Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  The young man nodded his agreement.

  "You're by way of being rather a big bug socially, aren't you?" he asked with a diffident candour that made it impossible to take offence. "I mean, you know all the Duchesses and Earls and Countesses and things."

  "A good many of them," said Mr Satterthwaite. "And also the Jews and the Portuguese and the Greeks and the Argentines."

  "Eh?" said Mr Rudge.

  "I was just explaining," said Mr Satterthwaite, "that I move in English society."

  Franklin Rudge meditated for a moment or two.

  "You know the Countess Czarnova, don't you?" he said at length.

  "Slightly," said Mr Satterthwaite, making the same answer he had made to Elizabeth.

  "Now there's a woman whom it's been very interesting to meet.

  One's inclined to think that the aristocracy of Europe is played out and effkte. That may be true of the men, but the women are different.

  Isn't it a pleasure to meet an exquisite creature like the Countess?

  Witty, charming, intelligent, generations of civilisation behind her, an aristocrat to her finger-tips!"

  "Is she?" asked Mr Satterthwaite.

  "Well, isn't she? You know what her family are?"

  "No," said Mr Satterthwaite. "I'm afraid I know very little about her."

  "She was a Radzynski," he explained Franklin Rudge. "One of the oldest families in Hungary. She's had the most extraordinary life. You know that great rope of pearls she wears?"

  Mr Satterthwaite nodded.

  "That was given her by the King of Bosnia. She smuggled some secret papers out of the kingdom for him."

  "I heard," said Mr Satterthwaite, "that the pearls had been given her by the King of Bosnia."

  The fact was indeed a matter of common gossip, it being reported that the lady had been a cher amie of His Majesty's in days gone by.

  "Now I'll tell you something more."

  Mr Satterthwaite listened, and the more he listened the more he admired the fertile imagination of the Countess Czarnova. No vulgar "siren stuff" (as Elizabeth Martin had put it) for her. The young man was shrewd enough in that way, clean living and idealistic. No, the Countess moved austerely through a labyrinth of diplomatic intrigues. She had enemies, detractors - naturally! It was a glimpse, so the young American was made to feel, into the life of the old regime with the Countess as the central figure, aloof, aristocratic, the friend of counsellors and princes, a figure to inspire romantic devotion.

  "And she's had any amount to contend against," ended the young man warmly. "It's an extraordinary thing but she's never found a woman who would be a real friend to her. Women have been against her all her life."

  "Probably," said Mr Satterthwaite.

  "Don't you call it a scandalous thing?" demanded Rudge hotly.

  "N-no," said Mr Satterthwaite thoughtfully. "I don't know that I do.

  Women have got their own standards, you know. It's no good our mixing ourselves up in their affairs. They must run their own show."

  "I don't agree with you," said Rudge earnestly. "It's one of the worst things in the world today, the unkindness of woman to woman. You know Elizabeth Martin? Now she agrees with me in theory absolutely. We've often discussed it together. She's only a kid, but her ideas are all right. But the moment it comes to a practical test why, she's as bad as any of them. Got a real down on the Countess without knowing a darned thing about her, and won't listen when I try to tell her things. It's all wrong, Mr Satterthwaite. I believe in democracy - and - what's that but brotherhood between men and sisterhood between women?"

  He paused earnestly. Mr Satterthwaite tried to think of any circumstances in which a sisterly feeling might arise between the Countess and Elizabeth Martin and failed.

  "Now the Countess, on the other hand," went on Rudge, "admires Elizabeth immensely, and thinks her charming in every way. Now what does that show?"

  "It shows," said Mr Satterthwaite dryly, "that the Countess has lived a considerable time longer than Miss Martin has."

  Franklin Rudge went off unexpectedly at a tangent.

  "Do you know how old she is? She told me. Rather sporting of her. I should have guessed her to be twenty-nine, but she told me of her own accord that she was thirty-five. She doesn't look it, does she?"

  Mr Satterthwaite, whose private estimate of the lady's age was between forty-five and forty-nine, merely raised his eyebrows.

  "I should caution you against believing all you are told at Monte Carlo," he murmured.

