"The house faces west," she reflected. "It was afternoon when I went to sleep. Therefore it must be tomorrow morning
now. Therefore that soup was drugged. Therfore--oh,
I don't know. It all seems mad."
She got up and went to the door. It was unlocked. She explored the house. It was silent and empty.
Jane put her hand to her aching head and tried to think. And then she caught sight of a torn newspaper lying by
the front door. It had glaring headlines which caught her
eye.
70 Agatha Christie
"American Girl Bandit in England," she read. "The Girl
in the Red Dress. Sensational Holdup at Orion House Ba- zapf."
Jane staggered out into the sunlight. Sitting on the steps,
she read, her cycs growing bigger and bigger. The facts
were short and succinct.
Just after the departure of the Grand Duchess Pauline,
three men and a girl in a red dress had produced revolvers
and successfully held up the crowd. They had annexed the
hundred pearls and made a getaway in a fast racing car. Up
to now, they had not been traced.
In the sop press (it was a late evening paper) were a
few words to the effect that the "girl bandit in the red dress"
had been staying at the Blitz as a Miss Montresor of New
York.
"I'm dished," said Jane. "Absolutely dished. I always
knew there was a catch in it."
And then she started. A strange sound had smote the air.
The voice of a man, uttering one word at frequent intervals.
"Damn," it said. "Damn." And yet again, "Damn!"
Jane thrilled to the sound. It expressed so exactly her
own feelings. She ran down the steps. By the corner of
them lay a young man. He was endeavouring to raise his
head from the ground. His face struck Jane as one of the
nicest faces she had ever seen. It was freckled and slightly
quizzical in expression.
"Damn my head," said the young man. "Damn it. I---"
He broke off and stared at Jane.
"I must be dreaming," he said faintly.
"That's what I said," said Jane. "But we're not. What's
the matter with your head?"
"Somebody hit me on it. Fortunately it's a thick one."
He pulled himself into a sitting position, and made a wry
face.
"My brain will begin to function shortly, I expect. I'm
still in the same old spot, I see."
"How did you get here?" asked Jane curiously.
"That's a long story. By the way, you're not the Grand
Duchess WhaVs-her-name, arc you?"
"I'm not. I'm plain .ane Cleveland."
JANE IN SEARCH OF A JOB
71
"You're not plain, anyway," said the young man, looking
at her with frank admiration.
Jane blushed.
"I ought to get you some water or something, oughtn't I?" she asked uncertainly.
"I'believe it is customary," agreed the young man. "All the same, I'd rather have whisky if you can find it."
Jane was unable to find any whisky. The young man took a deep draught of water, and announced himself better.
"Shall I relate my adventures, or will you relate yours?" he asked.
"You first."
"There's nothing much to mine. I happened to notice that the Grand Duchess went into that room with low-heeled
shoes on and came out with high-heeled ones. It struck me
as rather odd. I don't like things to be odd.
"I followed the car on my motor bicycle. I saw you taken into the house. About ten minutes later a big racing ca
came tearing up. A girl in red got out and three men. She
had low-heeled shoes on, all right. They went into the house.
Presently low heels came out dressed in black and white,
and went off in the first car, with an old pussy and a tall
man with a fair beard. The others went off in the racing
car. I thought they'd all gone, and was just trying to get in
at that window and rescue you when someone hit me on
the head from behind. That's all. Now for your turn." Jane related her adventures.
"And it's awfully lucky for me that you did follow," she ended. "Do you see what an awful hole I should have been
in otherwise? The Grand Duchess would have had a perfect
alibi. She left the bazaar before the holdup began, and
arrived in London in her car. Would anybody ever have
believed my fantastic, improbable story?"
"Not on your life," said the young man with conviction. They had been so absorbed in their respective narratives,
that they had been quite oblivious of their surroundings.
They looked up now with a slight start to see a tall sad.
faced man leaning against the house. He nodded at them. "Very interesting," he commented.
"Who are you?" demanded Jane.
72 Agatha Christie
The sad-faced man's eyes twinkled a little. "Detective-Inspector Farrell," he said gently. "I've been
very interested in hearing your story and this young lady's.
We might have found a little difficulty in believing hers,
but for one or two things."
"For instance?"
"Well, you see, we heard this morning that the real Grand
Duchess had eloped with a chauffeur in Paris."
Jane gasped.
"And then we knew that this American 'girl bandit' had come to this country, and we expected a coup of some kind.
We'll have laid hands on them very soon, I can promise
you that. Excuse me a minute, will you?"
He ran up the steps into the house.
"Well!" said Jane. She put a lot of force into the expression.
"I think it was awfully clever of you to notice those shoes," she said suddenly.
"Not at all," said the young man. "I was brought up in the boot trade. My father's a sort of boot king. He wanted
me to go into the trade--marry and settle down. All that
sort of thing. Nobody in particular--just the principle of
the thing. But I wanted to be an artist." He sighed.
