"I didn't want to appear vain," Miss Marple said, "but I couldn't help being just a teeny weeny bit pleased with myself, because, just by applying a little common sense, I believe I really did solve a problem that had baffled cleverer heads than mine. Though really I should have thought the whole thing was obvious from the beginning...






"A woman had been stabbed in her hotel room and her husband was under suspicion. But the situation boiled down to this--no one but the hus-band and the chambermaid had entered the vic-tim's room.






"I inquired about the chambermaid..."






"The champion deceiver of our time."




--NEW YORK TIMES






Berkley books by Agatha Christie

APPOINTMENT wITH DEATH




THE BIG FOUR THE BOOMERANG CLUE CARDS ON THE TABLE DEAD MAN'S MIRROR DEATH IN THE AIR DOUBLE SIN AND OTHER STORIES




ELEPHANTS CAN REMEMBER




THE GOLDEN BALL AND OTHER STORIES THE HOLLOW




THE LABORS OF HERCULES




THE MAN IN THE BROWN SUIT MISS MARPLE: THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES




MR. PARKER PYNE, DETECTIVE




THE MOVING FINGER




THE MURDER AT HAZELMOOR THE MURDER AT THE VICARAGE MURDER IN MESOPOTAMIA MURDER IN RETROSPECT MURDER IN THREE ACTS




THE MURDER ON THE LINKS




THE MYSTERIOUS MR. QUIN N OR M?




PARTNERS IN CRIME




THE PATRIOTIC MURDERS




POtROT LOSES A CLIENT THE REGATTA MYSTERY AND OTHER STORIES SAD CYPRESS




THE SECRET OF CHIMNEYS THERE 1S A TIDE...




THEY CAME TO BAGHDAD




THIRTEEN AT DINNER

THREE BLIND MICE AND OTHER STORIES





THE TUESDAY CLUB MURDERS





THE UNDER DOG AND OTHER STORIES





THE WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION AND OTHER STORIES






AGATHA CHRL TIE






THE REGATTA MYSW




and Other Stories






BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK






qhis Berkley book contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition. it has been completely reset in a typeface clesigned for easy reading and was printed



from new film.

THE REGATTA MYSTERY AND OTHER STORIES






A





rkley Book / published by arrangement with





G. P. Putnam's Sons






PRINTING HISTORY




Dodd, Mead edition published 1939 Dell edition / June 1976




Berkley edition / June 1984






C All rights reserved.





t0yright 1932, 1934, 1935, 1936, 1937, 1939 Colw ' by Agatha Christie Mallowan.





-lht renewed 1959, 1961, 1962, 1963, 1964, 1967





by Agatha Christie Mallowan.





This ' Book design by Virginia M. Smith.





by m,idok may not be reproduced in whole or in part,





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eograph or any other means, without permission. 21) information address: G. R Putnam's Sons, yadison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.






ISBN: 0-425-10041-3






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tRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA






0 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10






The Regatta Myster The Mystery of the How Does Your GoI'! Problem at Pollensa! Yellow Iris




Miss Marple Tells






The Dream






In a Glass Darkly Problem at Sea






Mr. Isaac Pointz removed a cigar from his lips and said approvingly:




"Pretty little place."




Having thus set the seal of his approval upon Dartmouth harbor, he .replaced the cigar and looked about him with the air of a man pleased with himself, his appearance, his surroundings and life generally.




As regards the first of these, Mr. Isaac Pointz was a man of fifty-eight, in good health and con-dition with perhaps a slight tendency to liver. He was not exactly stout, but comfortable-looking, and a yachting costume, which he wore at the mo-ment, is not the most kindly of attires far a middle-aged man with a tendency to embonpoint. Mr. Pointz was very well turned outmcorrect to every crease and button--his dark and slightly






4 Agatha Christie




Oriental face beaming out under the peak of his yachting cap. As regards his surroundings, these may have been taken to mean his companions--his partner Mr. Leo Stein, Sir George and Lady Maroway, an American business acquaintance Mr. Samuel Leathern and his schoolgirl daughter Eve, Mrs. Rustington and Evan Llewellyn. The party had just come ashore from Mr. Pointz' yacht--the Merrirnaid. In the morning they had watched the yacht racing and they had now come ashore to join for a while in the fun of the fair--Coconut shies, Fat Ladies, the Human Spider and the Merry-go-round. It is hardly to be doubted that these delights were relished most by Eve Leathern. When Mr. Pointz finally suggested that it was time to adjourn to the Royal George for dinner hers was the only dissentient voice. "Oh, Mr. Pointz--I did so want to have my fortune told by the Real Gypsy in the Caravan." Mr. Pointz had doubts of the essential Realness of the Gypsy in question but he gave indulgent assent. "Eve's just crazy about the fair," said her



father apologetically. "But don't you pay any attention if you want to be getting along."

"Plenty of time," said Mr. Pointz benignantly. "Let the little lady enjoy herself. I'll take you on at darts, Leo." "Twenty-five and over wins a prize," chanted the man in charge of the darts in a high nasal voice. "Bet you a river my total score beats yours," said Pointz. "Done," said Stein with alacrity.






THE REGATTA MYSTERY




The two men were soon whole-heartedly engaged in their battle. Lady Marroway murmured to Evan Llewellyn: "Eve is not the only child in the party." Llewellyn smiled assent but somewhat absently. He had been absent-minded all that day. Once or twice his answers had been wide of the point. Pamela Marroway drew away from him and said to her husband: "That young man has something on his mind." Sir George murmured:



"Or someone?"

And his glance swept quickly over Janet Rust-ington.

Lady Marroway frowned a little. She was a tall woman exquisitely groomed. The scarlet of her fingernails was matched by the dark red coral studs in her ears. Her eyes were dark and watchful. Sir George affected a careless "hearty English gentleman" manner--but his bright blue eyes held the same watchful look as his wife's. Isaac Pointz and Leo Stein were Hat'ton Garden diamond merchants. Sir George and Lady Mar-roway came from a different world--the world of Antibes and Juan les Pins--of golf at St. JeandeLuz--of bathing from the rocks at Madeira in the winter. In outward seeming they were as the lilies that toiled not, neither did they spin. But perhaps this was not quite true. There are divers ways of toiling and also of spinning. "Here's the kid back again," said Evan Llewellyn to Mrs. Rustington. He was a dark young man--there was a faintly






6



Agatha Christie hungry wolfish look about him which some women found attractive. It was difficult to say whether Mrs. Rustington found him so. She did not wear her heart on her sleeve. She had married young--and the marriage had ended in disaster in less than a year. Since that time it was difficult to know what Janet Rusting-ton thought of anyone or anything--her manner was always the same--charming but completely aloof. Eve Leathern came dancing up to them, her lank fair hair bobbing excitedly. She was fifteen--an awkward child--but full of vitality. "I'm going to be married by the time I'm seventeen," she exclaimed breathlessly. "To a very rich man and we're going to have six children and Tuesdays and Thursdays are my lucky days and I ought always to wear green or blue and an emerald is my lucky stone and--" "Why, pet, I think we ought to be getting along," said her father. Mr. Leathern was a tall, fair, dyspeptic-looking man with a somewhat mournful expression. Mr. Pointz and Mr. Stein were turning away from the darts. Mr. Pointz was chuckling and Mr.

Stein was looking somewhat rueful. "It's all a matter of luck," he was saying. Mr. Pointz slapped his pocket cheerfully. "Took a river off you all right. Skill, my boy, skill. My old Dad was a first class dart player. Well, folks, let's be getting along. Had your fortune told, Eve? Did they tell you to beware of a dark man?" "A dark woman," corrected Eve. "She's got a






THE REGATTA MYSTERY







cast in her eye and she'll be real mean to me if I give her a chance. And I'm to be married by the time I'm seventeen..."




She ran on happily as the party steered its way to the Royal George.




Dinner had been ordered beforehand by the forethought of Mr. Pointz and a bowing waiter led them upstairs and into a private room on the



first floor. Here a round table was ready laid. The

big bulging bow-window opened on the harbor square and was open. The noise of the fair came up to them, and the raucous squeal of three roundabouts each blaring a different tune.




"Best shut that if we're to hear ourselves speak," observed Mr. Pointz drily, and suited the action to the word.




They took their seats round the table and Mr. Pointz beamed affectionately at his guests. He felt he was doing them well and he liked to do people well. His eye rested on one after another. Lady Marroway--fine woman--not quite the goods, of course, he knew thatwhe was perfectly well aware that what he had called all his life the crrne de ia crrne would have very little to do with the Mar~ roways--but then the crrne de la crrne were supremely unaware of his own existence. Anyway, Lady Marroway was a damned smart-looking woman--and he didn't mind if she did rook him a bit at Bridge. Didn't enjoy it quite so much from Sir George. Fishy eye the fellow had. Brazenly on the make. But he wouldn't make too much out of Isaac Pointz. He'd see to that all right.

Old Leathern wasn't a bad fellow--longwinded, of course, like most Americans--fond of telling






8 Agatha Christie






endless long stories. And he had that disconcerting habit of requiring precise information. What was the population of Dartmouth? In what year had the Naval College been built? And so on. Ex-pected his host to be a kind of walking Baedeker. Eve was a nice cheery kid--he enjoyed chaffing her. Voice rather like a corncrake, but she had all her wits about her. A bright kid.




Young Llewellyn--he seemed a bit quiet. Looked as though he had something on his mind. Hard up, probably. These writing fellows usually were. Looked as though he might be keen on Janet Rustington. A nice woman--attractive and clever, too. But she didn't ram her writing down your throat. Highbrow sort of stuff she wrote but



you'd never think it to hear her talk. And old Leo! He wasn't getting younger or thinner. And bliss-fully

unaware that his partner was at that moment thinking precisely the same thing about him, Mr. Pointz corrected Mr. Leathern as to pilchards being connected with Devon and not Cornwall, and prepared to enjoy his dinner.




"Mr. Pointz," said Eve when plates of hot mackerel had been set before them and the waiters had left the room.




"Yes, young lady."




"Have you got that big diamond with you right now? The one you showed us last night and said




you always took about with you?"




Mr. Pointz chuckled.




"That's right. My mascot, I call it. Yes, I've got it with me all right."




"I think that's awfully dangerous. Somebody

THE REGATTA MYSTERY




might get it away from you in the crowd at the fair. ' ' "Not they," said Mr. Pointz. "I'll take good care of that." "But they might," insisted Eve. "You've got gangsters in England as well as we have, haven't you?" "They won't get the Morning Star," said Mr. Pointz. "To begin with it's in a special inner pocket. And anyway--old Pointz knows what he's about. Nobody's going to steal the Morning Star." Eve laughed. "Ugh-huh--bet I could steal it!" "I bet you couldn't," Mr. Pointz twinkled back at her. "Well, I bet I could. I was thinking about it last night in bed--after you'd handed it round the table for us all to look at. I thought of a real cute way to steal it." "And what's that?" Eve put her head on one side, her fair hair wagged excitedly. "I'm not telling you--now. What do you bet I couldn't?"



Memories of Mr. Pointz' youth rose in his

mind.

"Half a dozen pairs of gloves," he said. "Gloves," cried Eve disgustedly. "Who wears gloves?" "Well--do you wear silk stockings?" "Do I not? My best pair laddered this morning.'' "Very well, then. Half a dozen pairs of the finest silk stockings--"






10 Agatha Christie






"Oo-er," said Eve blissfully. "And what about you?"




"Well, I need a new tobacco pouch."




"Right. That's a deal. Not that you'll get your tobacco pouch. Now I'll tell you what you've got to do. You must hand it round like you did last night--"




She broke off as two waiters entered to remove



the plates. When they were starting on the next course of chicken, Mr. Pointz said:




"Remember this, young woman, if this is to represent a real theft, I should send for the police and you'd be searched."




"That's quite O.K. by me. You needn't be quite so lifelike as to bring the police into it. But Lady Marroway or Mrs. Rustington can do all the searching you like."




"Well, that's that then," said Mr. Pointz. "What are you setting up to be? A first class jewel thief?"




"I might take to it as a career--if it really paid."




"If you got away with the Morning Star it would pay you. Even after recutting that stone would be worth over thirty thousand pounds."




"My!" said Eve, impressed. "What's that in dollars?"

Lady Marroway uttered an exclamation.




"And you carry such a stone about with you?" she said reproachfully. "Thirty thousand pounds." Her darkened eyelashes quivered.




Mrs. Rustington said softly: "It's a lot of




money And then there's the fascination of the stone itself It's beautiful."




THE REGATTA MYSTERY






"Just a piece of carbon," said Evan Llewellyn. "I've always understood it's the 'fence' that' the difficulty in jewel robberies," said Sir Georg "He takes the lion's share--eh, what?"




"Come on," said Eve excitedly. "Let's star Take the diamond out and say what you said la night."





Mr. Leathern said in his deep melancholy voic

"I do apologize for my offspring. She ge kinder worked up--"




"That'll do, Pops," said Eve. "Now then, M Pointz--"




Smiling, Mr. Pointz fumbled in an inne pocket. He drew something out. It lay on the pale




of his hand, blinking in the light.




A diamond ....




Rather stiffly, Mr. Pointz repeated as far as h could remember his speech of the previous evenin on the Merrirnaid.




"Perhaps you ladies and gentlemen would Ilk to have a look at this? It's an unusually beautift stone. I call it the Morning Star and it's by way c being my mascot--goes about with me anywhere Like to see it?"





He handed it to Lady Marroway, who took i exclaimed at its beauty and passed it to Mr. Leatl

ern who said, "Pretty good--yes, pretty good," i a somewhat artificial manner and in his tur, passed it to Llewellyn.




The waiters coming in at that moment there wa a slight hitch in the proceedings. When they hat gone again, Evan said, "Very fine stone" ant passed it to Leo Stein who did not trouble to mak, any comment but handed it quickly on to Eve.






12 Agatha Christie




"How perfectly lovely," cried Eve in a high affected voice. "Oh!" She gave a cry of consternation as it slipped from her hand. "I've dropped it." She pushed back her chair and got down to grope under the table. Sir George at her right, bent also. A glass got swept off the table in the confusion. Stein, Llewellyn and Mrs. Rustington all helped in the search. Finally Lady Marroway joined in.



Only Mr. Pointz took no part in the proceedings.

He remained in his seat sipping his wine and smiling sardonically. "Oh, dear," said Eve, still in her artificial manner. "How dreadful! Where can it have rolled to? I can't find it anywhere." One by one the assistant searchers rose to their feet. "It's disappeared all right, Pointz," said Sir George, smiling. "Very nicely done," said Mr. Pointz, nodding approval. "You'd make a very good actress, Eve. Now the question is, have you hidden it somewhere or have you got it on you?" "Search me," said Eve dramatically. Mr. Pointz' eye sought out a large screen in the corner of the room. He nodded towards it and then looked at Lady Marroway and Mrs. R.ustington. "If you ladies will be so good--" "Why, certainly," said Lady Marroway, smiling. The two women rose. Lady Marroway said,






THE REGATTA MYSTERY 13






"Don't be afraid, Mr. Pointz. We'll vet her properly."




The three went behind the screen.




The room was hot. Evan Llewellyn flung open the window. A news vender was passing. Evan




threw down a coin and the man threw up a paper. Llewellyn unfolded it.




,'Hungarian situation none too good," he said.




"That the local rag?" asked Sir George. "There's a horse I'm interested in ought to have run at Haldon today--Natty Boy."




"Leo," said Mr. Pointz. "Lock the door: We don't want those damned waiters popping in and out till this business is over."





"Natty Boy won three to one," said Evan.

"Rotten odds," said Sir George.




"Mostly Regatta news," said Evan, glancing over the sheet.




The three young women came out from the screen.




"Not a sign of it," said Janet Rustington.




"You can take it from me she hasn't got it on her," said Lady Marroway.




Mr. Pointz thought he would be quite ready to take it from her. There was a grim tone in her voice and he felt no doubt that the search had been thorough.




"Say, Eve, you haven't swallowed it?" asked 'i Mr. Leathern anxiously. "Because maybe that








wouldn't be too good for you." "I'd have seen her do that," said Leo Stein

quietly. "I was watching her. She didn't put any-thing in her mouth."






14 Agatha Christie






"I couldn't swallow a great thing all points like that," said Eve. She put her hands on her hips and looked at Mr. Pointz. "What about it, big boy?" she asked.




"You stand over there where you are and don't .move," said that gentleman.




Among them, the men stripped the table and turned it upside down. Mr. Pointz examined every inch of it. Then he transferred his attention to the chair on which Eve had been sitting and those on either side of her.




The thoroughness of the search left nothing to be desired. The other four men joined in and the



women also. Eve Leathern stood by the wall

near the screen and laughed with intense enjoy-ment.




Five minutes later Mr. Pointz rose with a slight groan from his knees and dusted his trousers sadly. His pristine freshness was somewhat im-paired.




"Eve," he said. "I take off my hat to you. You're the finest thing in jewel thieves I've ever come across. What you've done with that stone beats me. As far as I can see it must be in the room as it isn't on you. I give you best."




"Are the stockings mine?" demanded Eve. "They're yours, young lady."




"Eve, my child, where can you have hidden it?"




demanded Mrs. Rustington curiously.




Eve pranced forward.




"I'll show you. You'll all be just mad with yourselves."




She went across to the side table where the things from the dinner table had been roughly






THE REGATTA MYSTERY 15






stacked. She picked up her little black evening bag ''Right under your eyes. Right..."




Her voice, gay and triumphant, trailed off sud-denly.




"Oh," she said. "Oh .... "




"What's the matter, honey?" said her father. Eve whispered: "It's gone.., it's gone .... "




"What's all this?" asked Pointz, coming for-ward.




Eve turned to him impetuously.




"It was like this. This pochette of mine has a big paste stone in the middle of the clasp. It fell out



last night and just when you were showing that diamond round I noticed that it was much the

same size. And so I thought in the night what a good idea for a robbery it would be to wedge your diamond into the gap with a bit of plasticine. I felt sure nobody would ever spot it. That's what I did tonight. First I dropped it--then went down after it with the bag in my hand, stuck it into the gap with a bit of plasticine which I had handy, put my bag on the table and went on pretending to look for the diamond. I thought it would be like the Purloined Letter--you know--lying there in full view under all your noses--and just looking like a common bit of rhinestone. And it was a good plan --none of you did notice."




"I wonder," said Mr. Stein.




"What did you say?"




Mr. Pointz took the bag, looked at the empty hole with a fragment of plasticine still adhering to it and said slowly: "It may have fallen out. We'd better look again." 16 Agatha Christie






The search was repeated, but this time it was a curiously silent business. An atmosphere of ten-sion pervaded the room.




Finally everyone in turn gave it up. They stood looking at each other.




"It's not in this room," said Stein.




"And nobody's left the room," said Sir George significantly.




There was a moment's pause. Eve ,urst into tears.




Her father patted her on the shoulder. "There, there," he said awkwardly. Sir George turned to Leo Stein.




"Mr. Stein," he said. "Just now you murmured something under your breath. When I asked you



to repeat it, you said it was nothing. But as a matter of fact I heard what you said. Miss Eve had

just said that none of us noticed the place where she had put the diamond. The words you mur-mured were: 'I wonder.' What we have to face is the probability that one person did notice--that that person is in this room now. I suggest that the only fair and honorable thing is for every one present to submit to a search. The diamond can-not have left the room."