  He had enough experience to know the futility of arguing with the lad. Franklin Rudge was at a pitch of white hot chivalry when he would have disbelieved any statement that was not backed with authoritative proof.

  "Here is the Countess," said the boy, rising.

  She came up to them with the languid grace that so became her.

  Presently they all three sat down together. She was very charming to Mr Satterthwaite, but in rather an aloof manner. She deferred to him prettily, asking his opinion, and treating him as an authority on the Riviera.

  The whole thing was cleverly managed. Very few minutes had elapsed before Franklin Rudge found himself gracefully but unmistakably dismissed, and the Countess and Mr Satterthwaite were left tkte-a-tkte.

  She put down her parasol and began drawing patterns with it in the dust.

  "You are interested in that nice American boy, Mr Satterthwaite, are you not?"

  Her voice was low with a caressing note in it.

  "He's a nice young fellow," said Mr Satterthwaite, non-committally.

  "I find him sympathetic, yes," said the Countess reflectively. "I have told him much of my life."

  "Indeed," said Mr Satterthwaite.

  "Details such as I have told to few others," she continued dreamily. "I have had an extraordinary life, Mr Satterthwaite. Few would credit the amazing things that have happened to me."

  Mr Satterthwaite was shrewd enough to penetrate her meaning.

  After all, the stories that she had told to Franklin Rudge might be the truth. It was extremely unlikely, and in the last degree improbable, but it was possible... No one could definitely say, "That is not so -"

  He did not reply, and the Countess continued to look out dreamily across the bay.

  And suddenly Mr Satterthwaite had a strange and new impression of her. He saw her no longer as a harpy, but as a desperate creature at bay, fighting tooth and nail. He stole a sideways glance at her. The parasol was down, he could see the little haggard lines at the corners of her eyes. In one temple a pulse was beating.

  It flowed through him again and again - that increasing certitude.

  She was a creature desperate and driven. She would be merciless to him or to anyone who stood between her and Franklin Rudge. But he still felt he hadn't got the hang of the situation. Clearly she had plenty of money. She was always beautifully dressed, and her jewels were marvellous. There could be no real urgency of that kind. Was it love?

  Women of her age did, he well knew, fall in love with boys. It might be that. There was, he felt sure, something out of the common about the situation.

  Her tkte-a-tkte with him was, he recognised, a throwing down of the gauntlet. She had singled him out as her chief enemy. He felt sure that she hoped to goad him into speaking slightingly of her to Franklin Rudge. Mr Satterthwaite smiled to himself. He was too old a bird for that. He knew when it was wise to hold one's tongue.

  He watched her that night in the Cercle Privû, as she tried her fortunes at roulette.

  Again and again she staked, only to see her stake swept away. She bore her losses well, with the stoical sang froid of the old habituû.

  She staked en plein once or twice, put the maximum on red, won a little on the middle dozen and then lost it again, finally she backed manquû six times and lost every time. Then with a little graceful shrug of the shoulders she turned away.

  She was looking unusually striking in a dress of gold tissue with an underlying note of green. The famo
us Bosnian pearls were looped round her neck and long pearl earrings hung from her ears.

  Mr Satterthwaite heard two men near him appraise her.

  "The Czarnova," said one, "she wears well, does she not? The Crown jewels of Bosnia look fine on her."

  The other, a small Jewish-looking man, stared curiously after her.

  "So those are the pearls of Bosnia, are they?" he asked. "En veritû.

  That is odd."

  He chuckled softly to himself.

  Mr Satterthwaite missed hearing more, for at the moment he turned his head and was overjoyed to recognise an old friend.

  "My dear Mr Quin." He shook him warmly by the hand. "The last place I should ever have dreamed of seeing you."

  Mr Quin smiled, his dark attractive face lighting up.

  "It should not surprise you," he said. "It is Carnival time. I am often here in Carnival time."

  "Really? Well, this is a great pleasure. Are you anxious to remain in the rooms? I find them rather warm."

  "It will be pleasanter outside," agreed the other. "We will walk in the gardens."