"I'm so sorry," said Jane kindly.
"I've been trying for six years. There's no blinking it. I'm a rotten painter. I've a good mind to chuck it and go
home like the prodigal son. There's a good billet waiting
for me."
"A job is the great thing," agreed Jane wistfully. "Do you think you could get me one trying on boots somewhere?"
"I could give you a better one than that--if you'd take it."
"Oh, what?"
"Never mind now. I'll tell you later. You know, until
yesterday I never saw a girl I felt I could marry." "Yesterday?"
"At the bazaar. And then I saw her--the one and only Her!"
He looked very hard at Jane.
J^E sac oF ^ JoB 7
"How beautiful the delphiniums are," said Jane hurriedly, with very pink cheeks.
"They're lupins," said the young man.
"It doesn't matter," said Jane.
"Not a bit," he agreed. And he drew a little nearer.
A Frui l Sunday
"Well, really, I call this too delightful," said .Mis D. orothy Pratt for the fourth time. "How I wish the old qgWe. Id see
me hOWe. She and her Janes! .... r'
The "old cat" thus scathingly alluded to was Miss:Pratt's highly estimable employer, Mrs. Mackenzie Jones, who had
strong views upon the Christian names suitable for par-lourmaids
and had repudiated Dorothy in favour of Miss
Pratt's despised second name of Jane.<
br />
Miss Pratt's companion did not reply at once--for the best of reasons. When you have just purchased a Baby
Austin, fourth hand, for the sum of twenty pounds, and are
taking it out for the second time only, your whole attention
is necessarily focused on the difficult task of using both
hands and feet as the emergencies of the moment dictate.
"Er--ah!" said Mr. Edward Palgrove, and negotiated a crisis with a horrible grinding sound that would have set
a true motorist's teeth on edge.
"Well, you don't talk to a girl much," complained Dorothy.
Mr. Palgrove was saved from having to respond as at that moment he was roundly and soundly cursed by the
driver of a motor omnibus.
"Well, of all the impudence," said Miss Pratt, tossing her head.
"I only wish he had this foot brake," said her swain bitterly.
"Is there anything wrong with it?"
"You can put your foot on it till kingdom comes," said Mr. Palgrove. "But nothing happens."
"Oh, well, Ted, you can't expect everything for twenty
74
A FRUITFUL SUNDAY 75
pounds. After all, here we are, in a real car, on Sunday afternoon going out of town the same as everybody else."
More grinding and crashing sounds.
"Ah," said Ted, flushed with triumph. "That was a better change."
"You do drive something beautiful," said Dorothy admiringly.
Emboldened by feminine appreciation, Mr. Palgrove attempted a dash across Hammersmith Broadway, and was
severely spoken to by a policeman.
"Well, I ever," said Dorothy as they proceeded towards Hamm¢r/th Bridge in a chastened fashion. "I don't know what the police are coming to. You'd think they'd be a bit
more '6ivil-spoken, seeing the way they've been shown up
lately."
"Anyway, I didn't want to go along this road," said Edward sadly. "I wanted to go down the Great West Road
and do a bust."
"And be caught in a trap as likels not," said Dorothy. "That's what happened to the master the other day. Five
pounds and costs."
"The police aren't so dusty after all," said Edward generously. "They pitch into the rich, all right. No favour. It
makes me mad to think of these swells who can walk into
a place and buy a couple of Rolls-Royces without turning
a hair. There's no sense in it. I'm as good as they are."
"And the jewellery," said Dorothy, sighing. "Those shops in Bond Street. Diamonds and pearls and I don't know what!
And me with a string of Woolworth pearls."
She brooded sadly upon the subject. Edward was able once more to give full attention to his driving. They managed
to get through Richmond without mishap. The altercation
with the policeman had shaken Edward's nerve. He-now
took the line of least resistance, following blindly behind
any car in front whenever a choice of thoroughfares presented
itself.
In this way he presently found himself following a shady country lane which many an experienced motorist would
have given his soul to find.
"Rather clever turning off the way I did," said Edward, taking all the credit to himself.
76 Agatha Christie
"Sweetly pretty, I call it," said Miss Pratt. "And I do
declare, there's a man with fruit to sell."
sure enough, at a convenient corner was a small wicker
table with baskets of fruit on it, and the legend .^T MORU
mtjrr displayed on a banner.
"How much?" said Edward apprehensively, when frenzied
pulling of the hand brake had produced the desired
result.
"Lovely strawberries," said the man in charge.
Fie was an unprepossessing-looking individual with a
leer,
"Just the thing for the lady. Ripe fruit, fresh-picked.
Cherries, too. Genuine English. Have a basket of cheeries,
lady?"
"They do look nice ones," said Dorothy.
"Lovely, that's what they are," said the man hoarsely.
"Bring you luck, lady, that basket will." He at last condescended
to reply to Edward. "Two shillings, sir, and dirt-
cheP. You'd say so if you knew what was inside the basket."