When Sir George played the part of the old English gentleman, none could play it better. His voice rang with sincerity and indignation.




"Bit unpleasant, alLthis," said Mr. Pointz




unhappily. :,!




"It's all my fault," Sobbed Eve. "I didn't




mean--"




"Buck up, kiddo," said Mr. Stein kindly.

"Nobody's blaming you."






THE REGATTA MYSTERY









Mr. Leathern said in his slow pedantic manner, "Why, certainly, I think that Sir George's sug-gestion will meet with the fullest approval from all of us. It does from me."




"I agree," said Evan Llewellyn.




Mrs. Rustington looked at Lady Marroway who nodded a brief assent. The two of them went back behind the screen and the sobbing Eve accom-panied them.




A waiter knocked on the door and was told to go away.




Five minutes later eight people looked at each other incredulously.

The Morning Star had vanished into space ....






Mr. Parker Pyne looked thoughtfully at the dark agitated face of the young man opposite him.




"Of course," he said. "You're Welsh, Mr. Llewellyn."




"What's that got to do with it?"




Mr. Parker Pyne waved a large, well-cared-for hand.




"Nothing at all, I admit. I am interested in the classification of emotional reactions as exempli-fied by certain racial types. That is all. Let us return to the consideration of your particular problem."




"I don't really know why I came to you," said Evan Llewellyn. His hands twitched nervously, and his dark face had a haggard look. He did not look at Mr. Parker Pyne and that gentleman's



scrutiny seemed to make him uncomfortable. "I

don't know why I came to you," he repeated. "But where the Hell can I go? And what the Hell






18 Agatha Christie




can I do? It'9 the powerlessness of not being able to do anythirg at all that gets me .... I saw your advertisement and I remembered that a chap had once spoken if you and said that you got results. . . . And--w¢ll--I came! I suppose I was a fool. It's the sort of position nobody can do anything about." "Not at all," said Mr. Parker Pyne. "I am the proper persors to come to. I am a specialist in un. happiness. This business has obviously caused you a good deal of pain. You are sure the facts are exactly as you have told me?" "I don't tlaink I've left out anything. Pointz brought out the diamond and passed it around--that wretched American child stuck it on her ridiculous bag and when we came to look at the bag, the diamond was gone. It wasn't on anyone --old Pointz himself even was searched--he suggested



it himself--and I'll swear it was nowhere in

that room I A nd nobody left the room "No waiters, for instance?" suggested Mr. Parker Pyne. Llewellyn shook his head. "They went out before the girl began messing about with the diamond, and afterwards Pointz locked the door so as to keep them out. No, it lies between one of us." "It would certainly seem so," said Mr. Parker Pyne thoughtfully. "That damned evening paper," said Evan Lewellyn bitterly. "I saw it come into their minds--that that was the only way--" "Just tell me again exactly what occurred." "It was perfectly simple. I threw open the win THE REGATTA MYSTERY 19






dow, whistled to the man, threw down a copper and he tossed me up the paper. And there it is; you see--the only possible way the diamond could have left the room--thrown by me to an accom-plice waiting in the street below."

"Not the only possible way," said Mr. Parker



Pyne.





"What other way can you suggest?"




"If you didn't throw it out, there must have been some other way."




"Oh, I see. I hoped you meant something more definite than that. Well, I can only say that I didn't throw it out. I can't expect you to believe me--or anyone else."




"Oh, yes, I believe you," said Mr. Parker Pyne. "You do? Why?"




"Not a criminal type," said Mr. Parker Pyne. "Not, that is, the particular criminal type that steals jewelry. There are crimes, of course, that you might commit--but we won't enter into that subject. At any rate I do not see you as the pur-!oiner of the Morning Star."




"Everyone else does though," said Llewellyn bitterly.

"I see," said Mr. Parker Pyne.




"They looked at me in a queer sort of way at the time. Marroway picked up the paper and just glanced over at the window. He didn't say any-thing. But Pointz cottoned on to it quick enough! I could see what they thought. There hasn't been any open accusation, that's the devil of it."




Mr. Parker Pyne nodded sympathetically.




"It is worse than that," he said.




"Yes. It's just suspicion. I've had a fellow






20 Agatha Christie






round asking questions--routine inquiries, he called it. One of the new dress-shirted lot of police, I suppose. Very tactful2nothing at all hinted. Just interested in the fact that I'd been



hard up and was suddenly cutting a bit of a

splash."





"And were you?"




"Yes--some luck with a horse or two. Unluck-ily my bets were made on the course--there's nothing to show that that's how the money came in. They can't disprove it, of course--but that's just the sort of easy lie a fellow would invent if he didn't want to show where the money came from."




"I agree. Still they will have to have a good deal more than that to go upon."




"Oh! I'm not afraid of actually being arrested and charged with the theft. In a way that would be easier--one would know where one was. It's the




ghastly fact that all those people believe I took it." "One person in particular?" "What do you mean?"




"A suggestion--nothing more--" Again Mr. Parker Pyne waved his comfortable-looking hand.



"There was one person in particular, wasn't there? Shall we say Mrs. Rustington?"





Llewellyn's dark face flushed.





"Why pitch on her?"




"Oh, my dear sir--there is obviously someone whose opinion matters to you greatly--probably a lady. What ladies were there? An American flap-per? Lady Marroway? But you would probably rise not fall in Lady Marroway's estimation if you had brought off such a coup. I know something






THE REGATTA MYSTERY 21






of the lady. Clearly then, Mrs. Rustington." Llewellyn said with something of an effort, ,'She--she's had rather an unfortunate experi-ence. Her husband was a down and out rotter. It's made her unwilling to trust anyone. She--if she thinks--"

He found it difficult to go on.




"Quite so," said Mr. Parker Pyne. "I see the




matter is important. It must be cleared up." Evan gave a short laugh. "That's easy to say."




"And quite easy to do," said Mr. Parker Pyne. "You think so?"




"Oh, yes--the problem is so clear cut. So many possibilities are ruled out. The answer must really be extremely simple. Indeed already I have a kind of glimmering--"




Llewellyn stared at him incredulously.




Mr. Parker Pyne drew a pad of paper towards him and picked up a pen.




"Perhaps you would give me a brief description of the party."




"Haven't I already done so?"

"Their personal appearance--color of hair and

$o on."




"But, Mr. Parker Pyne, what can that have to do with it?"




"A good deal, young man, a good deal. Classi-fication and so on."




Somewhat unbelievingly, Evan described the personal appearance of the members of the yacht-ing party.




Mr. Parker Pyne made a note or two, pushed away the pad and said:






22 Agatha Christie




"Excellent. By the way, did you say a wineglass was broken?" Evan stared again. "Yes, it was knocked off the table and then it



got stepped on."

"Nasty thing, splinters of glass," said Mr.

Parker Pyne. "Whose wine-glass was it?" "I think it was the child's--Eve." "Ah!--and who sat next to her on that side?" "Sir George Marroway." "You didn't see which of them knocked it off the table?" "Afraid I didn't. Does it matter?" "Not really. No. That was a superfluous question. Well"--he stood up--"good morning, Mr. Llewellyn. Will you call again in three days' time? I think the whole thing will be quite satisfactorily cleared up by then." "Are you joking, Mr. Parker Pyne?" "I never joke on professional matters, my dear sir. It would occasion distrust in my clients. Shall we say Friday at 11:30? Thank you."




Evan entered Mr. Parker Pyne's office on the Friday morning in a considerable turmoil. Hope and skepticism fought for mastery. Mr. Parker Pyne rose to meet him with a beaming smile. "Good morning, Mr. Llewellyn. Sit down. Have a cigarette?"



Llewellyn waved aside the proffered box.

"Well?" he said. "Very well indeed," said Mr. Parker Pyne. "The police arrested the gang last night."






THE REGATTA MYSTERY









"The gang? What gang?"




"The Amalfi gang. I thought of them at once when you told me your story. I recognized their methods and once you had described the guests,




well, there was no doubt at all in my mind." "Who are the Amalfi gang?"




"Father, son and daughter-in-law--that is if Pietro and Maria are really married--which some doubt."




"I don't understand."

"It's quite simple. The name is Italian and no doubt the origin is Italian, but old Amalfi was born in America. His methods are usually the same. He impersonates a real business man, intro-duces himself to some prominent figure in the jewel business in some European country and then plays his little trick. In this case he was deliber-ately on the track of the Morning Star. Pointz' idiosyncrasy was well known in the trade. Maria Amalfi played the part of his daughter (amazing creature, twenty-seven at least, and nearly always plays a part of sixteen)."




"Not Eve!" gasped Llewellyn.




"Exactly. The third member of the gang got himself taken on as an extra waiter at the Royal Georgewit was holiday time, remember, and they would need extra staff. He may even have bribed a regular man to stay away. The scene is set. Eve challenges old Pointz and he takes on the bet. He passes round the diamond as he had done the night before. The waiters enter the room and Leathern retains the stone until they have left the room. When they do leave, the diamond lea¢s



also, neatly attached with a morsel of chewing 24 Agatha Christie




gum to the underside of the plate that Pietro bears away. So simple!" "But I saw it after that." "No, no, you saw a paste replica, good enough to deceive a casual glance. Stein, you told me, hardly looked at it. Eve drops it, sweeps off a glass too and steps firmly on stone and glass together. Miraculous disappearance of diamond. Both Eve and Leathern can submit to as much searching as anyone pleases." "Well--I'm--" Evan shook his head, at a loss for words. "You say you recognized the gang from my description. Had they worked this trick before?" "Not exactly--but it was their kind of business. Naturally my attention was at once directed to the girl Eve." "Why? I didn't suspect her--nobody did. She seemed such a--such a child."



"That is the peculiar genius of Maria Amalfi. She is more like a child than any child could

possibly be! And then the plasticine! This bet was supposed to have arisen quite spontaneouslymyet the little lady had some plasticine with her all handy. That spoke of premeditation. My suspicions fastened on her at once." Llewellyn rose to his feet. "Well, Mr. Parker Pyne, I'm no end obliged to you." "Classification," murmured Mr. Parker Pyne. "The classification of criminal types--it interests me." "You'll let me know how much--er--" ,. "My fee will be quite moderate," said Mr.






THE REGATTA MYSTERY 25






Parker Pyne. "It will not make too big a hole in the--er--horse racing profits. All the same, young man, I should, I think, leave the horses alone in




future. Very uncertain animal, the horse."



"That's all right," said Evan.

He shook Mr. Parker Pyne by the hand and strode from the office.




He hailed a taxi and gave the address of Janet Rustington's flat.




He felt in a mood to carry all before him.






'T/e Mystery




of the Bagdad Chest






The words made a catchy headline, and I said as much to my friend, Hercule Poirot. I knew none of the parties. My interest was merely the dispas-sionate one of the man in the street. Poirot agreed.




"Yes, it has a flavor of the Oriental, of the mysterious. The chest may very well have been a sham Jacobean one from the Tottenham Court Road; none the less the reporter who thought of



naming it the Bagdad Chest was happily inspired.

The word 'Mystery' is also thoughtfully placed in juxtaposition, though I understand there is very little mystery about the case."




"Exactly. It is all rather horrible and macabre, but it is not mysterious."




"Horrible and macabre," repeated Poir°t thoughtfully. "The whole idea is revolting," I said, rising to











30 Agatha Christie






my feet and pacing up and down the room. "The murderer kills this man--his friend--shoves him into the chest, and half an hour later is dancing in that same room with the wife of his victim. Think! If she had imagined for one moment--"





"True," said Poirot thoughtfully. "That much-vaunted possession, a woman's intuition--it does

not seem to havebeen working."




"The party seems to have gone off very mer-rily,'' I said with a slight shiver. "And all that time, as they danced and played poker, there was a dead man in the room with them. One could write a play about such an idea."




"It has been done," said Poirot. "But console yourself, Hastings," he added kindly. "Because a theme has been used once, there is no reason why it should not be used again. Compose your drama."




I had picked up the paper and was studying the rather blurred reproduction of a photograph.




"She must be a beautiful woman," I said slowly. "Even from this, one gets an idea."




Below the picture ran the inscription:






A RECENT PORTRAIT OF MRS. CLAYTON, THE

WIFE OF THE MURDERED MAN






Poirot took the paper from me.





"Yes," he said. "She is beautiful. Doubtless




she is of those born to trouble the souls of men." He handed the paper back to me with a sigh. "Dieu merci, I am not of an ardent tempera-ment. It has saved me from many embarrass-ments. I am duly thankful."






THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST 31




I do not remember that we discussed the case further. Poirot displayed no special interest in it at the time. The facts were so clear, and there was so little ambiguity about them, that discussion seemed merely futile. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and Major Rich were friends of fairly long standing. On the day in question, the tenth of March, the Claytons had accepted



an invitation to spend the evening with Major Rich. At about seven-thirty, however,



Clayton explained to another friend, a Major Cur-tiss,



with whom he was having a drink, that he had



been unexpectedly called to Scotland and was



leaving by the eight o'clock train.



"I'll just have time to drop in and explain to old



Jack," went on Clayton. "Marguerita is going, of



course. I'm sorry about it, but Jack will understand how it is."



Mr. Clayton was as good as his word. He arrived



at Major Rich's rooms about twenty to



eight. The major was out at the time, but his



manservant, who knew Mr. Clayton well, suggested



that he come in and wait. Mr. Clayton said



that he had not time, but that he would come in



and write a note. He added that he was on his way



to catch a train.



The valet accordingly showed him into the sitting



room.



About five minutes later Major Rich, who must



have let himself in without the valet hearing him,



opened the door of the sitting room, called his



man and told him to go out and get some cigarettes.



On his return the man brought them to his



master, who was then alone in the sitting room. 32



Agatha Christie






The man naturally conclnded that Mr. Clayton had left.




The guests arrived shortly afterwards. They comprised Mrs. Clayton, Major Curtiss and a Mr. and Mrs. Spence. The evening was spent dancing to the phonograph and playing poker. The guests left shortly after midnight.




The following morning, on coming to do the sit-ting room, the valet was startled to find a deep stain discoloring the carpet below and in front of a piece of furniture which Major Rich had brought from the East and which was called the Bagdad Chest.




Instinctively the valet lifted the lid of the chest and was horrified to find inside the doubled-up body of a man who had been stabbed to the heart.





Terrified, the man ran out of the flat and

fetched the nearest policeman. The dead man proved to be Mr. Clayton. The arrest of Major Rich followed very shortly afterward. The major's defense, it was understood, consisted of a sturdy denial of everything. He had not seen Mr. Clayton the preceding evening and the first he had heard of his going to Scotland had been from Mrs. Clay-ton.




Such were the bald facts of the case. Innuendoes and suggestions naturally abounded. The close friendship and intimacy of Major Rich and Mrs. Clayton were so stressed that only a fool could fail to read between the lines. The motive for the crime was plainly indicated.




Long experience has taught me to make allow-ance for baseless calumny. The motive suggested might, for all the evidence, be entirely nonexis




THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST 33




tent. Some quite other reaso/a might have precipitated the issue. But one thing did stand out clearly



--that Rich was the murderer.

As I say, the matter might have rested there, had it not happened that Poirot and I were due at a party given by Lady Chatterton that night. Poirot, whilst bemoaning social engagements and declaring a passion for solitude, really enjoyed these affairs enormously. To be made a fuss of and treated as a lion suited him down to the ground. On occasions he positively purred! I have seen him blandly receiving the most outrageous compliments as no more than his due, and uttering the most blatantly conceited remarks, such as I can hardly bear to set down. Sometimes he would argue with me on the subject. "But, my friend, I am not an AngloSaxon. Why should I play the hypocrite? Si, si, that is what you do, all of you. The airman who has made a difficult flight, the tennis champion--they look down their noses, they mutter inaudibly that 'it is nothing.' But do they really think that themselves? Not for a moment. They would admire the exploit in someone else. So, being reasonable men, they admire it in themselves. But their training prevents them from saying so. Me, I am not like that. The talents that I possess--I would salute



them in another. As it happens, in my own particular

line, there is no one to touch me. C'est dornrnage,t As it is, I admit freely and without the hypocrisy that I am a great man. I have the order, the method and the psychology in an unusual de




Agatha Christie






gree. I am, ir; fact, Hercule Poirot! Why should I turn red and stammer and mutter into my chin that really I am very stupid9. It would not be true."




"There is certainly only one Hercule Poirot," I agreed--not without a spice of malice, of which, fortunately, Poirot remained quite oblivious.




Lady Chatterton was one of Poirot's most ar-dent admirers. Starting from the mysterious con-duct of a Pekingese, he had unraveled a chain which led to a noted burglar and housebreaker. Lady Chatterton had been loud in his praises ever since.




To see Poirot at a party was a great sight. His



faultless evening clothes, the exquisite set of his

white tie, the exact symmetry of his hair parting,

the sheen of pomade on his hair, and the tortured splendor of his famous mustaches--all combined to paint the perfect picture of an inveterate dandy. It was hard, at these moments, to take the little man seriously.




It was about half-past eleven when Lady Chat-terton, bearing down upon us, whisked Poirot neatly out of an admiring group, and carried him off--I need hardly say, with myself in tow.




"I want you to go into my little room upstairs," said Lady Chatterton rather breathlessly as soon as she was out of earshot of her other guests. "You know where it is, M. Poirot. You'll find someone there who needs your help very badly--and you will help her, I know. She's one of my dearest friends--so don't say no."




Energetically leading the way as she talked, Lady Chatterton flung open a door, exclaiming






THE MYSTERY OF THE I,GD.D CHEST 35

as she 'did so, "I've got him, Maruerita darling. And he'll do anything you want. You ¢i!! help Mrs. Clayton, won't you, M. Poirct?"




And taking the answer for grated, she with-drew with the same energy that characterized all her movements.




Mrs. Clayton had been sitting in a chair by the window. She rose now and cme toward us. Dressed in deep mourning, the dull black showed up her fair coloring. She was a singularly lovely woman, and there was about her a aimple childlike candor which made her charm quit irresistible.




"Alice Chatterton is so kind," she said. "She arranged this. She said you would help me, M. Poirot. Of course I don't know whether you will or not--but I hope you will."




She had held out her hand and P oirot had taken it. He held it now for a moment cr two while he stood scrutinizing her closely. There was nothing



ill-bred in his manner of doing it. It was more the

kind but searching look that a fanaous consultant gives a new patient as the latter is shered into his presence.




"Are you ,Jure, madame," he said at last, "that I can help you?"




"Alice says so."




"Yes, but I am asking you, madame." A little flush rose to her cheeks. "I don't know what you mean."




"What is it, madame, that you want me to do?" "You--you--know who I am?" she asked. "Assuredly."




"Then you can guess what it is I am asking you to do, M. Poirot--Captain Hastings"--I was






36 Agatha Christie






gratified that she realized my identity--"Major

Rich did not kill my husband."





"Why not?"





"I beg your pardon?"




POirot smiled at her slight discomfiture. "I said, 'Why not?' "he repeated. "I'm not sure that I understand."




"Yet it is very simple. The police--the lawyers --they will all ask the same question: Why did Major Rich kill M. Clayton? I ask the opposite. I ask you, madame, why did Major Rich not kill Major Clayton?"




