about them now!) but the enthusiasm with which they were being discussed awakened my interest. I was just considering a new series of short stories and then and there I decided on the general treatment and scope, and in due course enjoyed writing them.
My own favourites are The Case of the Discontented Husband and The Case of the Rich Woman, the theme for the latter being suggested to me by having been addressed by a strange woman ten years before when I was looking into a shop window. She said with the utmost venom: ‘I’d like to know what I can do with all the money I’ve got. I’m too seasick for a yacht–I’ve got a couple of cars and three fur coats–and too much rich food fair turns my stomach.’
Startled, I suggested ‘Hospitals?’
She snorted ‘Hospitals? I don’t mean charity. I want to get my money’s worth’, and departed wrathfully.
That, of course, was now twenty-five years ago. Today all such problems would be solved for her by the income tax inspector, and she would probably be more wrathful still!
The Case of the Middle-Aged Wife
Four grunts, an indignant voice asking why nobody could leave a hat alone, a slammed door, and Mr Packington had departed to catch the eight forty-five to the city. Mrs Packington sat on at the breakfast table. Her face was flushed, her lips were pursed, and the only reason she was not crying was that at the last minute anger had taken the place of grief. ‘I won’t stand it,’ said Mrs Packington. ‘I won’t stand it!’ She remained for some moments brooding, and then murmured: ‘The minx. Nasty sly little cat! How George can be such a fool!’
Anger faded; grief came back. Tears came into Mrs Packington’s eyes and rolled slowly down her middle-aged cheeks. ‘It’s all very well to say I won’t stand it, but what can I do?’
Suddenly she felt alone, helpless, utterly forlorn. Slowly she took up the morning paper and read, not for the first time, an advertisement on the front page.
‘Absurd!’ said Mrs Packington. ‘Utterly absurd.’ Then: ‘After all, I might just see…’
Which explains why at eleven o’clock Mrs Packington, a little nervous, was being shown into Mr Parker Pyne’s private office.
As has been said, Mrs Packington was nervous, but somehow or other, the mere sight of Mr Parker Pyne brought a feeling of reassurance. He was large, not to say fat; he had a bald head of noble proportions, strong glasses, and little twinkling eyes.
‘Pray sit down,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘You have come in answer to my advertisement?’ he added helpfully.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Packington, and stopped there.
‘And you are not happy,’ said Mr Parker Pyne in a cheerful, matter-of-fact voice. ‘Very few people are. You would really be surprised if you knew how few people are happy.’
‘Indeed?’ said Mrs Packington, not feeling, however, that it mattered whether other people were unhappy or not.
‘Not interesting to you, I know,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, ‘but very interesting to me. You see, for thirty-five years of my life I have been engaged in the compiling of statistics in a government office. Now I have retired, and it has occurred to me to use the experience I have gained in a novel fashion. It is all so simple. Unhappiness can be classified under five main heads–no more, I assure you. Once you know the cause of a malady, the remedy should not be impossible.
‘I stand in the place of the doctor. The doctor first diagnoses the patient’s disorder, then he proceeds to recommend a course of treatment. There are cases where no treatment can be of avail. If that is so, I say frankly that I can do nothing. But I assure you, Mrs Packington, that if I undertake a case, the cure is practically guaranteed.’
Could it be so? Was this nonsense, or could it, perhaps be true? Mrs Packington gazed at him hopefully.
‘Shall we diagnose your case?’ said Mr Parker Pyne, smiling. He leaned back in his chair and brought the tips of his fingers together. ‘The trouble concerns your husband. You have had, on the whole, a happy married life. You husband has, I think, prospered. I think there is a young lady concerned in the case–perhaps a young lady in your husband’s office.’
‘A typist,’ said Mrs Packington. ‘A nasty made-up little minx, all lipstick and silk stockings and curls.’ The words rushed from her.
Mr Parker Pyne nodded in a soothing manner. ‘There is no real harm in it–that is your husband’s phrase, I have no doubt.’
‘His very words.’
‘Why, therefore, should he not enjoy a pure friendship with this young lady, and be able to bring a little brightness, a little pleasure, into her dull existence? Poor child, she has so little fun. Those, I imagine, are his sentiments.’
Mrs Packington nodded with vigour. ‘Humbug–all humbug! He takes her on the river–I’m fond of going on the river myself, but five or six years ago he said it interfered with his golf. But he can give up golf for her. I like the theatre–George has always said he’s too tired to go out at night. Now he takes her out to dance–dance! And comes back at three in the morning. I–I–’
‘And doubtless he deplores the fact that women are so jealous, so unreasonably jealous when there is absolutely no cause for jealousy?’
Again Mrs Packington nodded. ‘That’s it.’ She asked sharply: ‘How do you know all this?’
‘Statistics,’ Mr Parker Pyne said simply.
‘I’m so miserable,’ said Mrs Packington. ‘I’ve always been a good wife to George. I worked my fingers to the bone in our early days. I helped him to get on. I’ve never looked at any other man. His things are always mended, he gets good meals, and the house is well and economically run. And now that we’ve got on in the world and could enjoy ourselves and go about a bit and do all the things I’ve looked forward to doing some day–well, this!’ She swallowed hard.
Mr Parker Pyne nodded gravely. ‘I assure you I understand your case perfectly.’
‘And–can you do anything?’ She asked it almost in a whisper.
‘Certainly, my dear lady. There is a cure. Oh yes, there is a cure.’
‘What is it?’ She waited, round-eyed and expectant.
Mr Parker Pyne spoke quietly and firmly. ‘You will place yourself in my hands, and the fee will be two hundred guineas.’
‘Two hundred guineas!’
‘Exactly. You can afford to pay such a fee, Mrs Packington. You would pay that sum for an operation. Happiness is just as important as bodily health.’
‘I pay you afterwards, I suppose?’
‘On the contrary,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘You pay me in advance.’
Mrs Packington rose. ‘I’m afraid I don’t see my way–’
‘To buying a pig in a poke?’ said Mr Parker Pyne cheerfully. ‘Well, perhaps you’re right. It’s a lot of money to risk. You’ve got to trust me, you see. You’ve got to pay the money and take a chance. Those are my terms.’
‘Two hundred guineas!’
‘Exactly. Two hundred guineas. It’s a lot of money. Good-morning, Mrs Packington. Let me know if you change your mind.’ He shook hands with her, smiling in an unperturbed fashion.
When she had gone he pressed a buzzer on his desk. A forbidding-looking young woman with spectacles answered it.
‘A file, please, Miss Lemon. And you might tell Claude that I am likely to want him shortly.’
‘A new client?’
‘A new client. At the moment she has jibbed, but she will come back. Probably this afternoon about four. Enter her.’
‘Schedule A?’
‘Schedule A, of course. Interesting how everyone thinks his own case unique. Well, well, warn Claude. Not too exotic, tell him. No scent and he’d better get his hair cut short.’
It was a quarter-past four when Mrs Packington once more entered Mr Parker Pyne’s office. She drew out a cheque book, made out a cheque and passed it to him. A receipt was given.
‘And now?’ Mrs Packington looked at him hopefully.
‘And now,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, smiling, ‘you will return home. By the first post tomorrow you will receive certain instructions which I shall be glad if you will carry out.’
Mrs Packington went home in a state of pleasant anticipation. Mr Packington came home in a defensive mood, ready to argue his position if the scene at the breakfast table was reopened. He was relieved, however, to find that his wife did not seem to be in a combative mood. She was unusually thoughtful.
George listened to the radio and wondered whether that dear child Nancy would allow him to give her a fur coat. She was very proud, he knew. He didn’t want to offend her. Still, she had complained of the cold. That tweed coat of hers was a cheap affair; it didn’t keep the cold out. He could put it so that she wouldn’t mind, perhaps…
They must have another evening out soon. It was a pleasure to take a girl like that to a smart restaurant. He could see several young fellows were envying him. She was uncommonly pretty. And she liked him. To her, as she had told him, he didn’t seem a bit old.
He looked up and caught his wife’s eye. He felt suddenly guilty, which annoyed him. What a narrow-minded, suspicious woman Maria was! She grudged him any little bit of happiness.
He switched off the radio and went to bed.
Mrs Packington received two unexpected letters the following morning. One was a printed form confirming an appointment at a noted beauty specialist’s. The second was an appointment with a dressmaker. The third was from Mr Parker Pyne, requesting the pleasure of her company at lunch at the Ritz that day.
Mr Packington mentioned that he might not be home to dinner that evening as he had to see a man on business. Mrs Packington merely nodded absently, and Mr Packington left the house congratulating himself on having escaped the storm.
The beauty specialist was impressive. Such neglect! Madame, but why? This should have been taken in hand years ago. However, it was not too late.
Things were done to her face; it was pressed and kneaded and steamed. It had mud applied to it. It had creams applied to it. It was dusted with powder. There were various finishing touches.
At last she was given a mirror. ‘I believe I do look younger,’ she thought to herself.
The dressmaking seance was equally exciting. She emerged feeling smart, modish, up-to-date.
At half-past one, Mrs Packington kept her appointment at the Ritz. Mr Parker Pyne, faultlessly dressed and carrying with him his atmosphere of soothing reassurance, was waiting for her.