  The air outside was sharp, but not chill. Both men drew deep breaths.

  "That is better," said Mr Satterthwaite.

  "Much better," agreed Mr Quin. "And we can talk freely. I am sure that there is much that you want to tell me."

  "There is indeed."

  Speaking eagerly, Mr Satterthwaite unfolded his perplexities. As usual he took pride in his power of conveying atmosphere. The Countess, young Franklin, uncompromising Elizabeth - he sketched them all in with a deft touch.

  "You have changed since I first knew you," said Mi. Quin, smiling, when the recital was over.

  "In what way?"

  "You were content then to look on at the drama that life offered. Now - you want to take part - to act."

  "It is true," confessed Mr Satterthwaite. "But in this case I do not know what to do. It is all very perplexing. Perhaps -" he hesitated.

  "Perhaps you will help me?"

  "With pleasure," said Mr Quin. "We will see what we can do."

  Mr Satterthwaite had an odd sense of comfort and reliance.

  The following day he introduced Franklin Rudge and Elizabeth Martin to his friend Mr Harley Quin. He was pleased to see that they got on together. The Countess was not mentioned, but at lunch time he heard news that aroused his attention.

  "Mirabelle is arriving in Monte this evening," he confided excitedly to Mr Quin.

  "The Parisian stage favourite?"

  "Yes. I daresay you know - it's common property - she is the King of Bosnia's latest craze. He has showered jewels on her, I believe. They say she is the most exacting and extravagant woman in Paris."

  "It should be interesting to see her and the Countess Czarnova meet tonight."

  "Exactly what I thought."

  Mirabelle was a tall, thin creature with a wonderful head of dyed fair hair. Her complexion was a pale mauve with orange lips. She was amazingly chic. She was dressed in something that looked like a glorified bird of paradise, and she wore chains of jewels hanging down her bare back. A heavy bracelet set with immense diamonds clasped her left ankle.

  She created a sensation when she appeared in the Casino.

  "Your friend the Countess will have a difficulty in outdoing this," murmured Mr Quin in Mr Satterthwaite's ear.

  The latter nodded. He was curious to see how the Countess comported herself.

  She came late, and a low murmur ran round as she walked unconcernedly to one of the centre roulette tables.

  She was dressed in white - a mere straight slip of marocain such as a debutante might have worn and her gleaming white neck and arms were unadorned. She wore not a single jewel.

  "It is clever, that," said Mr Satterthwaite with instant approval. "She disdains rivalry and turns the tables on her adversary."

  He himself walked over and stood by the table. From time to time he amused himself by "placing a stake." Sometimes he won, more often he lost.

  There was a terrific run on the last dozen. The numbers 31 and 34 turned up again and again. Stakes flocked to the bottom of the cloth.

  With a smile Mr Satterthwaite made his last stake for the evening, and placed the maximum on Number 5.

  The Countess in her turn leant forward and placed the maximum on Number 6.

  "Faites vos jeux," called the croupier hoarsely. "Rien n'est va plus.

  Plus rien."

  The ball span, humming merrily. Mr Satterthwaite thought to himself -

  "This means something different to each of us. Agonies of hope and despair, boredom, idle amusement, life and death."

  Click!

  The croupier bent forward to see.

  "Numero cinque, rouge, impair et manque!"

  Mr Satterthwaite had won!

  The croupier, having raked in the other stakes, pushed forward Mr Satterthwaite's winnings. He put out his hand to take them. The Countess did the same. The croupier looked from one to the other of them.

  "A Madame," he said brusquely.

  The Countess picked up the money. Mr Satterthwaite drew back. He remained a gentleman. The Countess looked him full in the face and he returned her glance. One or two of the people round pointed out to the croupier that he had made a mistake, but the man shook his head impatiently. He had decided. That was the end. He raised his raucous cry, "Paites vos jeux, Messieurs et Mesdames."

  Mr Satterthwaite rejoined Mr Quin. Beneath his impeccable demeanour, he was feeling extremely indignant. Mr Quin listened sympathetically.

  "Too bad," he said, "but these things happen."