"You mean--why I'm so sure? Well, but I know. I know Major Rich so well."




"You know Major Rich so well," repeated Poirot tonelessly.




The color flamed into her cheeks.

"Yes, that's what they'll say--what they'll

think! Oh, I know!"




"C'est vrai. That is what they will ask you about--how well you knew Major Rich. Perhaps you will speak the truth, perhaps you will lie. It is very necessary for a woman to lie sometimes. Women must defend themselves--and the lie, it is a good weapon. But there are three people, ma-dame, to whom a woman should speak the truth. To her father confessor, to her hairdresser and to her private detective--if she trusts him. Do you trust me, madame?"




Marguerita Clayton drew a deep breath. "Yes," she said. "I do. I must," she added rather child-ishly.




"Then, how well do you know Major Rich?"






THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST 37




She looked at him for a moment in silence, then she raised her chin defiantly. "I will answer your question. I loved Jack from



the first moment I saw him--two years ago. Lately I think--I believe--he has come to love me. But he

has never said so."

"£patant.t'' said Poirot. "You have saved me a good quarter of an hour by coming to the point without beating the bush. You have the good sense. Now your husband--did he suspect your feelings?" "I don't know," Said Marguerita slowly. "I thoughtlately--that he might. His manner has been different But that may have been merely my fancy." "Nobody else knew?" "I do not think so." "And--pardon me, madame--you did not love your husband?" There were, I think, very few women who we ld have answered that question as simply as this woman did. They would have tried to explain their feelings.



Maruerita Clayton said

quite simply: "No." "Bien. Now we know where



we are. According to you, madame, Major Rich did



not kill your husband, but you realize that



all the evidence points to his having done so.



Are you aware,



privately, of any flaw



in that evidence?"



"No.



I know nothing."



"When did your husband first



inform you of his



visit to Scotland?"



"Just after lunch. He said it was



a



bore,



but






38 Agatha Christie






he'd have to go. Something to do with land values, he said it was."




"And after that?"

"He went out--to his club, I think. I--I didn't see him again."




"Now as to Major Rich--what was his manner




that evening? Just as usual?" "Yes, I think so." "You are not sure?" Marguerita wrinkled her brows.




"He wasma little constrained. With me--not with the others. But I thought I knew why that was. You understand? I am sure the constraint or--or--absentmindedness perhaps describes it better--had nothing to do with Edward. He was surprised to hear that Edward had gone to Scot-land, but not unduly so."




"And nothing else unusual occurs to you in




connection with that evening?" Marguerita thought. "No, nothing whatever."



"You--noticed the chest?"

She shook her head with a little shiver.





"I don't even remember it--or what it was like.





We played poker most of the evening."





"Who won?"




"Major Rich. I had very bad luck, and so did Major Curtiss. The Spences won a little, but




Major Rich was the chief winner."




"The party broke up--when?"




"About half-past twelve, I think. We all left together."




"Ah!"






THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST 39

Poirot remained silent, lost in thought.




"I wish I could be more helpful to you," said Mrs. Clayton. "I seem to be able to tell you so little."




"About the present--yes. What about the past, madame?"




"The past?"




"Yes. Have there not been incidents?"




She flushed.




"You mean that dreadful little man who shot himself. It wasn't my fault, M. Poirot. Indeed it wasn't."




"It was not precisely of that incident that I was thinking."




"That ridiculous due!? But Italians do fight duels. I was so thankful the man wasn't killed."

"It must have been a relief to you," agreed

Poirot gravely.




She was looking at him doubtfully. He rose and took her hand in his.




"I shall not fight a duel for you, madame," he said. "But I will do what you have asked me. I will discover the truth. And let us hope that your in-stincts are correct--that the truth will help and not harm you."




Our first interview was with Major Curtiss. He was a man of about forty, of soldierly build, with very dark hair and a bronzed face. He had known the Claytons for some years and Major Rich also. He confirmed the press reports.




Clayton and he had had a drink together at the club just before half-past seven, and Clayton had then announced his intention of looking in on






40 Agath Christie

Major Rich on lais waYlo Euston.




"What was Mr. Claton's'manner? Was he de-pressed or cheerful?"




The major C°nsiderd. He was a slow-spoken




man.




"Seemed in fairly g%d spirits," he said at last.




"He said nothing bout being on bad terms with Major RicI?''




"Good Lord, no. They were pals."




"He didn't oIject t°'-his wife's friendship with Major Rich?"




The major became Very red in the face. "You've been. r.ea. ding those damned news-papers, with tlaelr nm[s and lies. Of course he didn't object. Why, he said to me: 'Marguerita's



going, of course"" "I see. Now during the evening--the manner of





Major Rich--Was that huch as usual?"





"I didn't notice any qifference."




"And madar0e? She, too, was as usual." "Well," he reflected, "now I come to think of it, she was a bit quiet. You know, thoughtful and faraway."




"Who arrived first?"




"The SpenceS' They were there when I got there. As a mStter of tact, I'd called round for Mrs. Clayton, Itt f°unl she'd already started. So I got there a bit late."




"And how did you amuse yourselves? You danced? You pi$yed the cards?"




"A bit of botl. Danced first of all."




' "There were five of Yu?"

"Yes, but that's all right, because I don't dance.



I put on the records and the others danced."






THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST 41






"Who danced most with whom?"




"Well, as a matter of fact the Spences like danc-ing together. They've got a sort of craze on fancy steps and all that."




"So that Mrs. Clayton danced mostly with Major Rich?"




"That's about it."




"And then you played poker?"




"Yes."





"And when did you leave?" "Oh, quite early. A little after midnight."

"Did you all leave together?"




"Yes. As a matter of fact, we shared a taxi, dropped Mrs. Clayton first, then me, and the Spences took it on to Kensington."




Our next visit was to Mr. and Mrs. Spence. Only Mrs. Spence was at home, but her account of the evening tallied with that of Major Curtiss except that she displayed a slight acidity concern-ing Major Rich's luck at cards.




Earlier in the morning Poirot had had a tele-phone conversation with Inspector Japp, of Scot-land Yard. As a result we arrived at Major Rich's rooms and found his manservant, Burgoyne, ex-pecting us.




The valet's evidence was very precise and clear. Mr. Clayton had arrived at twenty minutes to eight. Unluckily Major Rich had just that very minute gone out. Mr. Clayton had said that he couldn't wait, as he had to catch a train, but he would just scrawl a note. He accordingly went into



the sitting room to do so. Burgoyne had not ac-tually heard his master come in, as he was running

the bath, and Major Rich, of course, let himself in






42 Agatha Crist.e with his own key. In his




o. Inl minutes later that Major leh un it was about ten him out for cigarettes.




.L . No,. tailed hi arid sent me stting room. Major ne , ....




doorway. He had rf,,-'ich ':". " goe Into mi-,,,d, -'-"I ;r naa StOod in the .... a mtcr ana on ths h "" the cigarettes five into the sitting room wh; cc. . . .. , sq SlOR fie boa



For fils master, who was studt

tncn epty' save smoking. His master had inu?g by the window ready, and on being told it 3 a ;:. .




ta,e ,,.--e. 'ur,o,ne. ,a:a' Clayton, as he assumed tha, n. . e

,. t mentioned Mr Mr. Clayton there and let ms i ,aa loun

.master's manner had been 6re,.Ot h self. His

usual. He had taken his ba?elth same as

shortly after, Mr. and Mrs, q, cnan ed, and

to be followed by Majo nce ha arrived, Clayton. 'artiss and Mrs.



It had not occurred to plained, that Mr. Clayton h his master's return. To do lg -u,

, nave left before v have had to bang the front d 'qr .....

mat te valet was sure he wou -ers Id h . nd ams and Still in the same imp one, -ave proceeded to his finding of thanner, ' urgoyne time

my attention was direct bdy. For the first It was a good-sized piece o if the fatal chest. against the



wall next to the hbo rniture standing

It was made of some dark w .ograph cabinet.

studded with brass nails. Th °t and enough. I looked in and shik




Plentifully opene, simply

scrubbed, ominous stains rem er t. Th0 g h well




Suddenly Poirot



uttered in ,.




"Those holes there they are a




h exclamation






uri




·

,ous. One would






THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST 43






say that they had been newly made."

The holes in question were at the back of the chest against the wall. There were three or four of them. They were about a quarter of an inch in diameter- and certainly had the effect of having been freshly made.




Poirot bent down to examine them, looking in-quiringly at the valet.




"It's certainly curious, sir. I don't remember ever seeing those holes in the past, though maybe I wouldn't notice them."




"It makes no matter," said Poirot.




Closing the lid of the chest, he stepped back into the room until he was standing with his back against the window. Then he suddenly asked a question.




"Tell me," he said. "When you brought the x cigarettes into your master that night,, was there not something out of place in the room?"





Burgoyne hesitated for a minute, then with

some slight reluctance he replied,




"It's odd your saying that, sir. Now you come to mention it, there was. That screen there that cuts off the draft from the bedroom door--it was




moved a bit more to the left."




"Like this?"




Poirot darted nimbly forward and pulled at the screen. It was a handsome affair of painted leather. It already slightly obscured the view of the chest, and as Poirot adjusted it, it hid the chest altogether.




"That's right, sir," said the valet. "It was like that."




"And the next morning?"






44 Agatha Christie

"It was still like that. I remember. I moved it away and it was then I saw the stain. The carpet's gone to be cleaned, sir. That's why the boards are bare."




Poirot nodded.




"I see," he said. "I thank you."




He placed a crisp piece of paper in the valet's palm.




"Thank you, sir."




"Poirot," I said when we were out in the street, "that point about the screen--is that a point helpful to Rich?"




"It is a further point against him," said Poirot ruefully. "The screen hid the chest from the room. It also hid the stain on the carpet. Sooner or later the blood was bound to soak through the wood and stain the carpet. The screen would prevent discovery for the moment. Yes--but there is some-thing



there that I do not understand. The valet,

Hastings, the valet."




"What about the valet? He seemed a most in-telligent fellow."




"As you say, most intelligent. Is it credible, then, that Major Rich failed to realize that the valet would certainly discover the body in the morning? Immediately after the deed he had no time for anything--granted. He shoves the body into the chest, pulls the screen in front of it and goes through the evening hoping for the best. But after the guests are gone? Surely, then is the time to dispose of the body."




"Perhaps he hoped the valet wouldn't notice the stain?"




"That, mort ami, is absurd. A stained carpet is






THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST






the first thing a good servant would be bound to, notice. And Major Rich, he goes to bed and snores

there comfortably and does nothing at all about the matter. Very remarkable and interesting, that."




"Curtiss might have seen the stains when he was changing the records the night before?" I sug, gested.




"That is unlikely. The screen would throw deep shadow just there. No, but I begin to see, Yes, dimly I begin to see."




"See what?" I asked eagerly.




"The possibilities, shall we say, of an alter,, native explanation. Our next visit may throw light on things."




Our next visit was to the doctor who had exam, ined the body. His evidence was a mere recapitula, tion of what he had already given at the inquest. Deceased had been stabbed to the heart with long thin knife something like a stiletto. The knife had been left in the wound. Death had been in,



stantaneous. The knife was the property of Major Rich and usually lay on his writing table. Ther

were no fingerprints on it, the doctor understood, It had been either wiped or held in a handkerchief. As regards time, any time between seven and hint seemed indicated.




"He could not, for instance, have been kille after midnight?" asked Poirot.




"No. That I can say. Ten o'clock at the outsid --but seven-thirty to eight seems clearly indi, cated."




"There is a second hypothesis possible," Poirol said when we were back home. "I wonder if y0






46 Agatha Christie






see it, Hastings. To me it is very plain, and I only need one point to clear up the matter for good and all. ' '

"It's no good," I said. "I'm not there."




"But make an effort, Hastings. Make an ef-fort.''




"Very well," I said. "At seven-forty Clayton is alive and well. The last person to see him alive is Rich--"




"So we assume."




"Well, isn't it so?"




"You forget, rnon ami, that Major Rich denies that. He states explicitly that Clayton had gone when he came in"




"But the valet says that he would have heard Clayton leave because of the bang of the door. And also, if Clayton had left, when did he return? He couldn't have returned after midnight because the doctor says positively that he was dead at least two hours before that. That only leaves one alter-native."




"Yes, rnon ami?" said Poirot.





"That in the five minutes Clayton was alone in

the sitting room, someone else came in and killed him. But there we have the same objection. Only someone with a key could come in without the valet's knowing, and in the same way the mur-derer on leaving would have had to bang the door, and that again the valet would have heard."




"Exactly," said Poirot. "And therefore--"




"And therefore--nothing," I said. "I can see no other solution."




"It is a pity," murmured Poirot. "And it is






THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST 47






really so exceedingly simple--as the clear blue eyes of Madame Clayton."




"You really believe--"





"I believe nothing--until I have got proof. One

little proof will convince me."




He took up the telephone and called japp at Scotland Yard.




Twenty minutes later we were standing before a little heap of assorted objects laid out on a table. They were the contents of the dead man's pockets.




There was a handkerchief, a handful of loose change, a pocketbook containing three pounds ten shillings, a couple of bills and a worn snapshot of Marguerita Clayton. There was also a pocket-knife, a gold pencil and a cumbersome wooden tool.




It was on this latter that Poirot swooped. He unscrewed it and several small blades fell out.




"You see, Hastings, a gimlet and all the rest of it. Ah! it would be a matter of a very few minutes




to bore a few holes in the chest with this.' "Those holes we saw?" "Precisely."

"You mean it was Clayton who bored them himself?''




"Mais, ouimrnais, oui! What did they suggest to you, those holes? They were not to see through, because they were at the back of the chest. What were they for, then? Clearly for air? But you do not make air holes for a dead body, so clearly they were not made by the murderer. They suggest one thing--and one thing only--that a man was going to hide in that chest. And at once, on that hypoth




48 Agatha Christie






esis, things become ifitelligible. Mr. Clayton is jealous of his wife and Rich. He plays the old, old trick of pretending to go away. He watches Rich go out, then he gains admission, is left alone to write a note, quickly bores those holes and hides inside the chest. His wife is coming there that night. Possibly Rich will put the others off, possi-bly she will remain after the others have gone, or



pretend to go and return. Whatever it is, Clayton will know. Anything is preferable to the ghastly

torment of suspicion he is enduring."




"Then you mean that Rich killed him after the others had gone? But the doctor said that was im-possible.''




"Exactly. So you see, Hastings, he must have been killed during the evening."




"But everyone was in the room!"




"Precisely," said Poirot gravely. "You see the beauty of that? 'Everyone was in the room.' What an alibi! What sangfroid--what nerve--what au-dacity!''




"I still don't understand." . "Who went behind that screen to wind up the phonograph and change the records? The phono-graph and the chest were side by side, remember. The others are dancing--the phonograph is play-ing. And the man who does not dance lifts the lid of the chest and thrusts the knife he has just .slipped into his sleeve deep into the body of the man who was hiding there."





"Impossible! The man would cry out."

"Not if he were drugged first?" "Drugged?"




"Yes. Who did Clayton have a drink with at






THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST 49






seven-thirty? Ah! Now you see. Curtiss! Curtiss has inflamed Clayton's mind with suspicions against his wife and Rich. Curtiss suggests this plan--the visit to Scotland, the concealment in the chest, the final touch of moving the screen. Not so that Clayton can raise the lid a little and get relief--no, so that he, Curtiss, can raise that lid unobserved. The plan is Curtiss', and observe the beauty of it, Hastings. If Rich had observed the screen was out of place and moved it back--well, no harm is done. He can make another plan. Clayton hides in the chest, the mild narcotic that Curtiss had administered takes effect. He sinks into unconsciousness. Curtiss lifts up the lid and



strikes--and the phonograph goes on playing

Walking My Baby Back Home."





I found my voice. "Why? But why?"





Poirot shrugged his shoulders.




"Why did a man shoot himself? Why did two Italians fight a duel? Curtiss is of a dark passion-ate temperament. He wanted Marguerita Clayton. With her husband and Rich out of the way, she




would, or so he thought, turn to him."




He added musingly:




"These simple childlike women . . . they are very dangerous. But mon Dieu.t what an artistic masterpiece! It goes to my heart to hang a man like that. I may be a genius myself, but I am capable of recognizing genius in other people. A perfect murder, mon ami. I, Hercule Poirot, say it to you. A perfect murder, tpatant,t''






How Does your



Garden Grow?

Hercule Poirot arranged his letters in a neat pile in front of him. He picked up the topmost letter, studied the address for a moment, then neatly slit the back of the envelope with a little paper knife that he kept on the breakfast table for that express purpose and extracted the contents. Inside was yet another envelope, carefully sealed with purple wax and marked "Private and Confidential."




Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose a little on his egg-shaped head. He murmured, "Patience! Nous allons arriver!" and once more brought the little paper knife into play. This time the envelope yielded a letter--written in a rather shaky and spiky handwriting. Several words were heavily underlined.




Hercule Poirot unfolded it and read. The letter was headed once again "Private and Confiden tial." On the right-hand side was the address Agatha Christie






--Rosebank, Charman's Green, Bucks--and the date--March twenty-first.






Dear M. Poirot: I have been recommended to you by an old and valued friend of mine who knows the worry and distress I have been in lately. Not that this friend knows the actual circumstances--those I have kept entirely to myself--the matter being strictly private. My friend assures me that you are discretion itself--and that there will be no fear of my being involved in a police matter which, if my suspicions should prove correct, I should very much dislike. But it is of course possible that I am entirely mistaken. I do not feel myself clear-headed enough nowadays--suffering as I do from insomnia and the result of a severe illness last winter--to investigate things for myself. I have neither the means



nor the ability. On the other hand, I must reiterate once more that this is a very delicate

family matter and that for many reasons I may want the whole thing hushed up. If I am once assured of the facts, I can deal with the matter myself and should prefer to do so. I hope that I have made myself clear on this point. If you will undertake this investiga-tion, perhaps you will let me know to the above address?




Yours very truly,




AMELIA BARROWBY.






Poirot read the letter through twice. Again his






HOW DOES YOUR GARDEI$R()W? 55




eyebrows rose slightly. Then he laced it on one side and pr-o, ceeded to the next envelop ¢ in the pile. At ten o clock precisely he eter-d the room



where Miss Lemon, his confidenlial scretary, sat awaiting her instructions for the day. Miss Lemon

was forty-eight and of unprepossessing appearance. Her general effect was that of a lot of bones flung together at random. She had a passion for order almost equaling that of Poirot aimself; and though capable of thinking, sh nx'er thought unless told to do so. Poirot handed her the morning correspondence' "Have the goodness, mademoiselle, to write refusals couched in correct terms to all (if these." Miss Lemon ran an eye over the vafious letters, scribbling in turn a hieroglyphic n egtch of them. These marks were legible to her al0na and were in a code of her own: "Soft soap"; ,'slap in the face"; "purr purr"; "curt"; anti so on. Having done this, she nodded and looked uP for further instructions. Poirot handed her Amelia Barro*vbY's letter. She extracted it from its double envelope, read it through and looked up inquiringly. "Yes, M. Poirot?" Her pencil hoqeredready over her shorthand pad. "What is your opinion of that letter, Miss Lemon?" With a slight frown Miss Lemt)n l0ut down the



pencil and read through the letter agair.