‘Charming,’ he said, an experienced eye sweeping her from head to foot. ‘I have ventured to order you a White Lady.’
Mrs Packington, who had not contracted the cocktail habit, made no demur. As she sipped the exciting fluid gingerly, she listened to her benevolent instructor.
‘Your husband, Mrs Packington,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, ‘must be made to Sit Up. You understand–to Sit Up. To assist in that, I am going to introduce to you a young friend of mine. You will lunch with him today.’
At that moment a young man came along, looking from side to side. He espied Mr Parker Pyne and came gracefully towards them.
‘Mr Claude Luttrell, Mrs Packington.’
Mr Claude Luttrell was perhaps just short of thirty. He was graceful, debonair, perfectly dressed, extremely handsome.
‘Delighted to meet you,’ he murmured.
Three minutes later Mrs Packington was facing her new mentor at a small table for two.
She was shy at first, but Mr Luttrell soon put her at her ease. He knew Paris well and had spent a good deal of time on the Riviera. He asked Mrs Packington if she were fond of dancing. Mrs Packington said she was, but that she seldom got any dancing nowadays as Mr Packington didn’t care to go out in the evenings.
‘But he couldn’t be so unkind as to keep you at home,’ said Claude Luttrell, smiling and displaying a dazzling row of teeth. ‘Women will not tolerate male jealousy in these days.’
Mrs Packington nearly said that jealousy didn’t enter into the question. But the words remained unspoken. After all, it was an agreeable idea.
Claude Luttrell spoke airily of night clubs. It was settled that on the following evening Mrs Packington and Mr Luttrell should patronize the popular Lesser Archangel.
Mrs Packington was a little nervous about announcing this fact to her husband. George, she felt, would think it extraordinary and possibly ridiculous. But she was saved all trouble on this score. She had been too nervous to make her announcement at breakfast, and at two o’clock a telephone message came to the effect that Mr Packington would be dining in town.
The evening was a great success. Mrs Packington had been a good dancer as a girl and under Claude Luttrell’s skilled guidance she soon picked up modern steps. He congratulated her on her gown and also on the arrangement of her hair. (An appointment had been made for her that morning with a fashionable hairdresser.) On bidding her farewell, he kissed her hand in a most thrilling manner. Mrs Packington had not enjoyed an evening so much for years.
A bewildering ten days ensued. Mrs Packington lunched, teaed, tangoed, dined, danced and supped. She heard all about Claude Luttrell’s sad childhood. She heard the sad circumstances in which his father lost all his money. She heard of his tragic romance and his embittered feelings towards women generally.
On the eleventh day they were dancing at the Red Admiral. Mrs Packington saw her spouse before he saw her. George was with the young lady from his office. Both couples were dancing.
‘Hallo, George,’ said Mrs Packington lightly, as their orbits brought them together.
It was with considerable amusement that she saw her husband’s face grow first red, then purple with astonishment. With the astonishment was blended an expression of guilt detected.
Mrs Packington felt amusedly mistress of the situation. Poor old George! Seated once more at her table, she watched them. How stout he was, how bald, how terribly he bounced on his feet! He danced in the style of twenty years ago. Poor George, how terribly he wanted to be young! And that poor girl he was dancing with had to pretend to like it. She looked bored enough now, her face over his shoulder where he couldn’t see it.
How much more enviable, thought Mrs Packington contentedly, was her own situation. She glanced at the perfect Claude, now tactfully silent. How well he understood her. He never jarred–as husbands so inevitably did jar after a lapse of years.
She looked at him again. Their eyes met. He smiled; his beautiful dark eyes, so melancholy, so romantic, looked tenderly into hers.
‘Shall we dance again?’ he murmured.
They danced again. It was heaven!
She was conscious of George’s apologetic gaze following them. It had been the idea, she remembered, to make George jealous. What a long time ago that was! She really didn’t want George to be jealous now. It might upset him. Why should he be upset, poor thing? Everyone was so happy…
Mr Packington had been home an hour when Mrs Packington got in. He looked bewildered and unsure of himself.
‘Humph,’ he remarked. ‘So you’re back.’
Mrs Packington cast off an evening wrap which had cost her forty guineas that very morning. ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m back.’
George coughed. ‘Er–rather odd meeting you.’
‘Wasn’t it?’ said Mrs Packington.
‘I–well, I thought it would be a kindness to take that girl somewhere. She’s been having a lot of trouble at home. I thought–well, kindness, you know.’
Mrs Packington nodded. Poor old George–bouncing on his feet and getting so hot and being so pleased with himself.
‘Who’s that chap you were with? I don’t know him, do I?’
‘Luttrell, his name is. Claude Luttrell.’
‘How did you come across him?’
‘Oh, someone introduced me,’ said Mrs Packington vaguely.
‘Rather a queer thing for you to go out dancing–at your time of life. Musn’t make a fool of yourself, my dear.’
Mrs Packington smiled. She was feeling much too kindly to the universe in general to make the obvious reply. ‘A change is always nice,’ she said amiably.
‘You’ve got to be careful, you know. A lot of these lounge-lizard fellows going about. Middle-aged women sometimes make awful fools of themselves. I’m just warning you, my dear. I don’t like to see you doing anything unsuitable.’
‘I find the exercise very beneficial,’ said Mrs Packington.
‘Um–yes.’
‘I expect you do, too,’ said Mrs Packington kindly. ‘The great thing is to be happy, isn’t it? I remember your saying so one morning at breakfast, about ten days ago.’
Her husband looked at her sharply, but her expression was devoid of sarcasm. She yawned.
‘I must go to bed. By the way, George, I’ve been dreadfully extravagant lately. Some terrible bills will be coming in. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Bills?’ said Mr Packington.
‘Yes. For clothes. And massage. And hair treatment. Wickedly extravagant I’ve been–but I know you don’t mind.’
She passed up the stairs. Mr Packington remained with his mouth open. Maria had been amazingly nice about this evening’s business; she hadn’t seemed to care at all. But it was a pity she had suddenly taken to spending Money. Maria–that model of economy!
Women! George Packington shook his head. The scrapes that girl’s brothers had been getting into lately. Well, he’d been glad to help. All the same–and dash it all, things weren’t going too well in the city.
Sighing, Mr Packington in his turn slowly climbed the stairs.
Sometimes words that fail to make their effect at the time are remembered later. Not till the following morning did certain words uttered by Mr Packington really penetrate his wife’s consciousness.
Lounge lizards; middle-aged women; awful fools of themselves.
Mrs Packington was courageous at heart. She sat down and faced facts. A gigolo. She had read all about gigolos in the papers. Had read, too, of the follies of middle-aged women.
Was Claude a gigolo? She supposed he was. But then, gigolos were paid for and Claude always paid for her. Yes, but it was Mr Parker Pyne who paid, not Claude–or, rather, it was really her own two hundred guineas.
Was she a middle-aged fool? Did Claude Luttrell laugh at her behind her back? Her face flushed at the thought.
Well, what of it? Claude was a gigolo. She was a middle-aged fool. She supposed she should have given him something. A gold cigarette case. That sort of thing.
A queer impulse drove her out there and then to Asprey’s. The cigarette case was chosen and paid for. She was to meet Claude at Claridge’s for lunch.
As they were sipping coffee she produced it from her bag. ‘A little present,’ she murmured.
He looked up, frowned. ‘For me?’
‘Yes. I–I hope you like it.’
His hand closed over it and he slid it violently across the table. ‘Why did you give me that? I won’t take it. Take it back. Take it back, I say.’ He was angry. His dark eyes flashed.
She murmured, ‘I’m sorry,’ and put it away in her bag again.
There was constraint between them that day.
The following morning he rang her up. ‘I must see you. Can I come to your house this afternoon?’
She told him to come at three o’clock.
He arrived very white, very tense. They greeted each other. The constraint was more evident.
Suddenly he sprang up and stood facing her. ‘What do you think I am? That is what I’ve come to ask you. We’ve been friends, haven’t we? Yes, friends. But all the same, you think I’m–well, a gigolo. A creature who lives on women. A lounge lizard. You do, don’t you?’
‘No, no.’
He swept aside her protest. His face had gone very white. ‘You do think that! Well, it’s true. That’s what I’ve come to say. It’s true! I had my orders to take you about, to amuse you, to make love to you, to make you forget your husband. That was my job. A despicable one, eh?’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked.
‘Because I’m through with it. I can’t carry on with it. Not with you. You’re different. You’re the kind of woman I could believe in, trust, adore. You think I’m just saying this; that it’s part of the game.’ He came closer to her. ‘I’m going to prove to you it isn’t. I’m going away–because of you. I’m going to make myself into a man instead of the loathsome creature I am because of you.’
He took her suddenly in his arms. His lips closed on hers. Then he released her and stood away.
‘Goodbye. I’ve been a rotter–always. But I swear it will be different now. Do you remember once saying you liked to read the advertisements in the Agony column? On this day every year you’ll find there a message from me saying that I remember and am making good. You’ll know, then, all you’ve meant to me. One thing more. I’ve taken nothing from you. I want you to take something from me.’ He drew a plain gold seal ring from his finger. ‘This was my mother’s. I’d like you to have it. Now goodbye.’