"They look awfully nice," said Dorothy.
FAlward sighed and paid over two shillings. His mind
was obsessed by calculation. Tea later, petrol--this Sunday
motoring business wasn't what you'd call cheap. That was
the vorst of taking girls out! They always wanted everything
they saw.
°Thank you, sir," said the unprepossessing-looking one.
"you've got more than your money's worth in that basket
of cherries."
ldward shoved his foot savagely down and the Baby
Austin leaped at the cherry vendor after the manner of an
infuriated Alsatian.
"Sorry," said Edward. "I forgot she was in gear."
"You ought to be careful, dear," said Dorothy. "You
might have hurt him."
tktward did not reply. Another half-mile brought them
to an ideal spot by the banks of a stream. The Austin was
left by the side of the road and Edward and Dorothy sat
affectionately upon the river bank and munched cherries.
A Sunday paper lay unheeded at their feet.
"What's the news?" said Edward at last, stretching himself
flat on his back and tilting his hat to shade his eyes.
A FRUITFUL SUNDAY
77
Dorothy glanced over the headlines.
"The Woeful Wife. Extraordinary Story. Twenty-eight People Drowned Last Week. Reported Death of Airman.
Startling Jewel Robbery. Ruby Necklace Worth Fifty Thousand
Pounds Missing. Oh, Ted! Fifty thousand pounds. Just
fancy!" She went on reading. "The necklace is composed
of twenty-one stones set in platinum and was sent by registered
post from Paris. On arrival, the packet was found
to contain a few pebbles and the jewels were missing."
"Pinched in the post," said Edward. "The posts in France are awful, I believe."
"I'd like to see a necklace like that," said Dorothy. "All glowing like blood--pigeon's blood, that's what they call
the colour. I wonder what it would feel like to have a thing
like that hanging round your neck."
"Well, you're never likely to know, my gift," said Edward facetiously.
Dorothy tossed her head.
"Why not, I should like to know. It's amazing the way gifts can get on in the world. I might go on the stage."
"Girls that behave themselves don't get anywhere," said Edward discouragingly.
Dorothy opened her mouth to reply, checked herself, and murmured, "Pass me the cherries."
"I've been eating more than you have," she remarked. "I'll divide up what's left and--why, whatever's this at the
bottom of the basket?"
She drew it out as she spoke--a long glittering chain of blood-red stones.
They both stared at it in amazement.
"In the basket, did you say?" said Edward at last. Dorothy nodded.
"Right at the bottom--under the fruit." Again they stared at each other.
"How did it get there, do you think?"
"I can't imagine. It's odd, Ted, just after reading that
bit in the paper--about the rubies."
Edward laughed.
"You don't imagine you're holding fifty thousand pounds in your hand, do you?"
"I just said it was odd. Rubies set in platinum. Platinum
78 Agatha Christie
&n
bsp; is that sort of dull silvery stuff--like this. Don't they sparkle and aren't they a lovely colour? I wonder how many of
them there are?" She counted. "I say, Ted, there are twenty-
one exactly."
"No!"
"Yes. The same number as the paper said. Oh, Ted, you don't think---"
"It couldn't be." But he spoke irresolutely. "There's some sort of way you can tell--scratching them on glass."
"That's diamonds. But you kno,,v, Ted, that was a very odd-looking man--the man with the fruit--a nasty-looking
man. And he was funny about it--said we'd got more than
our money's worth in the basket."
"Yes, but look here, Dorothy. What would he want to hand us over fifty thousand pounds for?"
Miss Pratt shook her head, discouraged.
"It doesn't seem to make sense," she admitted. "Unless the police were after him."
"The police?" Edward paled slightly.
"Yes. It goes on to say in the paper--'the police have a clue.'"
Cold shivers ran down Edward's spine.
"I don't like this, Dorothy. Supposing the police get after
US."
Dorothy stared at him with her mouth open.
"But we haven't done anything, Ted. We found it in the basket."
"And that'll sound a silly sort of story to tell! It isn't likely."
"It isn't very," admitted Dorothy. "Oh, Ted, do you really think it is IT? It's like a fairy story!"
"I don't think it sounds like a fairy story," said Edward. "It sounds to me more like the kind of story where the hero
goes to Dartmoor unjustly accused for fourteen years."
But Dorothy was not listening. She had clasped the necklace round her neck and was judging the effect in a small
mirror taken from her handbag.
"The same as a duchess might wear," she murmured ecstatically.
"I won't believe it," said Edward violently. "They're
A FRUITFUL SUNDAY 79
imitation. They must be imitation."
"Yes, dear," said Dorothy, still intent on her reflection in the mirror. "Very likely."
"Anything else would be too much of a--a coincidence." "Pigeon's blood," murmured Dorothy.
"It's absurd. That's what I say. Absurd. Look here, Dorothy, are you listening to what I say, or are you not?"
The Golden Ball and Other Stories Page 10