The contents of a letter meant nothing to Miss Lemon except from the point of vieV of composing an adequate reply. Very occasio0ally her em 56 Agatha Christie






ployer appealed to her human, as opposed to her official, capacities. It slightly annoyed Miss Lemon when he did so--she was very nearly the perfect machine, completely and gloriously unin-terested in all human affairs. Her real passion in life was the perfection of a filing system beside which all other filing systems should sink into oblivion. She dreamed of such a system at night. Nevertheless, Miss Lemon was perfectly capable of intelligence on purely human matters, as Her-cule Poirot well knew.




"Well?" he demanded.




"Old lady," said Miss Lemon. "Got the wind up pretty badly."





"Ah! The wind rises in her, you think9.''

Miss Lemon, who considered that Poirot had




· been long enough in Great Britain to understand its slang terms, did not reply. She took a brief look at the double envelope.




"Very hush-hush," she said. "And tells you nothing at all."




"Yes," said Hercule Poirot. "I observed that." Miss Lemon's hand hung once more hopefully over the shorthand pad. This time Hercule Poirot responded.




"Tell her I will do myself the honor to call upon her at any time she suggests, unless she prefers to consult me here. Do not type the letter--write it by hand."




"Yes, M. Poirot."




Poirot produced more correspondence. "These are bills."




Miss Lemon's efficient hands sorted them quickly. "I'll pay all but these two."






HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?







"Why those two? There is no error in them." "They are firms you've only just begun to deal




with. It looks bad to pay too promptly when you've just opened an account--looks as though you were working up to get some credit later on."




"Ah!" murmured Poirot. "I bow to your su-perior knowledge of the British tradesman."




"There's nothing much I don't know about them," said Miss Lemon grimly.






The letter to Miss Amelia Barrowby was duly written and sent, but no reply Was forthcoming. Perhaps, thought Hercule Poirot, the old lady had



unraveled her mystery herself. Yet he felt.a shade of surprise that in that case she should not have

written a courteous word to say that his services were no longer required.




It was five days later when Miss Lemon, after receiving her morning's instructions, said, "That Miss Barrowby we wrote to--no wonder there's been no answer. She's dead."




Hercule Poirot said very softly, "Ah--dead." It sounded not so much like a question as an answer.




Opening her handbag, Miss Lemon produced a newspaper cutting. "I saw it in the tube and tore it out."




Just registering in his mind approval of the fact that, though Miss Lemon used the word "tore," she had neatly cut the entry out with scissors, Poirot read the announcement taken from the Births, Deaths and Marriages in the Morning Post: "On March 26th--suddenly--at Rosebank, Charman's Green, Amelia Jane Barrowby, in her 58



Agatha Christie






seventy-third year. No flowers, by request."




Poirot read it over. He murmured under his breath, "Suddenly." Then he said briskly, "If you will be so obliging as to take a letter, Miss Lemon?"




The pencil hovered. Miss Lemon, her mind dwelling on the intricacies of the filing system, took down in rapid and correct shorthand:






Dear Miss Barrowby: I have received no reply from you, but as I shall be in the neigh-borhood of Charman's Green on Friday, I will call upon you on that day and discuss more fully the matter you mentioned to me in your letter.




Yours, etc.

"Type this letter, please; and if it is posted at once, it should get to Charman's Green tonight."




On the following morning a letter in a black-edged envelope arrived by the second post:






Dear Sir: In reply to your letter my aunt, Miss Barrowby, passed away on the twenty-sixth, so the matter you speak of is no longer of importance.




Yours truly,




MARY DELAFONTAINE.






Poirot smiled to himself. "No longer of im-portance .... Ah--that is what we shall see. En avant--to Charman's Green."




Rosebank was a house that seemed likely to live up to its name, which is more than can be said for

HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW? 59




most houses of its class and character. Hercule Poirot paused as he walked up the path to the front door and looked approvingly at the neatly planned beds on either side of him. Rose trees that promised a good harvest later in the year, and at present daffodils, early tulips, blue hyacinths--the last bed was partly edged with shells. Poirot murmured to himself, "How does it go, the English rhyme the children sing?




Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With cockle-shells, and silver bells, And pretty maids all in a row.




"Not a row, perhaps," he considered, "but here is at least one pretty maid to make the little rhyme come right." The front door had opened and a neat little maid in cap and apron was looking somewhat



dubiously at the spectacle of a heavily mustached foreign gentleman talking aloud to himself in the

front garden. She was, as Poirot had noted, a very pretty little maid, with round blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Poirot raised his hat with courtesy and addressed her: "Pardon, but does a.Miss Amelia Barrowby live here?" The little maid gasped and her eyes grew rounder. "Oh, sir, didn't you know? She's dead. Ever so sudden it was. Tuesday night." She hesitated, divided between two strong instincts: the first, distrust of a foreigner; the sec 60 Agatha Christie




and, the pleasurable enjoyment of her class in dwelling on the subject of illness and death. "You amaze me," said Hercule Poirot, not very truthfully. "I had an appointment with the lady for today. However, I can perhaps see the other lady who lives here." The little maid seemed slightly doubtful. "The mistress? Well, you could see her, perhaps, but I don't know whether she'll be seeing anyone or not."



"She will see me," said Poirot, and handed her

a card.

The authority of his tone had its effect. The rosy-cheeked maid fell back and ushered PoirOt into a sitting room on the right of the hall. Then, card in hand, she departed to summon her mistress. Hercule Poirot looked round him. The room was a perfectly conventional drawing room--oatmeal-colored paper with a frieze round the top, indeterminate cretonnes, rose-colored cushions and curtains, a good many china knick-knacks and ornaments. There was nothing in the room that stood out, that announced a definite personality. Suddenly Poirot, who was very sensitive, felt eyes watching him. He wheeled round. A girl was standing in the entrance of the French window--a small, sallow girl, with very black hair and suspicious eyes. She came in, and as Poirot made a little bow she burst out abruptly, "Why have you come?" Poirot did not reply. He merely raised his eyebrows. "You are not a lawyer--no?" Her English was






HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW? 61






good, but not for a minute would anyone have taken her to be English.




"Why should I be a lawyer, mademoiselle?" The girl stared at him sullenly. "I thought you might be. I thought you had come perhaps to say that she did not know what she was doing. I have heard of such things--the not due influence; that is what they call it, no? But that is not right. She wanted me to have the money, and I shall have it. If it is needful I shall have a lawyer of my own. The money is mine. She wrote it down so, and so it shall be." She looked ugly, her chin thrust out, her eyes gleaming.




The door opened and a tall woman entered and said, "Katrina."




The girl shrank, flushed, muttered something and went out through the window.




Poirot turned to face the newcomer who had



so effectually dealt with the situation by uttering

a single word. There had been authority in her voice, and contempt and a shade of well-bred irony. He realized at once that this was the owner of the house, Mary Delafontaine.




"M. Poirot? I wrote to you. You cannot have received my letter."




"Alas, I have been away from London."




"Oh, I see; that explains it. I must introduce myself. My name is Delafontaine. This is my hus-band. Miss Barrowby was my aunt."




Mr. Delafontaine had entered so quietly that his arrival had passed unnoticed. He was a tall man with grizzled hair and an indeterminate manner. He had a nervous way of fingering his chin. He looked often toward his wife, and it was plain that






62 Agatha Christie

he expected her to take the lead in any conversa-tion.




"I much regret that I intrude in the midst of your bereavement," said Hercule Poirot.




"I quite realize that it is not your fault," said Mrs. Delafontaine. "My aunt died on Tuesday evening. It was quite unexpected."




"Most unexpected," said Mr. Delafontaine. "Great blow." His eyes watched the window where the foreign girl had disappeared.




"I apologize," said Hercule Poirot. "And I withdraw." He moved a step toward the door.




"Half a sec," said Mr. Delafontaine. "You--er--had an appointment with Aunt Amelia, you say?'"




· 'Parfaiternent." .




"Perhaps you will tell us about it," said his wife. "If there is anything we can do--" "It was of a private nature," said Poirot. "I am a detective," he added simply.




Mr. Delafontaine knocked over a little china figure he was handling. His wife looked puzzled.




"A detective? And you had an appointment with auntie? But how extraordinary!" She stared at him. "Can't you tell us a little more, M. Poirot? It--it seems quite fantastic."




Poirot was silent for a moment. He chose his words with care.




"It is difficult for me, madame, to know what to do."




"Look here," said Mr. Delafontaine. "She didn't mention Russians, did she?"




"Russians?"






HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?



63

"Yes, you know--Bolshies, Reds, all that sort of thing." "Don't be absurd, Henry," said his wife. Mr. Delafontaine collapsed. "Sorry--sorry--I just wondered." Mary Delafontaine looked frankly at Poirot. Her eyes were very blue--the color of forget-menots. "If you can tell us anything, M. Poirot, I should be glad if you would do so. I can assure you that I have a--a reason for asking." Mr. Delafontaine looked alarmed. "Be careful, old girl--you know there may be nothing in it." Again his wife quelled him with a glance. "Well, M. Poirot?" Slowly, gravely, Hercule Poirot shook his head. He shook it with visible regret, but he shook it. "At present, madame," he said, "I fear I must say nothing." He bowed, picked up his hat and moved to the door. Mary Delafontaine came with him into the hall. On the doorstep he paused and looked at her. "You are fond of your garden, I think, madame?" "I? Yes, I spend a lot of time gardening." "Je vous fait mes compliments."



He bowed once more and strode down to the

gate. As he passed out of it and turned to the right he glanced back and registered two impressions --a sallow face watching him from a first-floor window, and a man of erect and soldierly carriage pacing up and down on the opposite side of the street. Hercule Poirot nodded to himself. "Definitive 64 Agatha Chrt






rnent," he said. "There is a mouse in this hole! What move must the cat make now?"




His decision took him to the nearest post office. Here he put through a couple of telephone calls. The result seemed to be satisfactory. He bent his steps to Charman's Green police station, where he inquired for Inspector Sims.




Inspector Sims was a big, burly man with a hearty manner. "M. Poirot?" he inquired. "I thought so. I've just this minute had a telephone call through from the chief constable about you.



He said you'd be dropping in. Come into my of-fice."

The door shut, the inspector waved Poirot to one chair, settled himself in another, and turned a gaze of acute inquiry upon his visitor.




"You're very quick onto the mark, M. Poirot. Come to see us about this Rosebank case almost before we know it is a case. What put you onto it?"




Poirot drew out the letter he had received and handed it to the inspector. The latter read it with some interest.




"Interesting," he said. "The trouble is, it might mean so many things. Pity she couldn't have been a little more explicit. It would have helped us now."




"Or there might have been no need for help." "You mean?"




"She might have been alive."




"You go as far as that, do you? H'm--I'm not



sure you're wrong."

"I pray of you, inspector, recount to me the facts. I know nothing at all."






HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW? 65






"That's easily done. Old lady was taken bad after dinner on Tuesday night. Very alarming. Convulsions--spasms--what not. They sent for the doctor. By the time he arrived she was dead. Idea was she'd died of a fit. Well, he didn't much like the look of things. He hemmed and hawed and put it with a bit of soft sawder, but he made it clear that he couldn't give a death certificate. And as far as the family go, that's where the matter stands. They're awaiting the result of the post-mortem. We've got a bit farther. The doctor gave us the tip right away--he and the police surgeon did the autopsy together--and the result is in no doubt whatever. The old lady died of a large dose





of strychnine."

"Aha!"




"That's right. Very nasty bit of work. Point is, who gave it to her? It must have been administered very shortly before death. First idea was it was given to her in her food at dinner--but, frankly, that seems to be a washout. They had artichoke soup, served from a tureen, fish pie and apple tart."




"'They' being?"




"Miss Barrowby, Mr. Delafontaine and Mrs. Delafontaine. Miss Barrowby had a kind of nurse-attendant--a half Russian girl--but she didn't eat with the family. She had the remains as they came out from the dining room. There's a maid, but it was her night out. She left the soup on the stove and the fish pie in the oven, and the apple tart was cold. All hree of them ate the same thing--and, apart from that, I don't think you could get strychnine down anyone's throat that way. Stuff's






64 Agatha Christie






merit," he said. "There is a mouse in this hole! What move must the cat make now?"




His decision took him to the nearest post office. Here he put through a couple of telephone calls. The result seemed to be satisfactory. He bent his steps to Charman's Green police station, where he inquired for Inspector Sims.




Inspector Sims was a big, burly man with a hearty manner. "M. Poirot?" he inquired. "I thought so. I've just this minute had a telephone call through from the chief constable about you. He said you'd be dropping in. Come into my of-rice."




The door shut, the inspector waved Poirot to one chair, settled himself in another, and turned a gaze of acute inquiry upon his visitor.




"You're very quick onto the mark, M. Poirot. Come to see us about this Rosebank case almost



before we know it is a case. What put you onto

it?"




Poirot drew out the letter he had received and handed it to the inspector. The latter read it with some interest.




"Interesting," he said. "The trouble is, it might mean so many things. Pity she couldn't have been a little more explicit. It would have helped Us now."




"Or there might have been no need for help." "You mean?"




"She might have been alive."




"You go as far as that, do you? H'm--I'm not sure you're wrong."




"I pray of you, inspector, recount to me the facts. I know nothing at all."






HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW? 65 "That's easily done. Old lady was taken bad after dinner on Tuesday night. Very alarming. Convulsions--spasms--what not. They sent for the doctor. By the time he arrived she was dead. Idea was she'd died of a fit. Well, he didn't much like the look of things. He hemmed and hawed and put it with a bit of soft sawder, but he made it clear that he couldn't give a death certificate. And as far as the family go, that's where the matter stands. They're awaiting the result of the postmortem. We've got a bit farther. The doctor gave us the tip right away--he and the police surgeon did the autopsy together--and the result is in no doubt whatever. The old lady died of a large dose of strychnine." "Aha!" "That's right. Very nasty bit of work. Point is, who gave it to her? It must have been administered very shortly before death. First idea was it was given to her in her food at dinner--but, frankly, that seems to be a washout. They had artichoke soup, served from a tureen, fish pie and apple tart." "'They' being?"



"Miss Barrowby, Mr. Delafontaine and Mrs.

Delafontaine. Miss Barrowby had a kind of nurse-attendant--a half Russian girl--but she didn't eat with the family. She had the remains as they came out from the dining room. There's a maid, but it was her night out. She left the soup on the stove and the fish pie in the oven, and the apple tart was cold. All three of them ate the same thing--and, apart from that, I don't think you could get strychnine down anyone's throat that way. Stuff's







Agatha Christie




as bitter as gall. The doctor told me you could taste it in a solution of one in a thousand, or something like that." "Coffee?" "Coffee's more like it, but the old lady never took coffee." "I see your point. Yes, it seems an insuperable difficulty. What did she drink at the meal?" "Water." "Worse and worse." '!Bit of a teaser, isn't it?" "She had money, the old lady?"



"Very well to do, I imagine. Of course, we haven't got exact details yet. The Delafontaines are pretty badly off, from what I can make out. The old lady helped with the upkeep of the house." Poirot smiled a little. He said, "So you suspect the Delafontaines. Which of them?" "I don't exactly say I suspect either of them in particular. But there it is; they're her only near relations, and her death brings them a tidy sum of money, I've no doubt. We all know what human nature is I" "Sometimes inhuman--yes, that is very true. And there was nothing else the old lady ate or drank?" "Well, as a matter of fact--"' "Ah, voild! I felt that you had something, as you say, up your sleeve--the soup, the fish pie, the apple tart--a btise! Now we come to the hub of the affair." "I don't know about that. But as a matter of fact, the old girl took a cachet before meals. You






HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?



67

know, not a pill or a tablet; one of those rice-paper things with a powder inside. Some perfectly harmless thing for the digestion."




"Admirable. Nothing is easier than to fill a cachet with strychnine and substitute it for one of the others. It slips down the throat with a drink of water and is not tasted."




"That's all right. The trouble is, the girl gave it to her."




"The Russian girl?"




"Yes. Katrina Rieger. She was a kind of lady-help, nurse-companion to Miss Barrowby. Fairly ordered about by her, too, I gather. Fetch this, fetch that, fetch the other, rub my back, pour out my medicine, run round to the chemist--all that sort of business. You know how it is with these old women--they mean to be kind, but what they




need is a sort of black slave!"

Poirot smiled.




"And there you are, you see," continued In-spector Sims. "It doesn't fit in what you might call nicely. Why should the girl poison her? Miss Barrowby dies and now the girl will be out of a job, and jobs aren't so easy to findshe's not trained or anything."




"Still," suggested Poirot, "if the box of cachets was left about, anyone in the house might have the opportunity."




"Naturally we're onto that, M. Poirot. I don't mind telling you we're making our inquiries--quiet like, if you understand me. When the pre-scription was last made up, where it was usually kept; patience and a lot of spade work--that's what will do the trick in the end. And then there's






Il




tq',



P

PC





bps





Christie




Sims, surprised. Hercule ?oirot. "She has




could ask a further que? off. he wander,d into the room sat at her typewriter. She .,m the keys at her employer's at him inquiringly. Poirot, "to figure to your




ped her hands into her lap in a enjoyed typing, paying bills, tering up engagements. To be rself in hypothetical situations Lch, but she accepted it as a duty. began Poirot.



i:ss Lemon, looking intensely

\and friendless in this country, for not wisBing to return tO fioyed as a kind of drudge, d companior to an old lady, mcomplaining." ss Lemon olediently, but en/ herself beint meek to any of




,,kes a fancy to you. She decide kY to you. she tells you so.'




l "Yes" a lr.




old out something'




that




of money






HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW? 71 you have not been honest with her. Or it might be more grave still--a medicine that tasted different, some food that disagreed. Anyway, she begins to suspect you of something and she writes to a very famous detective--enfin, to the most famous. detective--me! I am to call upon her shortly. And




then, as you say, the dripping will be in the fire. The great thing is to act quickly. And so--before the great detective arrives--the old lady is dead.




And the money comes to you Tell me, does

that seemto you reasonable?" "Quite reasonable," aid Miss Lemon. "Quite reasonable for a Russian, that is. Personally, I should never take a post as a companion. I like my duties clearly defined. And of course I should not dream of murdering anyone."




Poirot sighed. "How I miss my friend Hastings. He had such an imagination. Such a romantic



mind! It is true that he always imagined wrong--but that in itself was a guide."




Miss Lemon was silent. She had heard about Captain Hastings before, and Was not interested. She looked longingly at the typewritten sheet in front of her.




"So it seems to you reasonable," mused Poirot. "Doesn't it to you?"




"I am almost afraid it does," sighed Poirot. The telephone rang and Miss Lemon went out of the room to answer it. She came back to say, "It's Inspector Sims again."




Poirot hurried to the instrument." 'Allo, 'allo. What is that you say?"