George Packington came home early. He found his wife gazing into the fire with a faraway look. She spoke kindly but absently to him.
‘Look here, Maria,’ he jerked out suddenly. ‘About that girl?’
‘Yes, dear?’
‘I–I never meant to upset you, you know. About her. Nothing in it.’
‘I know. I was foolish. See as much as you like of her if it makes you happy.’
These words, surely, should have cheered George Packington. Strangely enough, they annoyed him. How could you enjoy taking a girl about when your wife fairly urged you on? Dash it all, it wasn’t decent! All that feeling of being a gay dog, of being a strong man playing with fire, fizzled out and died an ignominious death. George Packington felt suddenly tired and a great deal poorer in pocket. The girl was a shrewd little piece.
‘We might go away together somewhere for a bit if you like, Maria?’ he suggested timidly.
‘Oh, never mind about me. I’m quite happy.’
‘But I’d like to take you away. We might go to the Riviera.’
Mrs Packington smiled at him from a distance.
Poor old George. She was fond of him. He was such a pathetic old dear. There was no secret splendour in his life as there was in hers. She smiled more tenderly still.
‘That would be lovely, my dear,’ she said.
Mr Parker Pyne was speaking to Miss Lemon. ‘Entertainment account?’
‘One hundred and two pounds, fourteen and sixpence,’ said Miss Lemon.
The door was pushed open and Claude Luttrell entered. He looked moody.
‘Morning, Claude,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Everything go off satisfactorily?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘The ring? What name did you put in it, by the way?’
‘Matilda,’ said Claude gloomily. ‘1899.’
‘Excellent. What wording for the advertisement?’
‘“Making good. Still remember. Claude.”’
‘Make a note of that, please, Miss Lemon. The Agony column. November third for–let me see, expenses a hundred and two pounds, fourteen and six. Yes, for ten years, I think. That leaves us a profit of ninety-two pounds, two and fourpence. Adequate. Quite adequate.’
Miss Lemon departed.
‘Look here,’ Claude burst out. ‘I don’t like this. It’s a rotten game.’
‘My dear boy!’
‘A rotten game. That was a decent woman–a good sort. Telling her all those lies, filling her up with this sob-stuff, dash it all, it makes me sick!’
Mr Parker Pyne adjusted his glasses and looked at Claude with a kind of scientific interest. ‘Dear me!’ he said drily. ‘I do not seem to remember that your conscience ever troubled you during your somewhat–ahem!–notorious career. Your affairs on the Riviera were particularly brazen, and your exploitation of Mrs Hattie West, the Californian Cucumber King’s wife, was especially notable for the callous mercenary instinct you displayed.’
‘Well, I’m beginning to feel different,’ grumbled Claude. ‘It isn’t–nice, this game.’
Mr Parker Pyne spoke in the voice of a headmaster admonishing a favourite pupil. ‘You have, my dear Claude, performed a meritorious action. You have given an unhappy woman what every woman needs–a romance. A woman tears a passion to pieces and gets no good from it, but a romance can be laid up in lavender and looked at all through the long years to come. I know human nature, my boy, and I tell you that a woman can feed on such an incident for years.’ He coughed. ‘We have discharged our commission to Mrs Packington very satisfactorily.’
‘Well,’ muttered Claude, ‘I don’t like it.’ He left the room.
Mr Parker Pyne took a new file from a drawer. He wrote:
‘Interesting vestiges of a conscience noticeable in hardened Lounge Lizard. Note: Study developments.’
The Case of the Discontented Soldier
I
Major Wilbraham hesitated outside the door of Mr Parker Pyne’s office to read, not for the first time, the advertisement from the morning paper which had brought him there. It was simple enough:
The major took a deep breath and abruptly plunged through the swing door leading to the outer office. A plain young woman looked up from her typewriter and glanced at him inquiringly.
‘Mr Parker Pyne?’ said Major Wilbraham, blushing.
‘Come this way, please.’
He followed her into an inner office–into the presence of the bland Mr Parker Pyne.
‘Good-morning,’ said Mr Pyne. ‘Sit down, won’t you? And now tell me what I can do for you.’
‘My name is Wilbraham–’ began the other.
‘Major? Colonel?’ said Mr Pyne.
‘Major.’
‘Ah! And recently returned from abroad? India? East Africa?’
‘East Africa.’
‘A fine country, I believe. Well, so you are home again–and you don’t like it. Is that the trouble?’
‘You’re absolutely right. Though how you knew–’
Mr Parker Pyne waved an impressive hand. ‘It is my business to know. You see, for thirty-five years of my life I have been engaged in the compiling of statistics in a government office. Now I have retired and it has occurred to me to use the experience I have gained in a novel fashion. It is all so simple. Unhappiness can be classified under five main heads–no more I assure you. Once you know the cause of a malady, the remedy should not be impossible.
‘I stand in the place of the doctor. The doctor first diagnoses the patient’s disorder, then he recommends a course of treatment. There are cases where no treatment can be of any avail. If that is so, I say quite frankly that I can do nothing about it. But if I undertake a case, the cure is practically guaranteed.
‘I can assure you, Major Wilbraham, that ninety-six per cent of retired empire builders–as I call them–are unhappy. They exchange an active life, a life full of responsibility, a life of possible danger, for–what? Straitened means, a dismal climate and a general feeling of being a fish out of water.’
‘All you’ve said is true,’ said the major. ‘It’s the boredom I object to. The boredom and the endless tittle-tattle about petty village matters. But what can I do about it? I’ve got a little money besides my pension. I’ve a nice cottage near Cobham. I can’t afford to hunt or shoot or fish. I’m not married. My neighbours are all pleasant folk, but they’ve no ideas beyond this island.’
‘The long and short of the matter is that you find life tame,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.
‘Damned tame.’
‘You would like excitement, possibly danger?’ asked Mr Pyne.
The soldier shrugged. ‘There’s no such thing in this tinpot country.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr Pyne seriously. ‘There you are wrong. There is plenty of danger, plenty of excitement, here in London if you know where to go for it. You have seen only the surface of our English life, calm, pleasant. But there is another side. If you wish it, I can show you that other side.’
Major Wilbraham regarded him thoughtfully. There was something reassuring about Mr Pyne. He was large, not to say fat; he had a bald head of noble proportions, strong glasses and little twinkling eyes. And he had an aura–an aura of dependability.
‘I should warn you, however,’ continued Mr Pyne, ‘that there is an element of risk.’
The soldier’s eye brightened. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. Then, abruptly: ‘And–your fees?’
‘My fee,’ said Mr Pyne, ‘is fifty pounds, payable in advance. If in a month’s time you are still in the same state of boredom, I will refund your money.’
Wilbraham considered. ‘Fair enough,’ he said at last. ‘I agree. I’ll give you a cheque now.’
The transaction was completed. Mr Parker Pyne pressed a buzzer on his desk.
‘It is now one o’clock,’ he said. ‘I am going to ask you to take a young lady out to lunch.’ The door opened. ‘Ah, Madeleine, my dear, let me introduce Major Wilbraham, who is going to take you out to lunch.’
Wilbraham blinked slightly, which was hardly to be wondered at. The girl who entered the room was dark, languorous, with wonderful eyes and long black lashes, a perfect complexion and a voluptuous scarlet mouth. Her exquisite clothes set off the swaying grace of her figure. From head to foot she was perfect.
‘Er–delighted,’ said Major Wilbraham.
‘Miss de Sara,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.
‘How very kind of you,’ murmured Madeleine de Sara.
‘I have your address here,’ announced Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Tomorrow morning you will receive my further instructions.’
Major Wilbraham and the lovely Madeleine departed.
It was three o’clock when Madeleine returned.
Mr Parker Pyne looked up. ‘Well?’ he demanded.
Madeleine shook her head. ‘Scared of me,’ she said. ‘Thinks I’m a vamp.’
‘I thought as much,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘You carried out my instructions?’
‘Yes. We discussed the occupants of the other tables freely. The type he likes is fair-haired, blue-eyed, slightly anaemic, not too tall.’
‘That should be easy,’ said Mr Pyne. ‘Get me Schedule B and let me see what we have in stock at present.’ He ran his finger down a list, finally stopping at a name. ‘Freda Clegg. Yes, I think Freda Clegg will do excellently. I had better see Mrs Oliver about it.’
II
The next day Major Wilbraham received a note, which read:
On Monday morning next at eleven o’clock go to Eaglemont, Friars Lane, Hampstead, and ask for Mr Jones. You will represent yourself as coming from the Guava Shipping Company.
Obediently on the following Monday (which happened to be Bank Holiday), Major Wilbraham set out for Eaglemont, Friars Lane. He set out, I say, but he never got there. For before he got there, something happened.
All the world and his wife seemed to be on their way to Hampstead. Major Wilbraham got entangled in crowds, suffocated in the tube and found it hard to discover the whereabouts of Friars Lane.
Friars Lane was a cul-de-sac, a neglected road full of ruts, with houses on either side standing back from the road. They were largish houses which had seen better days and had been allowed to fall into disrepair.
Wilbraham walked along peering at the half-erased names on the gate-posts, when suddenly he heard something that made him stiffen to attention. It was a kind of gurgling, half-choked cry.