  "We are to meet your friend Franklin Rudge later. I am giving a little supper party."

  The three met at midnight, and Mr Quin explained his plan.

  "It is what is called a "Hedges and Highways" party," he explained.

  "We choose our meeting place, then each one goes out and is bound in honour to invite the first person he meets."

  Franklin Rudge was amused by the idea, "Say, what happens if they won't accept?"

  "You must use your utmost powers of persuasion."

  "Good. And where's the meeting place?"

  "A somewhat Bohemian cafû - where one can take strange guests. It is called Le Caveau."

  He explained its whereabouts, and the three parted. Mr Satterthwaite was so fortunate as to run straight into Elizabeth Martin and he claimed her joyfully. They reached Le Caveau and descended into a kind of cellar where they found a table spread for supper and lit by old-fashioned candles in candlesticks.

  "We are the first," said Mr Satterthwaite. "Ah! here comes Franklin -"

  He stopped abruptly. With Franklin was the Countess. It was an awkward moment. Elizabeth displayed less graciousness than she might have done. The Countess, as a woman of the world, retained the honours.

  Last of all came Mr Quin. With him was a small, dark man, neatly dressed, whose face seemed familiar to Mr Satterthwaite. A moment later he recognised him. It was the croupier who earlier in the evening had made such a lamentable mistake.

  "Let me introduce you to the company, M. Pierre Vaucher," said Mr Quin.

  The little man seemed confused. Mr Quin performed the necessary introductions easily and lightly. Supper was brought - an excellent supper. Wine came - very excellent wine. Some of the frigidity went out of the atmosphere.

  The Countess was very silent, so was Elizabeth. Franklin Rudge became talkative. He told various stories - not humorous stories, but serious ones. And quietly and assiduously Mr Quin passed round the wine.

  "I'll tell you - and this is a true story - about a man who made good," said Franklin Rudge impressively.

  For one coming from a Prohibition country he had shown no lack of appreciation of champagne.

  He told his story - perhaps at somewhat unnecessary length. It was, like many true stories, greatly inferior to fiction.

  As he uttered the last word, Pierre Vaucher, opposite him, seemed to wake up. He also had done justice to th
e champagne. He leaned forward across the table.

  "I, too, will tell you a story," he said thickly. "But mine is the story of a man who did not make good. It is the story of a man who went, not up, but down the hill. And, like yours, it is a true story."

  "Pray tell it to us, monsieur," said Mr Satterthwaite courteously.

  Pierre Vaucher leant back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.

  "It is in Paris that the story begins. There was a man there, a working jeweller. He was young and light-hearted and industrious in his profession. They said there was a future before him. A good marriage was already arranged for him, the bride not too badlooking, the dowry most satisfactory. And then, what do you think?

  One morning he sees a girl. Such a miserable little wisp of a girl, messieurs. Beautiful? Yes, perhaps, if she were not half starved. But anyway, for this young man, she has a magic that he cannot resist.

  She has been struggling to find work, she is virtuous - or at least that is what she tells him. I do not know if it is true."

  The Countess's voice came suddenly out of the semi-darkness.

  "Why should it not be true? There are many like that."

  "Well, as I say, the young man believed her. And he married her - an act of folly! His family would have no more to say to him. He had outraged their feelings. He married - I will call her Jeanne - it was a good action. He told her so. He felt that she should be very grateful to him. He had sacrificed much for her sake."

  "A charming beginning for the poor girl," observed the Countess sarcastically.

  "He loved her, yes, but from the beginning she maddened him. She had moods - tantrums - she would be cold to him one day, passionate the next. At last he saw the truth. She had never loved him. She had married him so as to keep body and soul together. That truth hurt him, it hurt him horribly, but he tried his utmost to let nothing appear on the surface. And he still felt he deserved gratitude and obedience to his wishes. They quarrelled. She reproached him - Mon Dieu, what did she not reproach him with?"

  "You can see the next step, can you not? The thing that was bound to come. She left him. For two years he was alone, working in his little shop with no news of her. He had one friend - absinthe. The business did not prosper so well.