Sims repeated his statement. "We've fotmd a packet of strychnine in the girl's bedroom-






,/ 72 Agatha ©6rill

s. The sergeant's tucked underneath the rattr about clinches it,




just come in with the news, TiP I think."

that clinches it." "Yes," said Poirot, "I thiOtwith sudden con-His voice had changed. It rar fidence. down at his writ-When he had rung off, he s/t tjects on it in a




ing table and arranged the ured to himself,




mechanical manner. He mufti felt it--no, not




"There was something W.on$,.g I saw. En avant,




felt. It must have been SOethi/flect. Was every the little gray cells. Poncler-!i girl--her anxiety




thing logical and in order? TP[ontaine; her hus about



the money; Mme. Delns--imbecile, but

band--his suggestion of usS{ garden--ah! Yes,




he is an imbecile; the rooh; tp the garden."

/ light shone in his He sat up very stiff. Th gr¢finto the adjoining eyes. He sprang up and ven room.

de the kindness to "Miss Lemon, will yo h/ake an investiga-leave what you are doing and tion for me?" t? I'm afraid I'm




"An investigation, M. Poif




not very good" said one day that Poirot interrupted her. "yo

you know all about tradesner, Lemon with con

"Certainly I do," said MiS fidence. You are to go to "Then the matter is Sitnpl,fo discover a fish-Charman's



Green and yau a monger." iss Lemon, sur "A fishmonger?" ased




prised.






HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW? 73






"Precisely. The fishmonger who supplied Rose-bank with fish. When you have found him you will ask him a certain question."




He handed her a slip of paper. Miss Lemon took it, noted its contents without interest, then nodded and slipped the lid on her typewriter.




"We will go to Charman's Green together," said Poirot. "You to the fishmonger and I to the police station. It will take us but half an hour from Baker Street."




On arrival at his destination, he was greeted by



the surprised Inspector Sims. "Well, this is quick

work, M. Poirot. I was talking to you on the phone only an hour ago."




"I have a request to make to you; that you allow me to see this girl Katrina--what is her






"Katrina Rieger. Well, I don't suppose there's any objection to that."




The girl Katrina looked even more sallow and sullen than ever.




Poirot spoke to her very gently. "Mademoi-selle, I want you to believe that I am not your enemy. I want you to tell me the truth."




Her eyes snapped defiantly. "I have told the truth.' To everyone I have told the truth! If the old lady was poisoned, it was not I who poisoned her. It is all a mistake. You wish to prevent me having the money." Her voice was rasping. She looked, he thought, like a miserable little cornered rat.





"Tell me about this cachet, mademoiselle," M. Poirot went on. "Did no one handle it but you?"




"I have said so, have I not? They were made up at the chemist's that afternoon. I brought them






74 Agatha Christie






back with me in my bag--that was just before supper. I opened the box and gave Miss Barrowby one with a glass of water."




"No one touched them but you?"




"No." A cornered rat--with courage!




"And Miss Barrowby had for supper only what we have been told. The soup, the fish pie, the tart?"




"Yes." A hopeless "yes"--dark, smoldering eyes that saw no light anywhere.





Poirot patted her shoulder. "Be of good cour-age,

mademoiselle. There may yet be freedom--yes, and moneyma life of ease."




She looked at him suspiciously.




As he went out Sims said to him, "I didn't quite get what you said through the telephone--some-thing about the girl having a friend."




"She has one. Me!" said Hercule Poirot, and had left the police station before the inspector could pull his wits together.






At the Green Cat tearooms, Miss Lemon did not keep her employer waiting. She went straight to the point.




"The man's name is Rudge, in the High Street, and you were quite right. A dozen and a half ex-actly. I've made a note of what he said." She handed it to him.




"Arrr." It was a deep, rich sound like the purr



of a cat.

Hercule Poirot betook himself to Rosebank. As he stood in the front garden, the sun setting be-hind him, Mary Delafontaine came out to him.






HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW? 75






"M. Poirot?" Her voice sounded surprised. "You have come back?"




"Yes, I have come back." He paused and then said, "When I first came here, madame, the children's nursery rhyme came into my head:






Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With cockle-shells, and silver bells, And pretty maids all in a row.






Only they are not cockle shells, are they, madame? They are oyster shells." His hand pointed.




He heard her catch her breath and then stay very still. Her eyes asked a question.




He nodded. "Mais, oui, I know! The maid left the dinner ready--she will swear and Katrina will swear that that is all you had. Only you and your husband know that you brought back a dozen and a half oysters--a little treat pour la bonne tante. So easy to put the strychnine in an oyster. It is swallowed--comme qa.t But there remain the shells--they must not go in the bucket. The maid would see them. And so you thought of making an edging of them to a bed. But there were not enough--the edging is not complete. The effect is bad--it spoils the symmetry of the otherwise charming garden. Those few oyster shells struck an alien note--they displeased my eye on my first visit."




Mary Delafontaine said, "I suppose you guessed from the letter.' I knew she had written --but I didn't know how much she'd said."

Poirot answered evasively, "I knew at least that






76



Agatha Christie






it was a family matter. If it had been a question of Katrina there would have been no point in hushing things up. I understand that you or your husband handled Miss Barrowby's securities to your own profit, and that she found out--"




Mary Delafontaine nodded. "We've done it for years--a little here and there. I never realized she was sharp enough to find out. And then I learned she had sent for a detective; and I found out, too, that she was leaving her money to Katrina--that miserable little creature!"




"And so the strychnine was put in Katrina's bedroom? I comprehend. You save yourself and your husband from what I may discover, and you saddle an innocent child with murder. Had you no pity, madame?"

Mary Delafontaine shrugged her shouldersm

her blue forget-me-not eyes looked into Poirot's. He remembered the perfection of her acting the first day he had come and the bungling attempts of her husband. A woman above the averagefbut inhuman.




She said, "Pity? For that miserable intriguing little rat?" Her contempt rang out.




Hercule Poirot said slowly, "I think, madame, that you have cared in your life for two things




only. One is your husband."




He saw her lips tremble.




"And the other--is your garden."




He looked round him. His glance seemed to apologize to the flowers for that which he had done and was about to do.






at Pollensa Bay The steamer from Barcelona to Majorca landed Mr. Parker Pyne at Palma in the early hours of the morning--and straightaway he met with disillusionment. The hotels were full! The best that could be done for him was an airless cupboard overlooking an inner court in a hotel in the center of the town--and with that Mr. Parker Pyne was not prepared to put up. The proprietor of the hotel was indifferent to his disappointment. "What will you?" he observed with a shrug. Palma was popular now! The exchange was favorable! Everyone--the English, the Americans--they all came to Majorca in the winter. The whole place was crowded. It was doubtful if the English gentleman would be able to get in anywhere--except perhaps at Formentor where the prices were so ruinous that even foreigners blenched at them. Mr. Parker Pyne partook of some coffee and a roll and went out to view the cathedral, but found










80 Agatha Christie




himself in no mood for apprecisung lies




of architecture. [ke He next had a conference with a " Rea driver in inadequate French inte x. .ith

native Spanish, and they discussed th "dly,0d




possibilities of Soller, Aleudia, l'ollel ar. ed




mentor--where there were fine h0tel n pensive

ak'' an'!'' Mr. Parker Pyne was goaded to mq t,. v;-pensive. -- ...: They asked, said the taxi driver, an u're




it would be absurd and ridiculous t a,sit





r/or well known that the English came

prices were cheap and reasonable? l:tY:'."





Mr. Parker Pyne said that thatwas h'reIt




all the same what sums did they clx mentor? hqY'uitl,I A price incredible! Perfectly--but WHAT PRICE ExACT




The driver consented at last tcreplr figures. 'lx¥? ,/' Fresh from the exactions of hotels -xr n and Egypt, the figure did not stagge, Pyne unduly. ,s in . A bargain was struck, Mr. prke,,v, ,em N




cases were loaded on the taxi in a so "e hazard manner, and they started , s mm Fie




round the island, trying cheaer.°nzam";n



route but with the final ob'ectivenf IF "*

J .. ¥

But they never reached tha tn,,t.. hoof plutocracy, for after they had pssecixo: I"Fo/ e narrow streets of Pollensa and 'ere J['i curved line of the seashore, they came, ,ed Pino d'Oro--a small hotel standing o7o e .rne:'.:"






PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY 81






the sea looking out over a view that in the misty haze of a fine morning had the exquisite vagueness of a Japanese print. At once Mr. Parker Pyne knew that this, and this only, was what he was looking for. He stopped the taxi, passed through the painted gate with the hope that he would find a resting place.




The elderly couple to whom the hotel belonged knew no English or French. Nevertheless the matter was concluded satisfactorily. Mr. Parker Pyne was allotted a room overlooking the sea, the



suitcases were unloaded, the driver congratulated his-passenger upon avoiding the monstrous exi-gencies

of "these new hotels," received his fare and departed with a cheerful Spanish salutation.




Mr. Parker Pyne glanced at his watch and per-ceiving that it was, even now, but a quarter to ten, he went out onto the small terrace now bathed in a dazzling morning light and ordered, for the sec-ond time that morning, coffee and rolls.




There were four tables there, his own, one from which breakfast was being cleared away and two occupied ones. At the one nearest him sat a family of father and mother and two elderly daughters--Germans. Beyond them, at the corner of the ter-race, sat what were clearly an English mother and Son.




The woman was about fifty-five. She had gray hair of a pretty tone--was sensibly but not fash-ionably dressed in a tweed coat and skirt--and had that comfortable self-possession which marks an Englishwoman used to much traveling abroad.




The young man who sat opposite her might



have been twenty-five and he too was typical of his 82



Agatha Christie






class and age. He was neither good-looking nor plain, tall nor short. He was clearly on the best of terms with lis mother--they made little jokes together--and he was assiduous in passing her things.




As they talked, her eye met that of Mr. Parker Pyne. It passed over him with well-bred noncha-lance, but he knew that he had been assimilated and labeled.




He had been recognized as English and doubt-less, in due course, some pleasant noncommittal remark would be addressed to him.




Mr. Parker Pyne had no particular objection. His own courttrymen and women abroad were in-clined to bore him slightly, but he was quite will-ing



to pass the time of day in an amiable manner. In a small hotel it caused constraint if one did not

do so. This particular woman, he felt sure, had ex-cellent "hotel manners," as he put it.




The English boy rose from his seat, made some laughing remark and passed into the hotel. The woman took her letters and bag and settled herself in a chair facing the sea. She unfolded a copy of the Continental Daily Mail. Her back was to Mr. Parker Pyne.




As he dra0k the last drop of his coffee, Mr. Parker Pyne glanced in her direction, and in-stantly he stiffened. He was alarmed--alarmed for the peaceful continuance of his holiday! That back was horribly expressive. In his time he had classified many such backs. Its rigidity--the tenseness of its poise--without seeing her face he knew well enough that the eyes were bright with unshed tearsthat the woman was keeping herself






PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY 83

in hand by a rigid effort.




Moving warily, like a much-hunted animal, Mr. Parker Pyne retreated into the hotel. Not half an hour before he had been invited to sign his name in the book lying on the desk. There it was--a neat signature--C. Parker Pyne, London.




A few lines above Mr. Parker Pyne noticed the entries: Mrs. R. Chester, Mr. Basil Chester--Holm Park, Devon.




Seizing a pen, Mr. Parker Pyne wrote rapidly over his signature. It now read (with difficulty) Christopher Pyne.




If Mrs. R. Chester was unhappy in Pollensa Bay, it was not going to be made easy for her to consult Mr. Parker Pyne.




Already it had been a source of abiding wonder to that gentleman that so many people he had come across abroad should know his name and have noted his advertisements. In England many



thousands of people read the Times every day and could have answered quite truthfully that they had

never heard such a name in their lives. Abroad, he reflected, they read their newspapers more thor-oughly. No item, not even the advertisement col-umns, escaped them.




Already his holidays had been interrupted on several occasions. He had dealt with a whole series of problems from murder to attempted blackmail. He was determined in Majorca to have peace. He felt instinctively that a distressed mother might trouble that peace considerably.




Mr. Parker Pyne settled down at the Pino d'Oro very happily. There was a larger hotel not far off, the Mariposa, where a good many English people






84 Agatha Christie




stayed. Fire was also-quite an artist colony living all round. You could walk along by the sea to the fishing village where there was a cocktail bar where peolle met--there were a few shops. It was



all very peaceful and pleasant. Girls strolled about in trouse with brightly colored handkerchiefs

tied round the upper halves of their bodies. Young men in b¢ets with rather long hair held forth in "Mac's !r" on such subjects as plastic values and abstraction in art. On the day after Mr. Parker Pyne's arrival, Mrs. Chester made a few conventional remarks to him on the subject of the view and the likelihood of the weather keeping fine. She then chatted a little with the German lady about knitting, and had a few bleasant words about the sadness of the political situation with two Danish gentlemen who spent their time rising at dawn and walking for eleven ho¥s. Mr. Parker Pyne found Basil Chester a most likeable Yung man. He called Mr. Parker Pyne "sir" and listened most politely to anything the older mar said. Sometimes the three English people hq coffee together after dinner in the evening. After the third day, Basil left the party after ten' inutes or so and Mr. Parker Pyne was left tte-/-tte with Mrs. Chester. They tlked about flowers and the growing of them, of the lamentable state of the English pound



and of how expensive France had become, and of the diffic!ty of getting good afternoon tea.

Every ¢¥ening when her son departed, Mr. Parker PYe saw the quickly concealed tremor of her lips, It immediately she recovered and dis-






PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY 85




coursed pleasantly on the above-mentioned subjects. Little by little she began to talk of Basil--of how well he had done at school--"he was in the First XI, you know"--of how everyone liked him, of how proud his father would have been of the boy had he lived, of how thankful she had been that Basil had never been "wild." "Of course I always urge him to be with young people, but he really seems to prefer being with me." She said it with a kind of nice modest pleasure in the fact. But for once Mr. Parker Pyne did not make the usual tactful response he could usually achieve so easily. He said instead: "Oh! well, there seem to be plenty of young people here--not in the hotel, but roundabout."



At that, he noticed, Mrs. Chester stiffened. She

said: Of course there were a lot of Artists. Perhaps



she was very old-fashioned--real art, of course,



was different, but a lot of young people just made



that sort of thing an excuse for lounging about



and doing nothing--and the girls drank a lot too



much.



On the following day Basil said to Mr. Parker



Pyne:



"I'm awfully glad you turned up here, sir--especially



for my mother's sake. She likes having



you to talk to in the evenings."



"What did you do when you were first here?" "As a matter of fact we used to play piquet."



"I see."

"Of course one gets rather tired of piquet. As a matter of fact I've got some friends here-- fright 84 .Agatha Christie




stayed. There vvas a?.°'qaite an artist colony living




all round. You co. um Wlk along by the sea to the




fishing village w. ne.r.e there was a cocktail bar





where people r..'ne.'e were a few shops. It was all very peacefu.lasant. Girls strolled about · ,,m orl 11 ,

m trousers wPt

,g tly colored handkerchiefs tied round the pper halves of their bodies. Young men in berets with rat[er long hair held forth in "Mac's Bar" on SUch subjects as plastic values




and abstractiffn in art.




On the da-aadfteer r. Parker Pyne's arrival,




Mrs. Chester ,m. . a t-w conventional remarks to




him on the svt°J,ect of the view and the likelihood




of the weathreeremPitlg fine. She then chatted a little with th mah lady about knitting, and had a few pla.sant ,W.%ds about the sadness of the




political situu°n .W!tll two Danish gentlemen who spent their tme nsm at dawn and walking for





eleven hours/





Mr. Parkff Pyne tound Basil Chester a most




likeable youOg ma.n. He called Mr Parker Pyne ,, · ,,

.stenea . ' sir and Bsaid nlost politely to anything the




older man cof{e °tnetimes the three English




people had er the !bgether after dinner in the




evening. Afe tird day, Basil left the party after ten' mjUtwSt°r,O and Mr. Parker Pyne was left tte-li-t¢; ;; tV!rs' Chester. They talg l-°.u! flowers and the growing of them, of the.."-t, able state of the English pound and of how ;csl.ve France had become, and of the difficulff . gettlhg good afternoon tea



Every e4emng Wen her son departet, Mr. Parker Pyle s. aw th% quickly concealed tremor of



her lips, got !mmeciately she recovered and dis






PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY g5




coursed pleasantly on the above-mentioned subjects. Little by little she began to talk of Basilwof how well he had done at school--"he was in the First XI, you know"--of how everyone liked him, of how proud his father would have been of the boy had he lived, of how thankful she had been that Basil had never been "wild." "Of course I always urge him to be with young people, but he really seems to prefer being with me." She said it with a kind of nice modest pleasure in the fact. But for once Mr. Parker Pyne did not make the usual tactful response he could usually achieve so easily. He said instead: "Oh! well, there seem to be plenty of young people here--not in the hotel, but roundabout." At that, he noticed, Mrs. Chester stiffened. She said: Of course there were a lot of Artists. Perhaps she was very old-fashioned--real art, of course,



was different, but a lot of young people just made

that sort of thing an excuse for lounging about and doing nothing--and the girls drank a lot too much. On the following day Basil said to Mr. Parker Pyne: "I'm awfully glad you turned up here, sir--especially for my mother's sake. She likes having you to talk to in the evenings." "What did you do when you were first here?" "As a matter of fact we used to play piquet." "I see." "Of course one gets rather tired of piquet. As a matter of fact I've got some friends hereto fright 84 Agatha Christie






stayed. There was also'quite an artist colony living all round. You could walk along by the sea to the fishing village where there was a cocktail bar where people met--there were a few shops. It was all very peaceful and pleasant. Girls strolled about in trousers with brightly colored handkerchiefs tied round the upper halves of their bodies. Young men in berets with rather long hair held forth in



"Mac's Bar" on such subjects as plastic values

and abstraction in art.




On the day after Mr. Parker Pyne's arrival, Mrs. Chester made a few conventional remarks to him on the subject of the view and the likelihood of the weather keeping fine. She then chatted a little with the German lady about knitting, and had a few pleasant words about the sadness of the political situation with two Danish gentlemen who spent their time rising at dawn and walking for eleven hours.




Mr. Parker Pyne found Basil Chester a most likeable young man. He called Mr. Parker Pyne "sir" and listened most politely to anything the older man said. Sometimes the three English people had coffee together after dinner in the evening. After the third day, Basil left the party after ten' minutes or so and Mr. Parker Pyne was left tte-&-tte with Mrs. Chester.




They talked about flowers and the growing of them, of the lamentable state of the English pound and of how expensive France had become, and of the difficulty of getting good afternoon tea.

Every evening when her son departed, Mr.

Parker Pyne saw the quickly concealed tremor of her lips, but immediately she recovered and dis




PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY 85




coursed pleasantly on the above-mentioned subjects. Little by little she began to talk of Basil--of how well he had done at school--"he was in the First XI, you know"--of how everyone liked him, of how proud his father would have been of the boy had he lived, of how thankful she had been that Basil had never been "wild." "Of course I always urge him to be with young people, but he really seems to prefer being with me." She said it with a kind of nice modest pleasure in the fact. But for once Mr. Parker Pyne did not make the usual tactful response he could usually achieve so easily. He said instead: "Oh! well, there seem to be plenty of young people here--not in the hotel, but roundabout." At that, he noticed, Mrs. Chester stiffened. She



said: Of course there were a lot of Artists. Perhaps

she was very old-fashioned--real art, of course,

was different, but a lot of young people just made that sort of thing an excuse for lounging about and doing nothing--and the girls drank a lot too much. On the following day Basil said to Mr. Parker Pyne: "I'm awfully glad you turned up here, sir--especially for my mother's sake. She likes having you to talk to in the evenings." "What did you do when you were first here?" "As a matter of fact we used to play piquet." "I see." "Of course one gets rather tired of piquet. As a matter of fact I've got some friends here-- fright




Agatha Christie




fully cheery crowd. I don't really think my mother approves of them--" He laughed as though he felt this ought to be amusing. "The mater's very old-fashioned .... Even girls in trousers shock her!" " ' " ' r P n Qmteso, sadMr. Parke y e. "What I tell her s--one s got to move with the



times The girls at home round us are frightfully





dull "





"I see," said Mr. Parker Pyne.