It came again and this time it was faintly recognizable as the word ‘Help!’ It came from inside the wall of the house he was passing.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Major Wilbraham pushed open the rickety gate and sprinted noiselessly up the weed-covered drive. There in the shrubbery was a girl struggling in the grasp of two enormous Negroes. She was putting up a brave fight, twisting and turning and kicking. One Negro held his hand over her mouth in spite of her furious efforts to get her head free.
Intent on their struggle with the girl, neither of the blacks had noticed Wilbraham’s approach. The first they knew of it was when a violent punch on the jaw sent the man who was covering the girl’s mouth reeling backwards. Taken by surprise, the other man relinquished his hold of the girl and turned. Wilbraham was ready for him. Once again his fist shot out, and the Negro reeled backwards and fell. Wilbraham turned on the other man, who was closing in behind him.
But the two men had had enough. The second one rolled over, sat up; then, rising, he made a dash for the gate. His companion followed suit. Wilbraham started after them, but changed his mind and turned towards the girl, who was leaning against a tree, panting.
‘Oh, thank you!’ she gasped. ‘It was terrible.’
Major Wilbraham saw for the first time who it was he had rescued so opportunely. She was a girl of about twenty-one or two, fair-haired and blue-eyed, pretty in a rather colourless way.
‘If you hadn’t come!’ she gasped.
‘There, there,’ said Wilbraham soothingly. ‘It’s all right now. I think, though, that we’d better get away from here. It’s possible those fellows might come back.’
A faint smile came to the girl’s lips. ‘I don’t think they will–not after the way you hit them. Oh, it was splendid of you!’
Major Wilbraham blushed under the warmth of her glance of admiration. ‘Nothin’ at all,’ he said indistinctly. ‘All in day’s work. Lady being annoyed. Look here, if you take my arm, can you walk? It’s been a nasty shock, I know.’
‘I’m all right now,’ said the girl. However, she took the proffered arm. She was still rather shaky. She glanced behind her at the house as they emerged through the gate. ‘I can’t understand it,’ she murmured. ‘That’s clearly an empty house.’
‘It’s empty, right enough,’ agreed the major, looking up at the shuttered windows and general air of decay.
‘And yet it is Whitefriars.’ She pointed to a half-obliterated name on the gate. ‘And Whitefriars was the place I was to go.’
‘Don’t worry about anything now,’ said Wilbraham. ‘In a minute or two we’ll be able to get a taxi. Then we’ll drive somewhere and have a cup of coffee.’
At the end of the lane they came out into a more frequented street, and by good fortune a taxi had just set down a fare at one of the houses. Wilbraham hailed it, gave an address to the driver and they got in.
‘Don’t try to talk,’ he admonished his companion. ‘Just lie back. You’ve had a nasty experience.’
She smiled at him gratefully.
‘By the way–er–my name is Wilbraham.’
‘Mine is Clegg–Freda Clegg.’
Ten minutes later, Freda was sipping hot coffee and looking gratefully across a small table at her rescuer.
‘It seems like a dream,’ she said. ‘A bad dream.’ She shuddered. ‘And only a short while ago I was wishing for something to happen–anything! Oh, I don’t like adventures.’
‘Tell me how it happened.’
‘Well, to tell you properly I shall have to talk a lot about myself, I’m afraid.’
‘An excellent subject,’ said Wilbraham, with a bow.
‘I am an orphan. My father–he was a sea captain–died when I was eight. My mother died three years ago. I work in the city. I am with the Vacuum Gas Company–a clerk. One evening last week I found a gentleman waiting to see me when I returned to my lodgings. He was a lawyer, a Mr Reid from Melbourne.
‘He was very polite and asked me several questions about my family. He explained that he had known my father many years ago. In fact, he had transacted some legal business for him. Then he told me the object of his visit. “Miss Clegg,” he said, “I have reason to suppose that you might benefit as the result of a financial transaction entered into by your father several years before he died.” I was very much surprised, of course.
‘“It is unlikely that you would ever have heard anything of the matter,” he explained. “John Clegg never took the affair seriously, I fancy. However, it has materialized unexpectedly, but I am afraid any claim you might put in would depend on your ownership of certain papers. These papers would be part of your father’s estate, and of course it is possible that they have been destroyed as worthless. Have you kept any of your father’s papers?”
‘I explained that my mother had kept various things of my father’s in an old sea chest. I had looked through it cursorily, but had discovered nothing of interest.
‘“You would hardly be likely to recognize the importance of these documents, perhaps,” he said, smiling.
‘Well, I went to the chest, took out the few papers it contained and brought them to him. He looked at them, but said it was impossible to say off-hand what might or might not be connected with the matter in question. He would take them away with him and would communicate with me if anything turned up.
‘By the last post on Saturday I received a letter from him in which he suggested that I come to his house to discuss the matter. He gave me the address: Whitefriars, Friars Lane, Hampstead. I was to be there at a quarter to eleven this morning.
‘I was a little late finding the place. I hurried through the gate and up towards the house, when suddenly those two dreadful men sprang at me from the bushes. I hadn’t time to cry out. One man put his hand over my mouth. I wrenched my head free and screamed for help. Luckily you heard me. If it hadn’t been for you–’ She stopped. Her looks were more eloquent than further words.
‘Very glad I happened to be on the spot. By Gad, I’d like to get hold of those two brutes. You’d never seen them before, I suppose?’
She shook her head. ‘What do you think it means?’
‘Difficult to say. But one thing seems pretty sure. There’s something someone wants among your father’s papers. This man Reid told you a cock-and-bull story so as to get the opportunity of looking through them. Evidently what he wanted wasn’t there.’
‘Oh!’ said Freda. ‘I wonder. When I got home on Saturday I thought my things had been tampered with. To tell you the truth, I suspected my landlady of having pried about in my room out of curiosity. But now–’
‘Depend upon it, that’s it. Someone gained admission to your room and searched it, without finding what he was after. He suspected that you knew the value of this paper, whatever it was, and that you carried it about on your person. So he planned this ambush. If you had it with you, it would have been taken from you. If not, you would have been held prisoner while he tried to make you tell where it was hidden.’
‘But what can it possibly be?’ cried Freda.
‘I don’t know. But it must be something pretty good for him to go to this length.’
‘It doesn’t seem possible.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Your father was a sailor. He went to out-of-the-way places. He might have come across something the value of which he never knew.’
‘Do you really think so?’ A pink flush of excitement showed in the girl’s pale cheeks.
‘I do indeed. The question is, what shall we do next? You don’t want to go to the police, I suppose?’
‘Oh, no, please.’
‘I’m glad you say that. I don’t see what good the police could do, and it would only mean unpleasantness for you. Now I suggest that you allow me to give you lunch somewhere and that I then accompany you back to your lodgings, so as to be sure you reach them safely. And then, we might have a look for the paper. Because, you know, it must be somewhere.’
‘Father may have destroyed it himself.’
‘He may, of course, but the other side evidently doesn’t think so, and that looks hopeful for us.’
‘What do you think it can be? Hidden treasure?’
‘By jove, it might be!’ exclaimed Major Wilbraham, all the boy in him rising joyfully to the suggestion. ‘But now, Miss Clegg, lunch!’
They had a pleasant meal together. Wilbraham told Freda all about his life in East Africa. He described elephant hunts, and the girl was thrilled. When they had finished, he insisted on taking her home in a taxi.
Her lodgings were near Notting Hill Gate. On arriving there, Freda had a brief conversation with her landlady. She returned to Wilbraham and took him up to the second floor, where she had a tiny bedroom and sitting-room.
‘It’s exactly as we thought,’ she said. ‘A man came on Saturday morning to see about laying a new electric cable; he told her there was a fault in the wiring in my room. He was there some time.’
‘Show me this chest of your father’s,’ said Wilbraham.
Freda showed him a brass-bound box. ‘You see,’ she said, raising the lid, ‘it’s empty.’
The soldier nodded thoughtfully. ‘And there are no papers anywhere else?’
‘I’m sure there aren’t. Mother kept everything in here.’
Wilbraham examined the inside of the chest. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation. ‘Here’s a slit in the lining.’ Carefully he inserted his hand, feeling about. A slight crackle rewarded him. ‘Something’s slipped down behind.’
In another minute he had drawn out his find. A piece of dirty paper folded several times. He smoothed it out on the table; Freda was looking over his shoulder. She uttered an exclamation of disappointment.
‘It’s just a lot of queer marks.’
‘Why, the thing’s in Swahili. Swahili, of all things!’ cried Major Wilbraham. ‘East African native dialect, you know.’
‘How extraordinary!’ said Freda. ‘Can you read it, then?’
‘Rather. But what an amazing thing.’ He took the paper to the window.
‘Is it anything?’ asked Freda tremulously. Wilbraham read the thing through twice, and then came back to the girl. ‘Well,’ he said, with a chuckle, ‘here’s your hidden treasure, all right.’
‘Hidden treasure? Not really? You mean Spanish gold–a sunken galleon–that sort of thing?’
‘Not quite so romantic as that, perhaps. But it comes to the same thing. This paper gives the hiding-place of a cache of ivory.’
‘Ivory?’ said the girl, astonished.
‘Yes. Elephants, you know. There’s a law about the number you’re allowed to shoot. Some hunter got away with breaking that law on a grand scale. They were on his trail and he cached the stuff. There’s a thundering lot of it–and this gives fairly clear directions how to find it. Look here, we’ll have to go after this, you and I.’
‘You mean there’s really a lot of money in it?’
‘Quite a nice little fortune for you.’
‘But how did that paper come to be among my father’s things?’
Wilbraham shrugged. ‘Maybe the Johnny was dying or something. He may have written the thing down in Swahili for protection and given it to your father, who possibly had befriended him in some way. Your father, not being able to read it, attached no importance to it. That’s only a guess on my part, but I dare say it’s not far wrong.’
Freda gave a sigh. ‘How frightfully exciting!’
‘The thing is–what to do with the precious document,’ said Wilbraham. ‘I don’t like leaving it here. They might come and have another look. I suppose you wouldn’t entrust it to me?’
‘Of course I would. But–mightn’t it be dangerous for you?’ she faltered.
‘I’m a tough nut,’ said Wilbraham grimly. ‘You needn’t worry about me.’ He folded up the paper and put it in his pocket-book. ‘May I come to see you tomorrow evening?’ he asked. ‘I’ll have worked out a plan by then, and I’ll look up the places on my map. What time do you get back from the city?’
‘I get back about half-past six.’
‘Capital. We’ll have a powwow and then perhaps you’ll let me take you out to dinner. We ought to celebrate. So long, then. Tomorrow at half-past six.’
Major Wilbraham arrived punctually on the following day. He rang the bell and enquired for Miss Clegg. A maid-servant had answered the door.
‘Miss Clegg? She’s out.’
‘Oh!’ Wilbraham did not like to suggest that he come in and wait. ‘I’ll call back presently,’ he said.
He hung about in the street opposite, expecting every minute to see Freda tripping towards him. The minutes passed. Quarter to seven. Seven. Quarter-past seven. Still no Freda. A feeling of uneasiness swept over him. He went back to the house and rang the bell again.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I had an appointment with Miss Clegg at half-past six. Are you sure she isn’t in or hasn’t–er–left any message?’
‘Are you Major Wilbraham?’ asked the servant.
‘Yes.’
‘Then there’s a note for you. It come by hand.’
Dear Major Wilbraham,–Something rather strange has happened. I won’t write more now, but will you meet me at Whitefriars? Go there as soon as you get this.
Yours sincerely,
Freda Clegg
Wilbraham drew his brows together as he thought rapidly. His hand drew a letter absent-mindedly from his pocket. It was to his tailor. ‘I wonder,’ he said to the maid-servant, ‘if you could let me have a stamp.’
‘I expect Mrs Parkins could oblige you.’
She returned in a moment with the stamp. It was paid for with a shilling. In another minute Wilbraham was walking towards the tube station, dropping the envelope in a box as he passed.
Freda’s letter had made him most uneasy. What could have taken the girl, alone, to the scene of yesterday’s sinister encounter?
He shook his head. Of all the foolish things to do! Had Reid appeared? Had he somehow or other prevailed upon the girl to trust him? What had taken her to Hampstead?
He looked at his watch. Nearly half-past seven. She would have counted on his starting at half-past six. An hour late. Too much. If only she had had the sense to give him some hint.
The letter puzzled him. Somehow its independent tone was not characteristic of Freda Clegg.
It was ten minutes to eight when he reached Friars Lane. It was getting dark. He looked sharply about him; there was no one in sight. Gently he pushed the rickety gate so that it swung noiselessly on its hinges. The drive was deserted. The house was dark. He went up the path cautiously, keeping a look out from side to side. He did not intend to be caught by surprise.
Suddenly he stopped. Just for a minute a chink of light had shone through one of the shutters. The house was not empty. There was someone inside.
Softly Wilbraham slipped into the bushes and worked his way round to the back of the house. At last he found what he was looking for. One of the windows on the ground floor was unfastened. It was the window of a kind of scullery. He raised the sash, flashed a torch (he had bought it at a shop on the way over) around the deserted interior and climbed in.
Carefully he opened the scullery door. There was no sound. He flashed the torch once more. A kitchen–empty. Outside the kitchen were half a dozen steps and a door evidently leading to the front part of the house.
He pushed open the door and listened. Nothing. He slipped through. He was now in the front hall. Still there was no sound. There was a door to the right and a door to the left. He chose the right-hand door, listened for a time, then turned the handle. It gave. Inch by inch he opened the door and stepped inside.
Again he flashed the torch. The room was unfurnished and bare.
Just at that moment he heard a sound behind him, whirled round–too late. Something came down on his head and he pitched forward into unconsciousness…
How much time elapsed before he regained consciousness Wilbraham had no idea. He returned painfully to life, his head aching. He tried to move and found it impossible. He was bound with ropes.
His wits came back to him suddenly. He remembered now. He had been hit on the head.
A faint light from a gas jet high up on the wall showed him that he was in a small cellar. He looked around and his heart gave a leap. A few feet away lay Freda, bound like himself. Her eyes were closed, but even as he watched her anxiously, she sighed and they opened. Her bewildered gaze fell on him and joyous recognition leaped into them.
‘You, too!’ she said. ‘What has happened?’
‘I’ve let you down badly,’ said Wilbraham. ‘Tumbled headlong into the trap. Tell me, did you send me a note asking me to meet you here?’
The girl’s eyes opened in astonishment. ‘I? But you sent me one.’
‘Oh, I sent you one, did I?’
‘Yes. I got it at the office. It asked me to meet you here instead of at home.’
‘Same method for both of us,’ he groaned, and he explained the situation.
‘I see,’ said Freda. ‘Then the idea was–?’
‘To get the paper. We must have been followed yesterday. That’s how they got on to me.’
‘And–have they got it?’ asked Freda.
‘Unfortunately, I can’t feel and see,’ said the soldier, regarding his bound hands ruefully.
And then they both started. For a voice spoke, a voice that seemed to come from the empty air.
‘Yes, thank you,’ it said. ‘I’ve got it, all right. No mistake about that.’
The unseen voice made them both shiver.
‘Mr Reid,’ murmured Freda.
‘Mr Reid is one of my names, my dear young lady,’ said the voice. ‘But only one of them. I have a great many. Now, I am sorry to say that you two have interfered with my plans–a thing I never allow. Your discovery of this house is a serious matter. You have not told the police about it yet, but you might do so in the future.
‘I very much fear that I cannot trust you in the matter. You might promise–but promises are seldom kept. And, you see, this house is very useful to me. It is, you might say, my clearing house. The house from which there is no return. From here you pass on–elsewhere. You, I am sorry to say, are so passing on. Regrettable–but necessary.’
The voice paused for a brief second, then resumed: ‘No bloodshed. I abhor bloodshed. My method is much simpler. And really not too painful, so I understand. Well, I must be getting along. Good-evening to you both.’
‘Look here!’ It was Wilbraham who spoke. ‘Do what you like to me, but this young lady has done nothing–nothing. It can’t hurt you to let her go.’
But there was no answer.
At that moment there came a cry from Freda. ‘The water–the water!’
Wilbraham twisted himself painfully and followed the direction of her eyes. From a hole up near the ceiling a steady trickle of water was pouring in.
Freda gave a hysterical cry. ‘They’re going to drown us!’
The perspiration broke out on Wilbraham’s brow. ‘We’re not done yet,’ he said. ‘We’ll shout for help. Surely somebody will hear us. Now, both together.’
They yelled and shouted at the tops of their voices. Not until they were hoarse did they stop.
‘No use, I’m afraid,’ said Wilbraham sadly. We’re too far underground and I expect the doors are muffled. After all, if we could be heard, I’ve no doubt that brute would have gagged us.’
‘Oh,’ cried Freda. ‘And it’s all my fault. I got you into this.’
‘Don’t worry about that, little girl. It’s you I’m thinking about. I’ve been in tight corners before now and got out of them. Don’t you lose heart. I’ll get you out of this. We’ve plenty of time. At the rate that water’s flowing in, it will be hours before the worst happens.’
‘How wonderful you are!’ said Freda. ‘I’ve never met anybody like you–except in books.’
‘Nonsense–just common sense. Now, I’ve got to loosen those infernal ropes.’
At the end of a quarter of an hour, by dint of straining and twisting, Wilbraham had the satisfaction of feeling that his bonds were appreciably loosened. He managed to bend his head down and his wrists up till he was able to attack the knots with his teeth.
Once his hands were free, the rest was only a matter of time. Cramped, stiff, but free, he bent over the girl. A minute later she was also free.
So far the water was only up to their ankles.
‘And now,’ said the soldier, ‘to get out of here.’
The door of the cellar was up a few stairs. Major Wilbraham examined it.
‘No difficulty here,’ he said. ‘Flimsy stuff. It will soon give at the hinges.’ He set his shoulders to it and heaved.
There was a cracking of wood–a crash, and the door burst from its hinges.
Outside was a flight of stairs. At the top was another door–a very different affair–of solid wood, barred with iron.
‘A bit more difficult, this,’ said Wilbraham. ‘Hallo, here’s a piece of luck. It’s unlocked.’