All



this interested him well enough· He was a



spectator of a miniature drama, but he was not



called upon to take part in it.



And then the worst--from Mr. Parker Pyne's



point of view--happened. A gushing lady of his

acquaintance came to stay at the Mariposa. They met in the tea shop in the presence of Mrs. Chester. The newcomer screamed: "Why--if it isn't Mr. Parker Pyne--the one and only Mr. Parker Pyne! And Adela Chester! Do you know each other? Oh, you do? You're staying at the same hotel? He's the one and only original wizard, Adela--the marvel of the century-all your troubles smoothed out while you wait! What? Didn't you know? You must have heard about him? Haven't you read his advertisements?



'Are you in trouble? Consult Mr. Parker Pyne.' There's just nothing he can't do. Husbands and wives flying at each other's throats and he brings 'em together--if you've lost interest



in life he gives you the most thrilling adventures.

As I say the man's just a wizard!" It went on a good deal longer--Mr. Parker Pyne at intervals making modest disclaimers. He






PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY 87






disliked the look that Mrs. Chester turned upon him. He disliked even more seeing her return along the beach in close confabulation with the garrulous singer of his praises.




The climax came quicker than he expected. That evening, after coffee, Mrs. Chester said abruptly,




"Will you come into the little salon, Mr. Pyne.




There is something I want to say to you."




He could but bow and submit.




Mrs. Chester's self-control had been wehring thin--as the door of the little salon closed behind

them, it snapped. She sat down and burst into



tears.





"My boy, Mr. Parker Pyne. You must save




him. We must save him. It's breaking my heart!" "My dear lady, as a mere outsider--"




"Nina Wycherley says you can do anything. She said I was to have the utmost confidence in you. She advised me to tell you everything--and that you'd put the whole thing right."




Inwardly Mr. Parker Pyne cursed the obtrusive Mrs. Wycherley.




Resigning himself he said:




"Well, let us thrash the matter out. A girl, I suppose?"




"Did he tell you about her?"




"Only indirectly."





Words poured in a vehement stream from Mrs.

Chester. The girl was dreadful. She drank, she swore--she wore no clothes to speak of. Her sister lived out here--was married to an artist--a Dutch-man. The whole set was most undesirable. Half of them were living together without being married. Basil was completely changed. He had always






88 Agatha Christie · . . been so quiet, so interested in serious subjects. H




had thought at one time of taking up archae ology-''




"Well, well," said Mr. Parker Pyne. "Nature




will have her revenge."




"What do you mean?"




"It isn't healthy for a young man to be inter ested in serious subjects· He ought to be making 'an idiot of himself over one girl after another."





"Please be serious, Mr. Pyne."





"I'm perfectly serious. Is the young lady, by




any chance, the one who had tea with you yester day?''




He had noticed her--her gray flannel trousers




--the scarlet handkerchief tied loosely around her




breast--the vermilion mouth and the fact that she




had chosen a cocktail in preference to tea.




"You saw her? Terrible! Not the kind of girl




Basil has ever admired."




"You haven't given him much chance to admire




a girl, have you?"

"I?"





"He's been too fond of your company! Bad!





However, I daresay he'll get over this--if you





don't preciPitate matters."





"You don't understand. He wants to marry this





girl--Betty Gregg--they're engaged."





"It's gone as far as that?"




"Yes. Mr. Parker Pyne, you must do some thing. You must get my boy out of this disastrous




marriage! His whole life will be ruined."




"Nobody's life can be ruined except by them selves. ' '




"Basil's will be," said Mrs. Chester positively. PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY






"I'm not worrying about Basil."



"You're not worrying about the girl?"



"No, I'm worrying about you. You've been



squandering your birthright."



Mrs. Chester looked at him, slightly taken



aback.



"What are the years from twenty to forty?



Fettered and bound by personal and emotional



relationships. That's bound to be. That's living.



But later there's a new stage. You can think,



observe life, discover something about other



people and the truth about yourself. Life becomes



real--significant. You see it as a whole. Not just



one scene--the scene you, as an actor, are playing.



No man or woman is actually himself (or herselO



till after forty-five. That's when individuality has



a chance."



Mrs. Chester said:



"I've been wrapped up in Basil. He's been everything to me."



"Well, he shouldn't have been. That's what you're paying for now. Love him as much as you



likewbut you're Adela Chester, remember, a per-son--not



just Basil's mother."



"It will break my heart if Basil's life is ruined,"

said Basil's xnother. He looked at the delicate lines of her face, the wistful droop of her mouth. She was, somehow, a lovable woman. He did not want her to be hurt. He said: I'll see what I can do." He found Basil Chester only too ready to talk, eager to urge his point of view. "This business is being just hellish. Mother's






90 Agatha Christie






hopeless--prejudiced, narrow-minded. If only




she'd let herself, she'd see how fine Betty is." "And Betty?" He sighed.




"Betty's being damned difficult! If she'd just conform a bit--I mean leave off the lipstick for a day--it might make all the difference. She seems to go out of her way to be--well--modern--when

Mother's about."




Mr. Parker Pyne smiled.




"Betty and Mother are two of the dearest people in the world, I should have thought they would have taken to each other like hot cakes."




"You have a lot to learn, young man,'.' said Mr. Parker Pyne.




"I wish you'd come along and see Betty and have a good talk about it all."




Mr. Parker Pyne accepted the invitation read-ily.




Betty and her sister and her husband lived in a small dilapidated villa a little way back from the sea. Their life was of a refreshing simplicity. Their furniture comprised three chairs, a table and beds. There was a cupboard in the wall that held the bare requirements of cups and plates. Hans was an excitable young man with wild blond hair that stood up all over his head. He spoke very odd English with incredible rapidity, walking up and



down as he did so. Stella, his wife, was small and

fair. Betty Gregg had red hair and freckles and a mischievous eye. She was, he noticed, not nearly so made up as she had been the previous day at the Pino d'Oro.




She gave him a cocktail and said with a twinkle:






PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY 91




"You're in on the big bust-up?" Mr. Parker Pyne nodded. "And whose side are you on, big boy? The young lovers--or the disapproving dame?" "May I ask you a question?" "Certainly." "Have you been very tactful over all this?" "Not at all," said Miss Gregg frankly. "But the old cat put mY back up" (she glanced round to make sure that Basil was out of earshot). "That woman just makes me feel mad. She's kept Basil tied to her apron strings all these years--that sort of thing makes a man look a fool. Basil isn't a fool really. Then she's so terribly pukka sahib." "That's not really such a bad thing. It's merely 'unfashionable' just at present."

Betty Gregg gave a sudden twinkle. "You mean it's like putting Chippendale chairs in the attic in Victorian days? Later you get them down again and say, 'Aren't they marvelous?'" "Something o if the kind." Betty Gregg considered. "Perhaps you're right. I'll be honest. It was Basil who put my back up--being so anxious about what impression I'd make on his mother. It drove me to extremes. Even now I believe he might give me up--if his mother worked on him good and hard." "He might," said Mr. Parker Pyne. "If she went about it the right way." "Are you going to tell her the right way? She won't think of it herself, you know. She'll just go on disapproving and that won't do the trick. But if you prompted her--"






92 Agatha Christie






She bit her lip--raised frank blue eyes to his.



"I've heard about you, Mr. Parker Pyne.

You're supposed to know something about human nature. Do you think Basil and I could make a go of it--or not?"




"I should like an answer to three questions." "Suitability test? All right, go ahead."




"Do you sleep with your window open or shut?"




"Open. I like lots of air."




"Do you and Basil enjoy the same kind of food?"




"Yes."




"Do you like going to bed early or late?" "Really, under the rose, early. At half-past ten I yawn--and I secretly feel rather hearty in the mornings--but of course I daren't admit it."




"You ought to suit each other very well," said Mr. Parker Pyne.

"Rather a superficial test."




"Not at all. I have known seven marriages at least, entirely wrecked, because the husband liked sitting up till midnight and the wife fell asleep at half-past nine and vice versa."




"It's a pity," said Betty, "that everybody can't be happy. Basil and I, and his mother giving us her blessing."




Mr. Parker Pyne coughed.




"I think," he said, "that that could possibly be managed."




She looked at him doubtfully.




"Now I wonder," she said, "if you're double crossing me?"




Mr. Parker Pyne's face told nothing.






PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY



93

To Mrs. Chester he was soothing, but vague. An engagement was not marriage. He himself was going to Soller for a week. He suggested that her line of action should be noncommittal. Let her appear to acquiesce.




He spent a very enjoyable week at Soller.




On his return he found that a totally unexpected development had arisen.




As he entered the Pino d'Oro the first thing he saw was Mrs. Chester and Betty Gregg having tea together. Basil was not there. Mrs. Chester looked haggard. Betty, too, was looking off color. She was hardly made up at all, and her eyelids looked as though she had been crying.




They greeted him in a friendly fashion, but neither of them mentioned Basil.




Suddenly he heard the girl beside him draw in her breath sharply as though something had hurt

her. Mr. Parker Pyne turned his head.




Basil Chester was coming up the steps from the sea front. With him was a girl so exotically beauti-ful that it quite took your breath away. She was dark and her figure was marvelous. No one could fail to notice the fact since she wore nothing but a single garment of pale blue crepe. She was heavily made up with ocher powder and an orange scarlet mouth--but the unguents only displayed her re-markable beauty in a more pronounced fashion. As for young Basil, he seemed unable to take his eyes from her face.




"You're very late, Basil," said his mother. "You were to have taken Betty to Mac's."




"My fault," drawled the beautiful unknown. "We just drifted." She turned to Basil. "Angel-






94 Agatha Christie




get me something with a kick in it!"



She tossed off her shoe and stretched out her

manicured toenails which were done emerald green to match her fingernails. She paid no attention to the two women, but she leaned a little towards Mr. Parlcr. Pyne. "Terrible island this," she said. "I wds just dying with boredom before I met Basil. He is rather a pet!" "Mr. Parker PynemMiss Ramona," said Mrs. Chester. The girl acknowledged the introduction with a lazy smile. "I guess I'll call you Parker almost at once," she murmured. "My name's Dolores." Basil returned with the drinks. Miss Ramona divided her conversation (what there was of it--it was mostly glances) between Basil and Mr. Parker Pyne. Of the two women she took no notice whatever. Betty attempted once or twice to join in the conversation but the other girl merely stared at her and yawned. Suddenly Dolores rose. "Guess I'll be going along now. I'm at the other hotel. Anyone coming to see me home?" Basil sprang up. "I'll come with you."

Mrs. Chester said: "Basil, my dear--" "I'll be back presently, Mother." "Isn't he the mother's boy?" Miss Ramona asked of the world at large. "Just toots 'round after her, don't you?" Basil flushed and looked awkward. Miss Ramona gave a nod in Mrs. Chester's direction, a






PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY 95






dazzling smile to Mr. Parker Pyne and she and Basil moved off together.




After they had gone there was rather an awk-ward silence. Mr. Parker Pyne did not like to speak first. Betty Gregg was twisting her fingers and looking out to sea. Mrs. Chester looked flushed and angry.




Betty said: "Well, what do you think of our new acquisition in Pollensa Bay?" Her voice was not quite steady.

Mr. Parker Pyne said cautiously:





"A little--er--exotic."





"Exotic?" Betty gave a short bitter laugh.




Mrs. Chester said: "She's terrible--terrible. Basil must be quite mad."




Betty said sharply: "Basil's all right."




"Her toenails," said Mrs. Chester with a shiver of nausea.




Betty rose suddenly.




"I think, Mrs. Chester, I'll go home and not stay to dinner after all."




"Oh, my dear--Basil will be so disappointed." "Will he?" asked Betty with a short laugh. "Anyway, I think I will. I've got rather a head-ache."




She smiled at them both and went off. Mrs. Chester turned to Mr. Parker Pyne.

"I wish we had never come to this place--never!"





Mr. Parker Pyne shook his head sadly.




"You shouldn't have gone away," said Mrs. Chester. "If you'd been here this wouldn't have happened."




Mr. Parker Pyne was stung to respond,






96 Agatha Christie






"My dear lady, I can assure you that when it comes to a question of a beautiful young woman, I should have no influence over your son what-ever. He--er--seems to be of a very ?uscePtible nature."




"He never used to be," said Mrs. Chester tear-fully.




"Well," said Mr. Parker Pyne with an attempt



at cheerfulness, "this new attraction seems to have

broken the back of his infatuation for Miss Gregg. That must be some satisfaction to you."




"I don't know what you mean," said Mrs. Chester. "Betty is a dear child and devoted to Basil. She is behaving extremely well over this. I think my boy must be mad."




Mr. Parker Pyne received this startling change of face without wincing. He had met inconsistency in women before. He said mildly:




"Not exactly mad--j ust bewitched."




"The creature's a Dago. She's impossible." "But extremely good-looking." Mrs. Chester snorted.




Basil ran up the steps from the sea front. "Hullo, Mater, here I am. Where's Betty?"


"Betty's gone home with a headache. I don't wonder. ' '




"Sulking, you mean."

"I consider, Basil, that you are being extremely unkind to Betty."




"For God's sake, Mother, don't jaw. If Betty is going to make this fuss every time I speak to




another girl a nice sort of life we'll lead together." "You are engaged."




"Oh, we're engaged all right. That doesn't






PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY 97






mean that we're not going to have any friends of our own. Nowadays people have to lead their own




lives and try to cut out jealousy."




He paused.




"Look here, if Betty isn't going to dine with



us--I think I'll go back to the Mariposa. They did

ask me to dine "




"Oh, Basil--"




The boy gave her an exasperated look, then ran off down the steps.




Mrs. Chester looked eloquently at Mr. Parker Pyne.




"You see," she said.




He saw.




Matters came to a head a couple of days later. Betty and Basil were to have gone for a long walk, taking a picnic lunch with them. Betty arrived at the Pino d'Oro to find that Basil had forgotten the plan and gone over to Formentor for the day with Dolores Ramona's party.




Beyond a tightening of the lips the girl made no sign. Presently, however, she got up and stood in

front of Mrs. Chester (the two women were alone

on the terrace).




"It's quite all right," she said. "It doesn't matter. But I think--all the same--that we'd bet-ter call the whole thing off."




She slipped from her finger the signet ring that Basil had given her--he would buy the real en-gagement ring later.




"Will you give him back this, Mrs. Chester? And tell him it's all right--not to worry .... "




"Betty dear, don't! He does love you--really."




"It looks like it, doesn't it?" said the girl with a






98 Agatha Christie




short laugh. "No--I've got some pride. Tell him everything's all right and that I--I wish him luck."



When Basil returned at sunset he was greeted by

a storm.



He flushed a little at the sight of his ring.



"So that's how she feels, is it? Well, I daresay



it's the best thing."



"Basil!"



"Well, frankly, Mother, we don't seem to have



been hitting it off lately."



"Whose fault was that?"



"I don't see that it was mine particularly. Jealousy's



beastly and I really don't see why you should get all worked up about it. You begged me



yourself not to marry Betty."



"That was before I knew her. Basil--my dear--you're



not thinking of marrying this other creature.''



Basil Chester said soberly:



"I'd marry her like a shot if she'd have me--but



I'm afraid she won't."



Cold chills went down Mrs. Chester's spine. She



sought and found Mr. Parker Pyne, placidly reading



a book in a sheltered corner.



"You must do something! You must do something!



My boy's life will be ruined."



Mr. Parker Pyne was getting a little tired of



Basil Chester's life being ruined.



"What can I do?"



"Go and see this terrible creature. If necessary buy her off."

"That may come very expensive." "I don't care."






PROBLEM ,T POLLENSA BAY 99




"It seems a Pity. Still there are, possibly, other ways." She looked a question. He shook his head. "I'll make no proroises--but I'll see what I can do. I have handled that kind before. By the way, not a word to Basil--that would be fatal." "Of course not." Mr. Parker Pyne returned from the Mariposa at midnight. Mrs. Chester was sitting up for him. "Well?" she demarded breathlessly. His eyes twinklcci. "The Sefiorita DOlores Ramona will leave Poi-lensa tomorrow morning and the island tomorrow night.." "Oh, Mr. Parker Pyne! How did you manage it?" "It won't cost a Cnt," said Mr. Parker Pyne.



Again his cycs twinkled. "I rather fancied I might

have a hold over her---and I was right." "You arc wonderful. Nina Wycherley was quite right. Youmust let me know--er--your fees-' Mr. Parker Pyue held up a well-manicured hand. "Not a penny. It has been a pleasure. I hope all will go well. Of course the boy will be very upset at first when he finds she's disappeared and left no address. Just go easy with him for a week or two." "If only Betty will forgive him--" "She'll forgive him all right. They're a nice couple. By the way, I'm leaving tomorrow, too." "Oh, Mr. Parker lyne, we shall miss you." "Perhaps it's just as well I should go before that boy of yours gets infatuated with yet a third girl." Mr. Parker Pyne leaned over the rail of the






100 Agatha Christie






steamer and looked at the lights of Palma. Beside him stood Dolores Ramona. He was saying appre-ciatively:

"A very nice piece of work, Madeleine. I'm

glad I wired you to come out. It's odd when you're such a quiet stay-at-home girl really."




Madeleine de Sara, alias Dolores Ramona, alias Maggie Sayers, said primly: "I'm glad you're pleased, Mr. Parker Pyne. It's been a nice little change. I think I'll go below now and get to bed before the boat starts. I'm such a bad sailor."




A few minutes later a hand fell on Mr. Parker Pyne's shoulder. He turned to see Basil Chester.




"Had to come and see you off, Mr. Parker Pyne, and give you Betty's love and her and my best thanks. It was a grand stunt of yours. Betty and Mother are as thick as thieves. Seemed a shame to deceive the old darling--but she was being difficult. Anyway it's all right now. I must just be careful to keep up the annoyance stuff a couple of days longer. We're no end grateful to you, Betty and I."




"I wish you every happiness," said Mr. Parker Pyne.

"Thanks."




There was a pause, then Basil said with some-what overdone carelessness:




"Is Miss--Miss de Sara--anywhere about? I'd like to thank her, too."




Mr. Parker Pyne shot a keen glance at him.




He said:




"I'm afraid Miss de Sara's gone to bed."




"Oh, too bad--well, perhaps I'll see her in London sometime."






PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY 101




"As a matter of fact she is going to America on business for me almost at once." "Oh!" Basil's tone was blank. "Well," he said. "I'll be getting along .... "

Mr. Parker Pyne smiled. On his way to his

cabin he tapped on the door of Madeleine's. "How are you, my dear? All right? Our young friend has been along. The usual slight attack of Madeleinitis. He'll get over it in a day or two, but you are rather distracting."