He pushed it open, peered round it, then beckoned the girl to come on. They emerged into a passage behind the kitchen. In another moment they were standing under the stars in Friars Lane.
‘Oh!’ Freda gave a little sob. ‘Oh, how dreadful it’s been!’
‘My poor darling.’ He caught her in his arms. ‘You’ve been so wonderfully brave. Freda–darling angel–could you ever–I mean, would you–I love you, Freda. Will you marry me?’
After a suitable interval, highly satisfactory to both parties, Major Wilbraham said, with a chuckle:
‘And what’s more, we’ve still got the secret of the ivory cache.’
‘But they took it from you!’
The major chuckled again. ‘That’s just what they didn’t do! You see, I wrote out a spoof copy, and before joining you here tonight, I put the real thing in a letter I was sending to my tailor and posted it. They’ve got the spoof copy–and I wish them joy of it! Do you know what we’ll do, sweetheart! We’ll go to East Africa for our honeymoon and hunt out the cache.’
III
Mr Parker Pyne left his office and climbed two flights of stairs. Here in a room at the top of the house sat Mrs Oliver, the sensational novelist, now a member of Mr Pyne’s staff.
Mr Parker Pyne tapped at the door and entered. Mrs Oliver sat at a table on which were a typewriter, several notebooks, a general confusion of loose manuscripts and a large bag of apples.
‘A very good story, Mrs Oliver,’ said Mr Parker Pyne genially.
‘It went off well?’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I’m glad.’
‘That water-in-the-cellar business,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘You don’t think, on a future occasion, that something more original–perhaps?’ He made the suggestion with proper diffidence.
Mrs Oliver shook her head and took an apple from her bag. ‘I think not, Mr Pyne. You see, people are used to reading about such things. Water rising in a cellar, poison gas, et cetera. Knowing about it beforehand gives it an extra thrill when it happens to oneself. The public is conservative, Mr Pyne; it likes the old well-worn gadgets.’
‘Well, you should know,’ admitted Mr Parker Pyne, mindful of the authoress’s forty-six successful works of fiction, all best sellers in England and America, and freely translated into French, German, Italian, Hungarian, Finnish, Japanese and Abyssinian. ‘How about expenses?’
Mrs Oliver drew a paper towards her. ‘Very moderate, on the whole. The two darkies, Percy and Jerry, wanted very little. Young Lorrimer, the actor, was willing to enact the part of Mr Reid for five guineas. The cellar speech was a phonograph record, of course.’
‘Whitefriars has been extremely useful to me,’ said Mr Pyne. ‘I bought it for a song and it has already been the scene of eleven exciting dramas.’
‘Oh, I forgot,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Johnny’s wages. Five shillings.’
‘Johnny?’
‘Yes. The boy who poured the water from the watering cans through the hole in the wall.’
‘Ah yes. By the way, Mrs Oliver, how did you happen to know Swahili?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘I see. The British Museum perhaps?’
‘No. Delfridge’s Information Bureau.’
‘How marvellous are the resources of modern commerce!’ he murmured.
‘The only thing that worries me,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘is that those two young people won’t find any cache when they get there.’
‘One cannot have everything in this world,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘They will have had a honeymoon.’
Mrs Wilbraham was sitting in a deck-chair. Her husband was writing a letter. ‘What’s the date, Freda?’
‘The sixteenth.’
‘The sixteenth. By jove!’
‘What is it, dear?’
‘Nothing. I just remembered a chap named Jones.’
However happily married, there are some things one never tells.
‘Dash it all,’ thought Major Wilbraham. ‘I ought to have called at that place and got my money back.’ And then, being a fair-minded man, he looked at the other side of the question. ‘After all, it was I who broke the bargain. I suppose if I’d gone to see Jones something would have happened. And, anyway, as it turns out, if I hadn’t been going to see Jones, I should never have heard Freda cry for help, and we might never have met. So, indirectly, perhaps they have a right to the fifty pounds!’
Mrs Wilbraham was also following out a train of thought. ‘What a silly little fool I was to believe in that advertisement and pay those people three guineas. Of course, they never did anything for it and nothing ever happened. If I’d only known what was coming–first Mr Reid, and then the queer, romantic way that Charlie came into my life. And to think that but for pure chance I might never have met him!’
She turned and smiled adoringly at her husband.
The Case of the Distressed Lady
I
The buzzer on Mr Parker Pyne’s desk purred discreetly. ‘Yes?’ said the great man.
‘A young lady wishes to see you,’ announced his secretary. ‘She has no appointment.’
‘You may send her in, Miss Lemon.’ A moment later he was shaking hands with his visitor. ‘Good-morning,’ he said. ‘Do sit down.’
The girl sat down and looked at Mr Parker Pyne. She was a pretty girl and quite young. Her hair was dark and wavy with a row of curls at the nape of the neck. She was beautifully turned out from the white knitted cap on her head to the cobweb stockings and dainty shoes. Clearly she was nervous.
‘You are Mr Parker Pyne?’ she asked.
‘I am.’
‘The one who–advertises?’
‘The one who advertises.’
‘You say that if people aren’t–aren’t happy–to–to come to you.’ ‘Yes.’
She took the plunge. ‘Well, I’m frightfully unhappy. So I thought I’d come along and just–and just see.’
Mr Parker Pyne waited. He felt there was more to come.
‘I–I’m in frightful trouble.’ She clenched her hands nervously.
‘So I see,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Do you think you could tell me about it?’
That, it seemed, was what the girl was by no means sure of. She stared at Mr Parker Pyne with a desperate intentness. Suddenly she spoke with a rush.
‘Yes, I will tell you. I’ve made up my mind now. I’ve been nearly crazy with worry. I didn’t know what to do or whom to go to. And then I saw your advertisement. I thought it was probably just a ramp, but it stayed in my mind. It sounded so comforting, somehow. And then I thought–well, it would do no harm to come and see. I could always make an excuse and get away again if I didn’t–well, it didn’t–’
‘Quite so; quite so,’ said Mr Pyne.
‘You see,’ said the girl, ‘it means, well, trusting somebody.’
‘And you feel you can trust me?’ he said, smiling.
‘It’s odd,’ said the girl with unconsciousness rudeness, ‘but I do. Without knowing anything about you! I’m sure I can trust you.’
‘I can assure you,’ said Mr Pyne, ‘that your trust will not be misplaced.’
‘Then,’ said the girl, ‘I’ll tell you about it. My name is Daphne St John.’
‘Yes, Miss St John.’
‘Mrs. I’m–I’m married.’
‘Pshaw!’ muttered Mr Pyne, annoyed with himself as he noted the platinum circlet on the third finger of her left hand. ‘Stupid of me.’
‘If I weren’t married,’ said the girl, ‘I shouldn’t mind so much. I mean, it wouldn’t matter so much. It’s the thought of Gerald–well, here–here’s what all the trouble’s about!’
She dived into her bag, took something out and flung it down on the desk where, gleaming and flashing, it rolled over to Mr Parker Pyne.
It was a platinum ring with a large solitaire diamond.
Mr Pyne picked it up, took it to the window, tested it on the pane, applied a jeweller’s lens to his eye and examined it closely.
‘An exceedingly fine diamond,’ he remarked, coming back to the table; ‘worth, I should say, about two thousand pounds at least.’
‘Yes. And it’s stolen! I stole it! And I don’t know what to do.’
‘Dear me!’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘This is very interesting.’
His client broke down and sobbed into an inadequate handkerchief.
‘Now, now,’ said Mr Pyne. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’
The girl dried her eyes and sniffed. ‘Is it?’ she said. ‘Oh, is it?’
‘Of course it is. Now, just tell me the whole story.’
‘Well, it began by my being hard up. You see, I’m frightfully extravagant. And Gerald gets so annoyed about it. Gerald’s my husband. He’s a lot older than I am, and he’s got very–well, very austere ideas. He thinks running into debt is dreadful. So I didn’t tell him. And I went over to Le Touquet with some friends and I thought perhaps I might be lucky at chemmy and get straight again. I did win at first. And then I lost, and then I thought I must go on. And I went on. And–and–’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘You need not go into details. You were in a worse plight than ever. That is right, is it not?’
Daphne St John nodded. ‘And by then, you see, I simply couldn’t tell Gerald. Because he hates gambling. Oh, I was in an awful mess. Well, we went down to stay with the Dortheimers near Cobham. He’s frightfully rich, of course. His wife, Naomi, was at school with me. She’s pretty and a dear. While we were there, the setting of this ring got loose. On the morning we were leaving, she asked me to take it up to town and drop it at her jeweller’s in Bond Street.’ She paused.
‘And now we come to the difficult part,’ said Mr Pyne helpfully. ‘Go on, Mrs St John.’
‘You won’t ever tell, will you?’ demanded the girl pleadingly.
‘My clients’ confidences are sacred. And anyway, Mrs St John, you have told me so much already that I could probably finish the story for myself.’
‘That’s true. All right. But I hate saying it–it sounds so awful. I went to Bond Street. There’s another shop there–Viro’s. They–copy jewellery. Suddenly I lost my head. I took the ring in and said I wanted an exact copy; I said I was going abroad and didn’t want to take real jewellery with me. They seemed to think it quite natural.