>> ->>> ->>> - ->>> ->>> ,>




Yellow Iris






106 Agatha Christie






Smiling at the pleasing conceit, he lifted the receiver.




Immediately a voice spoke--a soft husky woman's voice with a kind of desperate urgency about it.




"Is that M. Hercule Poirot? Is that M. Hercule



Poirot ?" "Hercule Poirot speaks."





"M. Poirot--can you come at once--at once-





I'm in danger--in great danger--I know it "




Poirot said sharply, "Who are you? Where are you speaking from?"




The voice came more faintly but with an even greater urgency. "At once.., it's life or death .... The Jarclin des Cygnes. . . at once . . . table with yellow irises.... " There was a pause--a queer kind of gasp--the line went dead. Hercule Poirot hung up. His face was puzzled. He murmured between his teeth: "There

is something here very curious."




In the doorway of the Jardin des Cygnes, fat Luigi hurried forward. "Buona sera, M. Poirot. You desire a table--yes?" "No, no, my good Luigi. I seek here for some friends. I will look round--perhaps they are not here yet. Ah, let me see, that table there in the cor-ner with the yellow irises--a little question by the way, if it is not indiscreet. On all the other tables there are tulips--pink tulips--why on that one




YELLOW IRIS 107






table do you have yellow iris?"




Luigi shrugged his expressive shoulders.





"A command, Monsieur! A. special order!

Without doubt, the favorite flowers of one of the ladies. That table, it is the table of Mr. Barton Russell--an American--immensely rich."




"Aha, one must study the whims of the ladies, must one not, Luigi?"




"Monsieur has said it," said LLfigi.




"I see at that table an acquaintance of mine. I must go and speak to him."




Poirot skirted his way delicately round the dancing floor on which couples were revolving. The table in question was set for six, but it had at the moment only one occupant, a young man who was thoughtfully, and it seemed pessimistically, drinking champagne.




He was not at all the person that Poirot had ex-pected to see. It seemed impossible to associate the idea of danger or melodrama with any party of which Tony Chapell was a member.




Poirot paused delicately by the table.

"Ah, it is, is it not, my friend Anthony Chap-ell?"




"By all that's wonderful--Poirot the police hound!" cried the young man. "Not Anthony, my




dear fellow--Tony to friends!"




He drew out a chair.




"Come, sit with me. Let us discourse of crime! Let us go further and drink to crime." He poured champagne into an empty glass. "But what are you doing in this haunt of song and dance and merriment, my dear Poirot? We have no bodies here, positively not a single body to offer you."






108 Agatha Christie




Poirot sipped the champagne. "You seem very gay, man cher?" "Gay? I am steeped in miserymwallowing in gloom. Tell me, you hear this tune they are playing.



You recognize it?"

Poirot lazarded cautiously: "Something perhaps to do with your baby having left you?" "Not a bad guess," said the young man, "but wrong for once. 'There's nothing like love for making you miserable!' That's what it's called." "Aha?" "My favorite tune,." said Tony Chapell mournfully. "And my favorite restaurant and my favorite band--and my favorite girl's here and she's dancing it with somebody else." "Hence the melancholy?" said Poirot. "Exactly. Pauline and I, you see, have had what the vulgar call words. That is to say, she's had ninety-five words to five of mine out of every hundred. My five are: 'But darling--I can explain.' --Then she starts in on her ninety-five again and we get no further. I think," added Tony sadly, "that I shall poison myself." "Pauline?" murmured Poirot. "Pauline Weatherby. Barton Russell's young sister-in-law. Young, lovely, disgustingly rich. Tonight Barton Russell gives a party. You know him? Big Business, clean-shaven American--full of pep and personality. His wife was Pauline's sister."

"And who else is there at this party?"

"You'll meet 'em in a minute when the music stops. There's Lola Valdez--you know, the South






YELLOW IRIS 109






American dancer in the new show at the Metro-pole, and there's Stephen Carter. D'you know Carter--he's in the diplomatic service. Very hush-hush. Known as silent Stephen. Sort of man who says, 'I am not at liberty to state, etc., etc.' Hullo, here they come."




Poirot rose. He was introduced to Barton Russell, to Stephen Carter, to Sefiora Lola Valdez, a dark and luscious creature, and to Pauline Weatherby, very young, very fair, with eyes like cornflowers.




Barton Russell said:




"What, is this the great M. Hercule Poirot? I



am indeed pleased to meet you, sir. Won't you sit

down and join us? That is, unless--"





Tony Chapell broke in.




"He's got an appointment with a body, I be-lieve, or is it an absconding financier, or the Rajah of Borrioboolagah's great ruby?"




"Ah, my friend, do you think I am never off duty? Can I not, for once, seek only to amuse myself?"




"Perhaps you've got an appointment with Carter here. The latest from Geneva. Interna-tional situation now acute. The stolen plans must




be found or war will be declared tomorrow!" Pauline Weatherby said cuttingly:




"Must you be so completely idiotic, Tony?" "Sorry, Pauline."




Tony Chapell relapsed into crestfallen silence. "How severe you are, Mademoiselle."

"I hate people who play the fool all the time?




"I must be careful, I see. I must converse only of serious matters."






112 Agatha Christie




"Excuse me, must just speak to a fellow I know over there. Fellow I was with at Eton." Stephen Ca-ter got up and walked to a table a few places away. Tony said gloomily: "Somebody ought to drown old Etonians at birth." Hercule Poirot was still being gallant to the dark beauty beside him. He murmured: "I wonder, may I ask, what are the favorite flowers of Mademoiselle?" "Ah, now, why ees eet you want to know?" Lola was arch. "Mademoiselle, if I send flowers to a lady, I am



particular that they should be flowers she likes."

"That ees very charming of you, M. P0irot. I weel tell you--I adore the big dark red carnations --or the dark red roses." "Superb--yes, SUperb! You do not, then, like yellow fiowersyellow irises?" "Yellow flowers--no--they do not accord with my temperament." "How wise .... Tell me, Mademoiselle, did you ring up a friend tonight, since you arrived here?" "I? Ring up a friend? No, what a curious question!'' "Ah, but I, I am a very curious man." "I'm sure yoo are." She rolled her dark eyes at him. "A vairy dangerous man." "No, no, not dangerous; say, a man who may be useful--in danger! You understand?" Lola giggled. She showed white even teeth. "No, no," she laughed. "You are dangerous." Hercule Poirot sighed.






YELLOW IRIS 1 13




"I see that you do not understand. All this is very strange."

Tony came out of a fit of abstraction and said

suddenly: "Lola, what about a spot of swoop and dip? Come along." "I weel come--yes. Since M. Poirot ecs not brave enough I" Tony put an arm round her and remarked over his shoulder to Poirot as they glided off: "You can meditate on crime yet to come, old boy!" Poirot said: "It is profound what you say there. Yes, it is profound .... " He sat meditatively for a minute or two, then he raised a finger. Luigi came promptly, his wide Italian face wreathed in smiles. "Mon vieux," said Poirot. "I need some information." "Always at your service, Monsieur." "I desire to know how many of these people at this table here have used the telephone tonight?" "I can tell you, Monsieur. The young lady, the one in white, she telephoned at once when she got here. Then she went to leave her cloak and while she was doing that the other lady came out of the cloakroom and went into the telephone box." "So the Sefiora did telephone! Was that before



she came into the restaurant?"

"Yes, Monsieur." "Anyone else?" "No, Monsieur." "All this, Luigi, gives me furiously to think!" "Indeed, Monsieur." "Yes. I think, Luigi, that tonight of all nights, I






114 Agatha Christie




must have my wits about me! Something is going to happen, Luigi, and I am not at all sure what it is." "Anything I can do, Monsieur--" Poirot made a sign. Luigi.slipped discreetly away. Stephen Carter was returning to the table. "We are still deserted, Mr. Carter," said Poirot. "Oh--er--quite," said the other. "You know Mr. Barton Russell well?" "Yes, known him a good while." "His sister-in-law, little Miss Weatherby, is very charming." "Yes, pretty girl." "You know her well, too?"

"Quite."

"Oh, quite, quite," said Poirot. Carter stared at him. The music stopped and the others returned. Barton Russell said to a waiter: "Another bottle of champagne--quickly." Then he raised his glass. "See here, folks. I'm going to ask you to drink a toast. To tell you the truth, there's an idea back of this little party tonight. As you know, I'd ordered a table for six. There were only five of us. That gave us an empty place. Then, by a very strange coincidence, M. Hercule Poirot happened to pass by and I asked him to join ourarty. "You don't know yet what an apt coincidence that was. You see that empty seat tonight represents a lady--the lady in whose memory this party is being given. This party, ladies and gentlemen, is being held in memory of my dear wife--Iris--who died exactly four years ago on this very date!"






YELLOW IRIS 1 15





There was a startled movement round the table.

Barton Russell, his face quietly impassive, raised his glass. I'll ask you to drink to her memory. Iris!"




"Iris?" said Poirot sharply. He looked at the flowers. Barton Russell caught his glance and gently nodded his head.

There were little murmurs round the table.

"Iris--Iris " Everyone looked startled and uncomfortable. Barton Russell went on, speaking with his slow monotonous American intonation, each word coming out weightily. "It may seem odd to you all that I should celebrate the anniversary of a death in this way--by a supper party in a fashionable restaurant. But I have a reason--yes, I have a reason. For M. Poirot's benefit, I'll explain."

He turned his head towards Poirot. "Four years ago tonight, M. Poirot, there was a supper party held in New York. At it were my wife and

myself, Mr. Stephen Carter who was attached to

the Embassy in Washington, Mr. Anthony Chapell who had been a guest in our house for some weeks, and Sefiora Valdez who was at that time enchanting New York City with her dancing. Little Pauline here"--he patted her shoulder--"was only sixteen but she came to the supper party as a special treat. You remember, Pauline?" "I remember--yes." Her voice shook a little. "M. Poirot, on that night a tragedy happened. There was a roll of drums and the cabaret started. · The lights went down--all but a spotlight in the middle of the floor. When the lights went up






116 Agatha Christie




again, M. Poirot, my wife was seen to have fallen forward on the table. She was dead--stone dead. There was potassium cyanide found in the dregs of her wine-glass, and the remains of the packet was



discovered in her handbag."

"She had committed suicide?" said Poirot. "That was the accepted verdict .... It broke me up, M. Poirot. There was, perhaps, a possible reason for such an action--the police thought so. I accepted their decision." He pounded suddenly on the table. "But I was not satisfied .... No, for four years I've been thinking and broodingwand I'm not satisfied: I don't believe Iris killed herself. I believe,

M. Poirot, that she was murdered--by one of those people at the table." "Look here, sir--" Tony Chapell half sprung to his feet. "Be quiet, Tony," said Russell. "I haven't finished. One of them did it--I'm sure of that now. Someone who, under cover of the darkness, slipped the half emptied packet of cyanide into her handbag. I think I know which of them it was. I mean to know the truth--" Lola's voice rose sharply. "You are mad--crazeemwho would have harmed her? No, you are mad. Me, I will not stay--" She broke off. There was a roll of drums. Barton Russell said:

"The cabaret. Afterwards we will go on with

this. Stay where you are, all of you. I've got to go and speak to the dance band. Little arrangement I've made with them."






YELLOW IRIS 117






He got up and left the table.




"Extraordinary business," commented Carter. "Man's mad."




"He ees crazee, yes," said Lola.




The lights were lowered.




"For two pins I'd clear out," said Tony.




"No!" Pauline spoke sharply. Then she mur-mured, "Oh, dear--oh, dear--"




"What is it, Mademoiselle?" murmured Poirot. She answered almost in a whisper.

"It's horrible! It's just like it was that night--" "Sh! Sh!" said several people. Poirot lowered his voice.




"A little word in your ear." He whispered, then patted her shoulder. "All will be well," he assured her.




"My God, listen," cried Lola.




"What is it, Sefiora?"




"It's the same tune--the same song that they played that night in New York. Barton Russell




must have fixed it. I don't like this." "Courage--courage--" There was a fresh hush.




A girl walked out into the middle of the floor, a coal black girl with rolling eyeballs and white glistening teeth. She began to sing in a deep hoarse voice--a voice that was curiously moving.

I've forgotten you





I never think of you





The way you walked





The way you talked





The things you used to say





I've forgotten you






118






Agatha Christie






I never think of you





I couldn't say





For sure today

Whether your eyes were blue or gray





I've forgotten you





I never think of you.






I'm through





Thinking of you





I tell you I'm through





Thinking of you...





You... you.., you ....






The sobbing tune, the deep golden negro voice had a powerful effect. It hypnotized--cast a spell. Even the waiters felt it. The whole room stared at her, hypnotized by the thick cloying emotion she distilled.





A waiter passed softly round the table filling up glasses, murmuring "champagne" in an under-tone

but all attention was on the one glowing spot of light--the black woman whose ancestors came from Africa, singing in her deep voice:






i've forgotten you I never think of you Oh, what a lie




I shall think of you, think of you,




think of you






Till I die ....






The applause broke out frenziedly. The lights went up. Barton Russell came back and slipped into his seat.






YELLOW IRIS 1 19

"She's great, that girl--" cried Tony.




But his words were cut short by a low cry from Lola.




"Look--look .... "




And then they all saw. Pauline Weatherby




dropped forward onto the table.




Lola cried:




"She's dead--just like Iris--tike Iris in New York."




Poirot sprang from his seat, signing to the others to keep back. He bent over the huddled form, very gently lifted a limp hand and felt for a pulse.




His face was white and stern. The others watched him. They were paralyzed, held in a trance.

Slowly, Poirot nodded his head.




"Yes, she is dead--la pauvre petite. And I sit-ting by her! Ah! but this time the murderer shall' not escape."




Barton Russell, his face gray, muttered:




"Just like Iris .... She saw something--Pauline saw something that night--Only she wasn't sure --she told me she wasn't sure .... We must get the




police .... Oh, God, little Pauline."




Poirot said:




"Where is her glass?" He raised it to his nose. "Yes, I can smell the cyanide. A smell of bitter almonds . . . the same method, the same poi-son .... "




He picked up her handbag. "Let us look in her handbag." Barton Russell cried out: "You don't believe this is suicide, too? Not on your life."






120 Agatha Christie






"Wait," Poirot commanded. "No, there is nothing here. The lights went up, you see, too quickly, the murderer had not time. Therefore,




the poison is still on him."




"Or her," said Carter.




He was looking at Lola Valdez.




She spat out:




"What do you mean--what do you say? That I killed her--eet is not true--not true--why should I do such a thing!"




"You had rather a fancy for Barton Russell

yourself in New York. That's the gossip I heard.

Argentine beauties are notoriously jealous."




"That ees a pack of lies. And I do not come from the Argentine. I come from Peru. Ah--I spit upon you. I--" She relapsed into Spanish.




"I demand silence," cried Poirot. "It is for me to speak."




Barton Russell said heavily:




' 'Everyone must be searched."




Poirot said calmly,




"Non, non, it is not necessary."




"What d'you mean, not necessary?"




"I, Hercule Poirot, know. I see with the eyes of the mind. And I will speak! M. Carter, will you show us the packet in your breast pocket?"




"There's nothing in my pocket. What the



hell--" "Tony, my good friend, if you will be so oblig-ing.''





Carter cried out:





"Damn you--"




Tony flipped the packet neatly out before Carter could defend himself.






YELLOW IRIS 121






"There you are, M. Poirot, just as you said!" "It's a damned lie," cried Carter.




Poirot picked up the packet, read the label. "Cyanide of potassium. The case is complete." Barton Russell's voice came thickly.




"Carter! I always thought so. Iris was in love with you. She wanted to go away with you. You didn't want a scandal for the sake of your precious

career so you poisoned her. You'll hang for this,

you dirty dog."




"Silence!" Poirot's voice rang out, firm and authoritative. "This is not finished yet. I, Hercule Poirot, have something to say. My friend here, Tony Chapell, he says to me when I arrive, that I have come in search of crime. That, it is partly true. There was crime in my mind--but it was to prevent a crime that I came. And I have prevented it. The murderer, he planned wellmbut Hercule Poirot he was one move ahead. He had to think fast, and to whisper quickly in Mademoiselle's ear when the lights went down. She is very quick and clever, Mademoiselle Pauline, .she played her part well. Mademoiselle, will you be so kind as to show us that you are not dead after all?"




Pauline sat up. She gave an unsteady laugh. "Resurrection of Pauline," she said. "Pauline-- darling." "Tony!" "My sweet." "Angel."





Barton Russell gasped.

"I--I don't understand .... "




"I will help you to understand, Mr. Barton Russell. Your plan has miscarried."






122 Agatha Christie






"My plan?"




"Yes, your plan. Who was the only man who had an alibi during the darkness. The man who left the table--you, Mr. Barton Russell. But you returned to it under cover of the darkness, circling round it, with a champagne bottle, filling up glasses, putting cyanide in Pauline's glass and dropping the half empty packet in Carter's pocket as you bent over him to remove a glass. Oh, yes, it is easy to play the part of a waiter in darkness when the attention of everyone is elsewhere. That was the real reason for your party tonight. The safest place to commit a murder is in the middle of a crowd."




"What the--why the hell should I want to kill Pauline?"




"It might be, perhaps, a question of money. Your wife left you guardian to her sister. You mentioned that fact tonight. Pauline is twenty. At twenty-one or on her marriage you would have to render an account of your stewardship. I suggest that you could not do that. You have specu-lated with it. I do not know, Mr. Barton Russell, whether you killed your wife in the same way, or whether her suicide suggested the idea of this crime to you, but I do know that tonight you have been guilty of attempted murder. It rests with Miss Pauline whether you are prosecuted for that."




"No," said Pauline. "He can get out of my sight and out of this country: I don't want a scandal."




"You had better go quickly, Mr. Barton Russell, and I advise you to be careful in future."




Barton Russell got up, his face working. YELLOW IRIS 123






"To hell with you, you interfering little Belgian jackanapes."




He strode out angrily.




Pauline sighed.




"M. Poirot, you've been wonderful .... " "You, Mademoiselle, you have been the mar-velous one. To pour away the champagne, to act the dead body so prettily."




"Ugh," she shivered, "you give me the creeps." He said gently:




"It was you who telephoned me, was it not?" "Yes." "Why?"

"I don't know. I was worried and--frightened without knowing quite why I was frightened Bar-ton told me he was having this party to com-memorate Iris' death. I realized he had some scheme on--but he wouldn't tell me what it was. He looked so--so queer and so excited that I felt something terrible might happen--only of course I never dreamed that he meant to--to get rid of me."




"And so, Mademoiselle?"




"I'd heard people talking about you. I thought if I could only get you here perhaps it would stop anything happening. I thought that being foreigner--if I rang up and pretended to be in danger and--and made it sound mysterious--"




"You thought the melodrama, it would attract me? That is what puzzled me. The message itself --definitely it was what you call 'bogus'--it did not ring true. But the fear in the voice--that was. real. Then I came--and you denied very cate-gorically having sent me a message." 124



Agatha Christie






"I had to. Besides, I didn't want you to know it was me."




"Ah, but I was fairly sure of that! Not at first. But I soon realized that the only two people Who could know about the yellow irises on the table




were you or Mr. Barton Russell."




Pauline nodded.




"I heard him ordering them to be put on the table," she explained. "That, and his ordering a table for six when I knew only five were coming, made me suspectw''




She stopped, biting her lip.




"What did you suspect, Mademoiselle?"




She said slowly: "I was afraid--of something haPpening-..to Mr. Carter."




Stephen Carter cleared his throat. Unhurrielly




but quite decisively he rose from the table.




"Er--h'm--I have to--er--thank you, IMr'




Poirot. I owe you a great deal. You'll excuse




I'm sure, if I leave you. Tonight's happenings




have beenwrather upsetting."




Looking after his retreating figure, Pauline Said




violently:




"I hate him. I've always thought it was because of him that Iris killed herself. Or perhaps




--Barton killed her. Oh, it's all so hateful ,,

Poirot said gently:

"Forget, Mademoiselle.. · forget Let the




past go

Think only of the present "




Pauline murmured, "Yes--you're right ',




Poirot turned to Lola Valdez.




"Sefiora, as the evening advances I become more brave. If you would dance with me

"Oh, yes, indeed. You are--you are ze cat's




YELLOq




whilers, M. Poirot. I ioseest on dancing witla yo ,, ,,' ora." ¥ou are too kind, Sei left. They leant towar6s




)ny and Pauline were




eac,!ther across the table'




: , barling Pauline." .,c a nasty spiteful spit " )h, Tony, I've been s.v Can you ever forgiW




r little cat to you all d rile'?,, · ,, . : j)e

again. Let's dance."




&ngel! Thssuru,:no at each other and




· they danced off, smi




nuntaing softly:





T .........Love for making here s nothing lli(.o yOU .miser. a.b?Love for making There's notlfing tike




you blue




Depressed




Possessed




Sentimental




Temperamen. tal . Love




ho re r;i tt hy ':ug ok ft




Love for driving




There's nothing like




you crazy Love for making




There's nothing like you mad





Abusive





Allusive




Suicidal Homicidal owe There's nothing like Love ....




There's nothing like






Miss Marple




Tells a Story






I don't think I've ever told you, rny dears--you, Raymond, and you, Joan, about rather curious little business that happened some years ago now. I don't want to seem vain in any Way-of course I know that in comparison with yoa young people. I'm not clever at all--Raymond w rites those very



modern books all about rather un. pleasant young

men and women--and Joan paint those very remarkable pictures of square peOPle with curious bulges on themmvery clever of yoh, my dear, but as Raymond always says (only qhite kindly, because he is the kindest of nephews) I am hopelessly Victorian. I admire Mr. Alma-Tdema and Mr. Frederic Leighton and I suppose to you they seem hopelessly vieux jeu. Now let me ee, what was I saying? Oh, yes--that I didn't Want to appear vain--but I couldn't help being just a teeny weeny




129






130 Agatha Christie






bit pleased with myself, because, just by applying a little common sense, I believe I really did solve a problem that had baffled cleverer heads than mine. Though really I should have thought the whole thing was obvious from the beginning ....




Well, I'll tell you my little story, and if you

think I'm inclined to be conceited about it, you

must remember that I did at least help a fellow creature who was in very grave distress.




The first I knew of this business was one eve-ning about nine o'clock when Gwen--(you member Gwen? My little maid with red hair) well --Gwen came in and told me that Mr. Petherick and a gentleman had called to see me. Gwen had showed them into the drawing-room--quite rightly. I was sitting in the dining-room because in early spring I think it is so wasteful to have two fires going.




I directed Gwen to bring in the cherry brandy and some glasses and I hurried into the drawing-room. I don't know whether you remember Mr. Petherick? He died two years ago, but he had been a friend of mine for many years as well as attend-ing to all my legal business. A very shrewd man and a really clever solicitor. His son does my busi-ness for me now--a very nice lad and very up to date--but somehow I don't feel quite the confi-dence I had in Mr. Petherick.





I explained to Mr. Petherick about the fires and

he said at once that he and his friend would come into the dining-room--and then he introduced his friend--a Mr. Rhodes. He was a youngish man--not much over forty-and I saw at once that there was something very wrong. His manner was most peculiar. One might have called it rude if one






MISS MAPLE TELLS A STORY 13 l




hadn't realized thai the poor fellow was suffering from strain. When we were sttled in the dining-room and Gwen had brought the cherry brandy, Mr. Pethe-rick explained the reson for his visit. "Miss Marple," Be said, "you must forgive an old friend for takin a liberty. What I have come here for is a consultation." I couldn't understand at all what he meant, and he went on: "In a case of illess one likes two points of view--that of the specialist and that of the family physician. It is the fashion to regard the former as of more value, but I am not sure that I agree. The

specialist has experience only in his own subject--the

family doctor has, perhaps, less knowledge--but a wider experience." I knew just what he meant, because a young niece of mine not ing before had hurried her child off to a very ell-known specialist in skin diseases without consulting her own doctor whom she considered an old dodderer, and the specialist had ordered some vegY expensive treatment, and later they found that all the child was suffering from was rather an un0sual form of measles. I just mention this--though I have a horror of digressing--to show that I appreciated Mr. Petherick's point--bui I still hadn't any idea of what he was driving at. "If Mr. Rhodes is ill--" I said, and stopped--because the poor ma gave the most dreadful laugh. He said: "I expect t( die of a broken neck in a few months' time." And then it all came out. There had been a case






132 Agatha Christie

of murder lately in Barnchester--a town about twenty miles away. I'm afraid I hadn't paid much attention to it at the time, because we had been having a lot of excitement in the village about our district nurse, and outside occurrences like an earthquake in India and a murder in Barnchester, although of course far more important really--had given way to our own little local excitements. I'm afraid villages are like that. Still, I did remember having read about a woman having been stabbed in a hotel, though I hadn't remem-bered her name. But now it seemed that this woman had been Mr. Rhodes' wife--and as if that wasn't bad enough--he was actually under suspi-cion of having murdered her himself.




All this Mr. Petherick explained to me very clearly, saying that, although the Coroner's jury had brought in a verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown, Mr. Rhodes had reason to be-lieve that he would probably be arrested within a day or two, and that he had come to Mr. Petherick and placed himself in his hands. Mr. Petherick went on to say that they had that afternoon con-suited Sir Malcolm Olde, K.C., and that in the

event of the case coming to trial Sir Malcolm had

been briefed to defend Mr. Rhodes.




Sir Malcolm was a young man, Mr. Petherick said, very up to date in his methods, and he had indicated a certain line of defense. But with that line of defense Mr. Petherick was not entirely satisfied.




"You see, my dear lady," he said, "it is tainted with what I call the specialist's point of view. Give Sir Malcolm a case and he sees only one point-






MISS MARPLE LLS A STORY 133




the most likely line of defense. But even the best line of defense may ignore completely what is, to my mind, the vital point. It takes no account of what actually happened." Then he went on to say some very kind and flattering things about my acumen and judgment and my knowledge of human nature, and asked permission to tell me the story of the case in the hopes



that I might be able to suggest some explanation.

I could see that Mr. Rhodes was highly skeptical of my being of any use anl that he was annoyed at being brought here. But Mr. Petherick took no notice and proceeded to give me the fasts of what occurred on the night of March 8th. Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes had been staying at the Crown Hotel in Barncheater. Mrs. Rhodes who (so I gathered from Mr. Petherick's careful language) was perhaps just a shade of a hypochondriac, had retired to bed in, mediately after dinner. She and her husband occupied adjoining rooms with a connecting door. Mr. Rhodes, who is writing a book on prehistoric flints, settled down to work in the adjoining from. At eleven o'clock he tidied up his papers and prepared to go to bed. Before doing so, he just glanced into his wife's room to make sure that there was nothing she wanted. He discovered the electric light on and his wife lying in bed stabbed through the heart. She had been dead at least an hour--probably longer. The following were the POints made. There was another door in Mrs. Rholes' room leading into the corridor. This door was locked and bolted on the inside. The only wirdow in the room was closed and latched. According to Mr. Rhodes no 134 Agatha Christie




body had passed through the room in which he was sitting except a chambermaid bringing hot water bottles. The weapon found in the wound was a stiletto dagger which had been lying on Mrs. Rhodes' dressing-table. She was in the habit of using it as a paper knife. There were no fingerprints on it. The situation boiled down to this--no one but Mr. Rhodes and the chambermaid had entered the victim's room. I inquired about the chambermaid. "That was our first line of inquiry," said Mr. Petherick. "Mary Hill is a local woman. She has been chambermaid at the Crown for ten years; There seems absolutely no reason why she should commit a sudden assault on a guest. She is, in any case, extraordinarily stupid, almost half-witted. Her story has never varied. She brought Mrs. Rhodes her hot water bottle and says the lady was drowsy--just dropping off to sleep. Frankly, I cannot believe, and I am sure no jury would believe, that she committed the crime."



Mr. Petherick went on to mention a few additional

details. At the head of the staircase in the Crown Hotel is a kind of miniature lounge where people sometimes sit and have coffee. A passage goes off to the right and the last door in it is the door into the room occupied by Mr. Rhodes. The passage then turns sharply to the right again and the first door round the corner is the door into Mrs. Rhodes' room. As it happened, both these doors could be seen by witnesses. The first door--that into Mr. Rhodes' room, which I will call A, could be seen by four people, two commercial






MISS MARPLE TELLS A STORY 135






travelers and an elderly married couple who were having coffee. According to them nobody went in or out of door A except Mr. Rhodes and the chambermaid. As to the other door in passage B, there was an electrician at work there and he also swears that nobody entered or left door B except the chambermaid.

It was certainly a very curious and interesting

case. On the face of it, it looked as though Mr. Rhodes must have murdered his wife. But I could see that Mr. Petherick was quite convinced of his client's innocence and Mr. Petherick was a very shrewd man.




At the inquest Mr. Rhodes had told a hesitating and rambling story about some woman who had written threatening letters to his wife. His story, I gathered, had been unconvincing in the extreme. Appealed to by Mr. Petherick, he explained him-self.




"Frankly," he said, "I never believed it. I thought Amy had made most of it up."




Mrs. Rhodes, I gathered, was one of those ro-mantic liars who go through life embroidering everything that happens to them. The amount of adventures that, according to her own account, happened to her in a year was simply incredible. If she slipped on a bit of banana peel it was a case of near escape from death. If a lamp-shade caught fire, she was rescued from a burning building at the hazard of her life. Her husband got into the



habit of discounting her statements. Her tale as to

some woman whose child she had injured .in a motor accident and who had vowed vengeance on her--wellmMr. Rhodes had simply not taken any






136 Agatha Christie






notice of it. The incident had happened before he married his wife and although she had read him letters couched in crazy language, he had suso pected her of composing them herself. She had ac-tually done such a thing once or twice before. She was a woman of hysterical tendencies who craved ceaselessly for excitement.




Now, all that seemed to me very natural--indeed, we have a young woman in the village who does much the same thing. The danger with such people is that when anything at all extraordinary really does happen to them, nobody believes they are speaking the truth. It seemed to me that that was what had happened in this case. The police, I gathered, merely believed that Mr. Rhodes was

making up this unconvincing tale in order to avert

suspicion from himself.




I asked if there had been any women staying by themselves in the Hotel. It seems there were two --a Mrs. Granby, an Anglo-Indian widow, and a Miss Carruthers, rather a horsey spinster who dropped her g's. Mr. Petherick added that the most minute inquiries had failed to elicit anyone who had seen either of them near the scene of the crime and there was nothing to connect either of them with it in any way. I asked him to describe their personal appearance. He said that Mrs. Granby had reddish hair rather untidily done, was sallow-faced and about fifty years of age. Her clothes were rather picturesque, being made mostly of native silks, etc. Miss Carruthers was about forty, wore pince-nez, had close-cropped hair like a man and wore mannish coats and skirts.




"Dear me," I said, "that makes it very dif-ficult.''






MISS MARPLE TELLS A STORY 137

Mr. Petherick looked inquiringly at me, but I didn't want to say any more just then, so I asked what Sir Malcolm Olde had said.




Sir Malcolm Olde, it seemed, was going all out for suicide. Mr. Petherick said the medical evi-dence was dead against this, and there was the ab-sence of fingerprints, but Sir Malcolm was confi-dent of being able to call conflicting medical testi-mony and to suggest some way of getting over the fingerprint difficulty. I asked Mr. Rhodes what he thought and he said all doctors were fools but he himself couldn't really believe his wife had killed herself. "She wasn't that kind of woman," he said simply--and I believed him. Hysterical people don't usually commit suicide.




I thought a minute and then I asked if the door from Mrs. Rhodes' room led straight into the cor-ridor. Mr. Rhodes said no--there was a little hall-way with bathroom and lavatory. It was the door from the bedroom to the hallway that was locked and bolted on the inside.

"In that case," I said, "the whole thing seems

to me remarkably simple."




And really, you know, it did .... The simplest thing in the world. And yet no one seemed to have seen it that way.




Both Mr. Petherick and Mr. Rhodes were star-ing at me so that I felt quite embarrassed.




"Perhaps," said Mr. Rhodes, "Miss Marple hasn't quite appreciated the difficulties."




"Yes," I said, "I think I have. There are four possibilities. Either Mrs. Rhodes was killed by her husband, or by the chambermaid, or she com-mitted suicide, or she was killed by an outsider whom nobody saw enter or leave."






138 Agatha Christie






"And that's impossible," Mr. Rhodes broke in.



"Nobody could come in or go out through my

room without my seeing them, and even if anyone did manage to come in through my wife's room without the electrician seeing them, how the devil could they get out again leaving the door locked and bolted on the inside?"




Mr. Petherick looked at me and said: "Well, Miss Marple?" in an encouraging manner.




"I should like," I said, "to ask a question. Mr. Rhodes, what did the chambermaid look like?"




He said he wasn't sure--she was tallish, he thought--he didn't remember if she was fair or dark. I turned to Mr. Petherick and asked him the same question.




He said she was of medium height, had fairish hair and blue eyes and rather a high color.




Mr. Rhodes said: "You are a better observer than I am, Petherick."




I ventured to disagree. I then asked Mr. Rhodes if he could describe the maid in my house. Neither

he nor Mr. Petherick could do so.




"Don't you see what that means?" I said. "You both came here full of your own affairs and the person who let you in was only a parlorrnaid. The same applies to Mr. Rhodes at the Hotel. He saw only a chambermaid. He saw her uniform and her apron. He was engrossed by his work. But Mr. Petherick has interviewed the same woman in a different capacity. He has looked at her as a person.




"That's what the woman who did the murder counted upon."




As they still didn't see, I had to explain.






MISS MARPLE TELLS A STORY 139






"I think," I said, "that this is how it went. The chambermaid came in by door A, passed through Mr. Rhodes' room into Mrs. Rhodes' room with



the hot water bottle and went out through the hall-way

into passage B. X--as I will call our murder-ess--came in by door B into the little hallway, concealed herself in--well, in a certain apartment, ahem--and waited until the chambermaid had passed out. Then she entered Mrs. Rhodes' room, took the stiletto from the dressing-table--(she had doubtless explored the room earlier in the day) went up to the bed, stabbed the dozing woman, wiped the handle of the stiletto, locked and bolted the door by which she had entered, and then passed out through the room where Mr. Rhodes was working."




Mr. Rhodes cried out: "But I should have seen her. The electrician would have seen her go in."




"No," I said. "That's where you're wrong. You wouldn't see her--not if she were dressed as a chambermaid." I let it sink in, then I went on, "You were engrossed in your work--out of the tail of your eye you saw a chambermaid come in, go into your wife's room, come back and go out. It was the same dress--but not the same woman. That's what the people having coffee saw--a chambermaid go in and a chambermaid come

out. The electrician did the same. I daresay if a

chambermaid were very pretty a gentleman might notice her face--human nature being what it is --but if she were just an ordinary middle-aged woman--well--it would be the chambermaid's dressyou would see--not the woman herself."




Mr. Rhodes cried: "Who was she?"






140 Agatha Christie






"Well," I said, "that is going to be a little dif-ficult. It must be either Mrs. Granby or Miss Car-ruthers. Mrs. Granby sounds as though she might wear a wig normally--so she could wear her own hair as a chambermaid. On the other hand, Miss Carruthers with her close-cropped mannish head might easily put on a wig to play her part: I daresay you will find out easily enough which of them it is. Personally, I incline myself to think it will be Miss Carruthers."





And really, my dears, that is the end of the

story. Carruthers was a false name, but she was the woman all right. There was insanity in her family. Mrs. Rhodes, who was a most reckless and dangerous driver, had run over her little girl, and it had driven the poor woman off her head. She concealed her madness very cunningly except for writing distinctly insane letters to her intended vic-tim. She had been following her about for some time, and she laid her plans very cleverly. The false hair and maid's dress she posted in a parcel first thing the next morning. When taxed with the truth she broke down and confessed at once. The poor thing is in Broadmoor now. Completely un-balanced, of course, but a very cleverly planned crime.




Mr. Petherick came to me afterwards and brought me a very nice letter from Mr. Rhodes--really, it made me blush. Then my old friend said to me: "Just one thing--why did you think it was more likely to be Carruthers than Granby? You'd never seen either of them."




"Well," I said. "It was the g's. You said she dropped her g's. Now, that's done a lot by hunting MISS MARPLE TELLS A STORY



141






people in books, but I don't know many people who do it in reality--and certainly no one under sixty. You said this woman was forty. Those dropped g's sounded to me like a woman who was playing a part and overdoing it."




I shan't tell you what Mr. Petherick said to that --but he was very complimentary--and I really couldn't help feeling just a teeny weeny bit pleased with myself.




And it's extraordinary how things turn out for the best in this world. Mr. Rhodes has married again--such a nice, sensible girl--and they've got a dear little baby andmwhat do you think?tthey asked me to be godmother. Wasn't it nice of them?




Now I do hope you don't think I've been run-ning



on too long ....

Hercule Poirot gave the house a steady appraising glance. His eyes wandered a moment to its sur-roundings, the shops, the big factory building on the right, the blocks of cheap mansion flats op-posite.




Then once more his eyes returned to Northway House, relic of an earlier age--an age of space and leisure, when green fields had surrounded its well-bred arrogance. Now it was an anachronism, sub-merged and forgotten in the hectic sea of modern London, and not one man in fifty could have told you where it stood.




Furthermore, very few people could have told you to whom it belonged, though its owner's name would have been recognized as one of the world's richest men. But money can quench publicity as well as flaunt it. Benedict Farley, that eccentric






145 146 Agatha Christie






millionaire, chose not to advertise his choice of residence. He himself was rarely seen, seldom making a public appearance. From time to time he appeared at board meetings, his lean figure, beaked nose, and rasping voice easily dominating the assembled directors. Apart from that, he was just a well-known figure of legend. There were his strange meannesses, his incredible generosities, as well as more personal detailsmhis famous patch-work dressing-gown, now reputed to be twenty-eight years old, his invariable diet of cabbage soup and aviare, his hatred of cats. All these things the public knew.




Hercule Poirot knew them also. t was all he did know of the man he was about to visit. The letter which was in his coat pocket told him little more.




After surveying this melancholy landmark of a past age for a minute or two in silence, he walked up the steps to the front door and pressed the bell,

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