‘Well, I got the paste replica–it was so good you couldn’t have told it from the original–and I sent it off by registered post to Lady Dortheimer. I had a box with the jeweller’s name on it, so that was all right, and I made a professional-looking parcel. And then I–I–pawned the real one.’ She hid her face in her hands. ‘How could I? How could I? I was a low, mean, common thief.’
Mr Parker Pyne coughed. ‘I do not think you have quite finished,’ he said.
‘No, I haven’t. This, you understand, was about six weeks ago. I paid off all my debts and got square again, but, of course, I was miserable all the time. And then an old cousin of mine died and I came into some money. The first thing I did was to redeem the wretched ring. Well, that’s all right; here it is. But, something terribly difficult has happened.’
‘Yes?’
‘We’ve had a quarrel with the Dortheimers. It’s over some shares that Sir Reuben persuaded Gerald to buy. He was terribly let in over them and he told Sir Reuben what he thought of him–and oh, it’s all dreadful! And now, you see, I can’t get the ring back.’
‘Couldn’t you send it to Lady Dortheimer anonymously?’
‘That gives the whole thing away. She’ll examine her own ring, find it’s a fake and guess at once what I’ve done.’
‘You say she’s a friend of yours. What about telling her the whole truth–throwing yourself on her mercy?’
Mrs St John shook her head. ‘We’re not such friends as that. Where money or jewellery is concerned, Naomi’s as hard as nails. Perhaps she couldn’t prosecute me if I gave the ring back, but she could tell everyone what I’ve done and I’d be ruined. Gerald would know and he would never forgive me. Oh, how awful everything is!’ She began to cry again. ‘I’ve thought and I’ve thought, and I can’t see what to do! Oh, Mr Pyne, can’t you do anything?’
‘Several things,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.
‘You can? Really?’
‘Certainly. I suggested the simplest way because in my long experience I have always found it the best. It avoids unlooked-for complications. Still, I see the force of your objections. At present no one knows of this unfortunate occurrence but yourself?’
‘And you,’ said Mrs St John.
‘Oh, I do not count. Well, then, your secret is safe at present. All that is needed is to exchange the rings in some unsuspicious manner.’
‘That’s it,’ the girl said eagerly.
‘That should not be difficult. We must take a little time to consider the best method–’
She interrupted him. ‘But there is no time! That’s what’s driving me nearly crazy. She’s going to have the ring reset.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Just by chance. I was lunching with a woman the other day and I admired a ring she had on–a big emerald. She said it was the newest thing–and that Naomi Dortheimer was going to have her diamond reset that way.’
‘Which means that we shall have to act quickly,’ said Mr Pyne thoughtfully. ‘It means gaining admission to the house–and if possible not in any menial capacity. Servants have little chance of handling valuable rings. Have you any ideas yourself, Mrs St John?’
‘Well, Naomi is giving a big party on Wednesday. And this friend of mine mentioned that she had been looking for some exhibition dancers. I don’t know if anything has been settled–’
‘I think it can be managed,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘If the matter is already settled it will be more expensive, that is all. One thing more, do you happen to know where the main light switch is situated?’
‘As it happens I do know that, because a fuse blew out late one night when the servants had all gone to bed. It’s a box at the back of the hall–inside a little cupboard.’
At Mr Parker Pyne’s request she drew him a sketch.
‘And now,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, ‘everything is going to be all right, so don’t worry, Mrs St John. What about the ring? Shall I take it now, or would you rather keep it till Wednesday?’
‘Well, perhaps I’d better keep it.’
‘Now, no more worry, mind you,’ Mr Parker Pyne admonished her.
‘And your–fee?’ she asked timidly.
‘That can stand over for the moment. I will let you know on Wednesday what expenses have been necessary. The fee will be nominal, I assure you.’
He conducted her to the door, then rang the buzzer on his desk.
‘Send Claude and Madeleine here.’
Claude Luttrell was one of the handsomest specimens of lounge lizard to be found in England. Madeleine de Sara was the most seductive of vamps.
Mr Parker Pyne surveyed them with approval. ‘My children,’ he said, ‘I have a job for you. You are going to be internationally famous exhibition dancers. Now, attend to this carefully, Claude, and mind you get it right…’
II
Lady Dortheimer was fully satisfied with the arrangements for her ball. She surveyed the floral decorations and approved, gave a few last orders to the butler, and remarked to her husband that so far nothing had gone wrong!
It was a slight disappointment that Michael and Juanita, the dancers from the Red Admiral, had been unable to fulfil their contract at the last moment, owing to Juanita’s spraining her ankle, but instead, two new dancers were being sent (so ran the story over the telephone) who had created a furore in Paris.
The dancers duly arrived and Lady Dortheimer approved. The evening went splendidly. Jules and Sanchia did their turn, and most sensational it was. A wild Spanish Revolution dance. Then a dance called the Degenerate’s Dream. Then an exquisite exhibition of modern dancing.
The “cabaret” over, normal dancing was resumed. The handsome Jules requested a dance with Lady Dortheimer. They floated away. Never had Lady Dortheimer had such a perfect partner.
Sir Reuben was searching for the seductive Sanchia–in vain. She was not in the ballroom.
She was, as a matter of fact, out in the deserted hall near a small box, with her eyes fixed on the jewelled watch which she wore round her wrist.
‘You are not English–you cannot be English–to dance as you do,’ murmured Jules into Lady Dortheimer’s ear. ‘You are the sprite, the spirit of the wind. Droushcka petrovka navarouchi.’
‘What is that language?’
‘Russian,’ said Jules mendaciously. ‘I say something to you in Russian that I dare not say in English.’
Lady Dortheimer closed her eyes. Jules pressed her closer to him.
Suddenly the lights went out. In the darkness Jules bent and kissed the hand that lay on his shoulder. As she made to draw it away, he caught it, raised it to his lips again. Somehow a ring slipped from her finger into his hand.
To Lady Dortheimer it seemed only a second before the lights went on again. Jules was smiling at her.
‘Your ring,’ he said. ‘It slipped off. You permit?’ He replaced it on her finger. His eyes said a number of things while he was doing it.
Sir Reuben was talking about the main switch. ‘Some idiot. Practical joke, I suppose.’
Lady Dortheimer was not interested. Those few minutes of darkness had been very pleasant.
III
Mr Parker Pyne arrived at his office on Thursday morning to find Mrs St John already awaiting him.
‘Show her in,’ said Mr Pyne.
‘Well?’ She was all eagerness.
‘You look pale,’ he said accusingly.
She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night. I was wondering–’
‘Now, here is the little bill for expenses. Train fares, costumes, and fifty pounds to Michael and Juanita. Sixty-five pounds, seventeen shillings.’
‘Yes, yes! But about last night–was it all right? Did it happen?’
Mr Parker Pyne looked at her in surprise. ‘My dear young lady, naturally it is all right. I took it for granted that you understood that.’
‘What a relief! I was afraid–’
Mr Parker Pyne shook his head reproachfully. ‘Failure is a word not tolerated in this establishment. If I do not think I can succeed I refuse to undertake a case. If I do take a case, its success is practically a foregone conclusion.’
‘She’s really got her ring back and suspects nothing?’
‘Nothing whatever. The operation was most delicately conducted.’
Daphne St John sighed. ‘You don’t know the load off my mind. What were you saying about expenses?’
‘Sixty-five pounds, seventeen shillings.’
Mrs St John opened her bag and counted out the money. Mr Parker Pyne thanked her and wrote out a receipt.
‘But your fee?’ murmured Daphne. ‘This is only for expenses.’
‘In this case there is no fee.’
‘Oh, Mr Pyne! I couldn’t, really!’
‘My dear young lady, I insist. I will not touch a penny. It would be against my principles. Here is your receipt. And now–’
With the smile of a happy conjuror bringing off a successful trick, he drew a small box from his pocket and pushed it across the table. Daphne opened it. Inside, to all appearances, lay the identical diamond ring.
‘Brute!’ said Mrs St John, making a face at it. ‘How I hate you! I’ve a good mind to throw you out of the window.’
‘I shouldn’t do that,’ said Mr Pyne. ‘It might surprise people.’
‘You’re quite sure it isn’t the real one?’ said Daphne.
‘No, no! The one you showed me the other day is safely on Lady Dortheimer’s finger.’
‘Then, that’s all right.’ Daphne rose with a happy laugh.
‘Curious you asked me that,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Of course Claude, poor fellow, hasn’t many brains. He might easily have got muddled. So, to make sure, I had an expert look at this thing this morning.’
Mrs St John sat down again rather suddenly. ‘Oh! And he said?’
‘That it was an extraordinarily good imitation,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, beaming. ‘First-class work. So that sets your mind at rest, doesn’t it?’
Mrs St John started to say something, then stopped. She was staring at Mr Parker Pyne.
The latter resumed his seat behind the desk and looked at her benevolently. ‘The cat who pulled the chestnuts out of the fire,’ he said dreamily. ‘Not a pleasant role. Not a role I should care to have any of my staff undertake. Excuse me. Did you say anything?’
‘I–no, nothing.’
‘Good. I want to tell you a little story, Mrs St John. It concerns a young lady. A fair-haired young lady, I think. She is not married. Her name is not St John. Her Christian name is not Daphne. On the contrary, her name is Ernestine Richards, and until recently she was secretary to Lady Dortheimer.
‘Well, one day the setting of Lady Dortheimer’s diamond ring became loose and Miss Richards brought it up to town to have it fixed. Quite like your story here, is it not? The same idea occurred to Miss Richards that occurred to you. She had the ring copied. But she was a far-sighted young lady. She saw a day coming when Lady Dortheimer would discover the substitution. When that happened, she would remember who had taken the ring to town and Miss Richards would be instantly suspected.
‘So what happened? First, I fancy, Miss Richards invested in a La Merveilleuse transformation–Number Seven side parting, I think’–his eyes rested innocently on his client’s wavy locks–‘shade dark brown. Then she called on me. She showed me the ring, allowed me to satisfy myself that it was genuine, thereby disarming suspicion on my part. That done, and a plan of substitution arranged, the young lady took the ring to the jeweller, who, in due course, returned it to Lady Dortheimer.
‘Yesterday evening the other ring, the false ring, was hurriedly handed over at the last minute at Waterloo Station. Quite rightly, Miss Richards did not not consider that Mr Luttrell was likely to be an authority on diamonds. But just to satisfy myself that everything was above board I arranged for a friend of mine, a diamond merchant, to be on the train. He looked at the ring and pronounced at once, ‘This is not a real diamond; it is an excellent paste replica.’
‘You see the point, of course, Mrs St John? When Lady Dortheimer discovered her loss, what would she remember? The charming young dancer who slipped the ring off her finger when the lights went out! She would make enquiries and find out that the dancers originally engaged were bribed not to come. If matters were traced back to my office, my story of a Mrs St John would seem feeble in the extreme. Lady Dortheimer never knew a Mrs St John. The story would sound a flimsy fabrication.
‘Now you see, don’t you, that I could not allow that? And so my friend Claude replaced on Lady Dortheimer’s finger the same ring that he took off.’ Mr Parker Pyne’s smile was less benevolent now.
‘You see why I could not take a fee? I guarantee to give happiness. Clearly I have not made you happy. I will say just one thing more. You are young; possibly this is your first attempt at anything of the kind. Now I, on the contrary, am comparatively advanced in years, and I have had a long experience in the compilation of statistics. From that experience I can assure you that in eighty-seven per cent of cases dishonesty does not pay. Eighty-seven per cent. Think of it!’
With a brusque movement the pseudo Mrs St John rose. ‘You oily old brute!’ she said. ‘Leading me on! Making me pay expenses! And all the time–’ She choked, and rushed towards the door.
‘Your ring,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, holding it out to her.
She snatched it from him, looked at it and flung it out of the open window.
A door banged and she was gone.
Mr Parker Pyne was looking out of the window with some interest. ‘As I thought,’ he said. ‘Considerable surprise has been created. The gentleman selling Dismal Desmonds does not know what to make of it.’
The Case of the Discontented Husband
I
Undoubtedly one of Mr Parker Pyne’s greatest assets was his sympathetic manner. It was a manner that invited confidence. He was well acquainted with the kind of paralysis that descended on clients as soon as they got inside his office. It was Mr Pyne’s task to pave the way for the necessary disclosures.
On this particular morning he sat facing a new client, a Mr Reginald Wade. Mr Wade, he deduced at once, was the inarticulate type. The type that finds it hard to put into words anything connected with the emotions.
He was a tall, broadly-built man with mild, pleasant blue eyes and a well-tanned complexion. He sat pulling absent-mindedly at a little moustache while he looked at Mr Parker Pyne with all the pathos of a dumb animal.
‘Saw your advertisement, you know,’ he jerked. ‘Thought I might as well come along. Rum sort of show, but you never know, what?’
Mr Parker Pyne interpreted these cryptic remarks correctly. ‘When things go badly, one is willing to take a chance,’ he suggested.
‘That’s it. That’s it, exactly. I’m willing to take a chance–any chance. Things are in a bad way with me, Mr Pyne. I don’t know what to do about it. Difficult, you know; damned difficult.’
‘That,’ said Mr Pyne, ‘is where I come in. I do know what to do! I am a specialist in every kind of human trouble.’
‘Oh, I say–bit of a tall order, that!’
‘Not really. Human troubles are easily classified into a few main heads. There is ill health. There is boredom. There are wives who are in trouble over their husbands. There are husbands’–he paused–‘who are in trouble over their wives.’
‘Matter of fact, you’ve hit it. You’ve hit it absolutely.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Mr Pyne.
‘There’s nothing much to tell. My wife wants me to give her a divorce so that she can marry another chap.’
‘Very common indeed in these days. Now you, I gather, don’t see eye to eye with her in this business?’
‘I’m fond of her,’ said Mr Wade simply. ‘You see–well, I’m fond of her.’
A simple and somewhat tame statement, but if Mr Wade had said, ‘I adore her. I worship the ground she walks on. I would cut myself into little pieces for her,’ he could not have been more explicit to Mr Parker Pyne.
‘All the same, you know,’ went on Mr Wade, ‘what can I do? I mean, a fellow’s so helpless. If she prefers this other fellow–well, one’s got to play the game; stand aside and all that.’
‘The proposal is that she should divorce you?’
‘Of course. I couldn’t let her be dragged through the divorce court.’
Mr Pyne looked at him thoughtfully. ‘But you come to me? Why?’
The other laughed in a shamefaced manner. ‘I don’t know. You see, I’m not a clever chap. I can’t think of things. I thought you might–well, suggest something. I’ve got six months, you see. She agreed to that. If at the end of six months she is still of the same mind–well, then, I get out. I thought you might give me a hint or two. At present everything I do annoys her.
‘You see, Mr Pyne, what it comes to is this: I’m not a clever chap! I like knocking balls about. I like a round of golf and a good set of tennis. I’m no good at music and art and such things. My wife’s clever. She likes pictures and the opera and concerts, and naturally she gets bored with me. This other fellow –nasty, long-haired chap–he knows all about these things. He can talk about them. I can’t. In a way, I can understand a clever, beautiful woman getting fed up with an ass like me.’
Mr Parker Pyne groaned. ‘You have been married–how long?…Nine years? And I suppose you have adopted that attitude from the start. Wrong, my dear sir; disastrously wrong! Never adopt an apologetic attitude with a woman. She will take you at your own valuation–and you deserve it. You should have gloried in your athletic prowess. You should have spoken of art and music as “all that nonsense my wife likes”. You should have condoled with her on not being able to play games better. The humble spirit, my dear sir, is a wash-out in matrimony! No woman can be expected to stand up against it. No wonder your wife has been unable to last the course.’
Mr Wade was looking at him in bewilderment. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what do you think I ought to do?’
‘That certainly is the question. Whatever you should have done nine years ago, it is too late now. New tactics must be adopted. Have you ever had any affairs with other women?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘I should have said, perhaps, any light flirtations?’
‘I never bothered about women much.’
‘A mistake. You must start now.’
Mr Wade looked alarmed. ‘Oh, look here, I couldn’t really. I mean–’
‘You will be put to no trouble in the matter. One of my staff will be supplied for the purpose. She will tell you what is required of you, and any attentions you pay her she will, of course, understand to be merely a matter of business.’
Mr Wade looked relieved. ‘That’s better. But do you really think–I mean, it seems to me that Iris will be keener to get rid of me than ever.’
‘You do not understand human nature, Mr Wade. Still less do you understand feminine human nature. At the present moment you are, from a feminine point of view, merely a waste product. Nobody wants you. What use has a woman for something that no one wants? None whatever. But take another angle. Suppose your wife discovers that you are looking forward to regaining your freedom as much as she is?’
‘Then she ought to be pleased.’
‘She ought to be, perhaps, but she will not be! Moreover, she will see that you have attracted a fascinating young woman–a young woman who could pick and choose. Immediately your stock goes up. Your wife knows that all her friends will say it was you who tired of her and wished to marry a more attractive woman. That will annoy her.’
‘You think so?’
‘I am sure of it. You will no longer be “poor dear old Reggie”. You will be “that sly dog Reggie”. All the difference in the world! Without relinquishing the other man, she will doubtless try to win you back. You will not be won. You will be sensible and repeat to her all her arguments. “Much better to part.” “Temperamentally unsuited.” You realize that while what she said was true–that you had never understood her–it is also true that she had never understood you. But we need not go into this now; you will be given full instructions when the time comes.’
Mr Wade seemed doubtful still. ‘You really think that this plan of yours will do the trick?’ he asked dubiously.
‘I will not say I am absolutely sure of it,’ said Mr Parker Pyne cautiously. ‘There is a bare possibility that your wife may be so overwhelmingly in love with this other man that nothing you could say or do will affect her, but I consider that unlikely. She has probably been driven into this affair through boredom–boredom with the atmosphere of uncritical devotion and absolute fidelity with which you have most unwisely surrounded her. If you follow my instructions, the chances are, I should say, ninety-seven per cent in your favour.’
‘Good enough,’ said Mr Wade. ‘I’ll do it. By the way–er–how much?’
‘My fee is two hundred guineas, payable in advance.’
Mr Wade drew out a cheque book.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/agata-kristi/parker-pyne-investigates/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.