Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  "That is so," agreed Simone quietly, "and I am prepared to carry out my promise."

  "I hold you to it, madame," said the other woman.

  "I do not break my word," said Simone coldly. "Do not fear, Raoul," she added gently, "after all, it is for the last time - the last time, thank God."

  At a sign from her Raoul drew the heavy black curtains across the alcove. He also pulled the curtains of the window so that the room was in semi-obscurity. He indicated one of the chairs to Madame Exe and prepared himself to take the other. Madame Exe, however, hesitated.

  "You will pardon me, monsieur, but - you understand I believe absolutely in your integrity and in that of Madame Simone. All the same, so that my testimony may be the more valuable, I took the liberty of bringing this with me."

  From her handbag she drew a length of fine cord.

  "Madame!" cried Raoul. "This is an insult!"

  "A precaution."

  "I repeat it is an insult."

  "I don't understand your objection, monsieur," said Madame Exe coldly.

  "If there is no trickery you have nothing to fear."

  Raoul laughed scornfully. "I can assure you that I have nothing to fear, madame. Bind me hand and foot if you will."

  His speech did not produce the effect he hoped, for Madame Exe merely murmured unemotionally:

  "Thank you, monsieur," and advanced upon him with her roll of cord.

  Suddenly Simone from behind the curtain gave a cry.

  "No, no, Raoul, don't let her do it."

  Madame Exe laughed derisively. "Madame is afraid," she observed sarcastically.

  "Yes, I am afraid."

  "Remember what you are saying, Simone," cried Raoul. "Madame Exe is apparently under the impression that we are charlatans."

  "I must make sure," said Madame Exe grimly.

  She went methodically about her task, binding Raoul securely to his chair.

  "I must congratulate you on your knots, madame," he observed ironically when she had finished. "Are you satisfied now?" Madame Exe did not reply. She walked round the room examining the panelling of the walls closely. Then she locked the door leading into the hall, and, removing the key, returned to her chair.

  "Now," she said in an indescribable voice. "I am ready."

  The minutes passed. From behind the curtain the sound of Simone's breathing became heavier and more stertorous. Then it died away altogether, to be succeeded by a series of moans. Then again there was silence for a little while, broken by the sudden clattering of the tambourine. The horn was caught up from the table and dashed to the ground. Ironic laughter was heard. The curtains of the alcove seemed to have been pulled back a little, the medium's figure was just visible through the opening, her head fallen forward on her breast. Suddenly Madame Exe drew in her breath sharply. A ribbon-like stream of mist was issuing from the medium's mouth. It condensed and began gradually to assume a shape, the shape of a little child.

  "Amelie! My little Amelie!"

  The hoarse whisper came from Madame Exe. The hazy figure condensed still further. Raoul stared almost incredulously. Never had there been a more successful materialization: Now, surely it was a real child, a real flesh and blood child standing there.

  "Maman!" The soft childish voice spoke.

  "My child!" cried Madame Exe. "My child!" She half-rose from her seat.

  "Be careful, madame," cried Raoul warningly.

  The materialization came hesitatingly through the curtains. It was a child. She stood there, her arms held out.

  "Maman!"

  "Ah!" cried Madame Exe. Again she half-rose from her seat.

  "Madame," cried Raoul, alarmed, "the medium..."

  "I must touch her," cried Madame Exe hoarsely.

  She moved a step forward.

  "For God's sake, madame, control yourself," cried Raoul.

  He was really alarmed now. "Sit down at once."

  "My little one, I must touch her."

  "Madame, I command you, sit down!"

  He was writhing desperately with his bonds, but Madame Exe had done her work well; he was helpless. A terrible sense of impending disaster swept over him.

  "In the name of God, madame, sit down!" he shouted. "Remember the medium."

  Madame Exe paid no attention to him. She was like a woman transformed. Ecstasy and delight showed plainly in her face. Her outstretched hand touched the little figure that stood in the opening of the curtains. A terrible moan came from the medium.

  "My God!" cried Raoul. "My God! This is terrible. The medium..."

  Madame Exe turned on him with a harsh laugh.

  "What do I care for your medium?" she cried. "I want my child."

  "You are mad!"

  "My child, I tell you. Mine! My own flesh and blood! My little one come back to me from the dead, alive and breathing."

  Raoul opened his lips, but no words would come. She was terrible, this woman! Remorseless, savage, absorbed by her own passion. The baby lips parted, and for the third time the same word echoed:

  "Maman!"

  "Come then, my little one," cried Madame Exe.

  With a sharp gesture she caught up the child in her arms. From behind the curtains came a long-drawn scream of utter anguish.

  "Simone!" cried Raoul. "Simone!"

  He was aware vaguely of Madame Exe rushing past him, of the unlocking of the door, of retreating footsteps down the stairs.

  From behind the curtain there still sounded the terrible, high, longdrawn scream, such a scream, as Raoul had never heard. It died away in a horrible kind of gurgle. Then there came the thud of a body falling... Raoul was working like a maniac to free himself from his bonds. In his frenzy he accomplished the impossible, snapping the rope by sheer strength. As he struggled to his feet, Elise rushed in, crying, "Madame!" "Simone!" cried Raoul. Together they rushed forward and pulled the curtain. Raoul staggered back. "My God!" he murmured. "Red - all red..." Elise's voice came beside him harsh and shaking. "So Madame is dead. It is ended. But tell me, monsieur, what has happened. Why is Madame all shrunken away - why is she half her usual size? What has been happening here?" "I do not know," said Raoul. His voice rose to a scream. "I do not know. I do not know. But I think - I am going mad... Simone! Simone!"

  THE MYSTERY OF THE BLUE JAR

  Jack Hartington surveyed his topped drive ruefully. Standing by the ball, he looked back to the tee, measuring the distance. His face was eloquent of the disgusted contempt which he felt. With a sigh he drew out his iron, executed two vicious swings with it, annihilating in turn a dandelion and a tuft of grass, and then addressed himself firmly to the ball.

  It is hard when you are twenty-four years of age, and your one ambition in life is to reduce your handicap at golf, to be forced to give time and attention to the problem of earning your living. Five and a half days out of the seven saw Jack imprisoned in a kind of mahogany tomb in the city. Saturday afternoon and Sunday were religiously devoted to the real business of life, and in an excess of zeal he had taken rooms at the small hotel near Stourton Heath links, and rose daily at the hour of six a.m. to get in an hour's practice before catching the 8.46 to town.

  The only disadvantage to the plan was that he seemed constitutionally unable to hit anything at that hour in the morning. A foozled iron succeeded a muffed drive. His mashie shots ran merrily along the ground, and four putts seemed to be the minimum on any green.

  Jack sighed, grasped his iron firmly, and repeated to himself the magic words, "Left arm right through, and don't look up."

  He swung back - and then stopped, petrified, as a shrill cry rent the silence of the summer's morning.

  "Murder," it called. "Help! Murder!"

  It was a woman's voice, and it died away at the end into a sort of gurgling sigh.

  Jack flung down his club and ran in the direction of the sound. It had come from somewhere quite near at hand. This particular part of the course was quite wild country, and there were few houses about. In fact, there was only
one near at hand, a small picturesque cottage, which Jack had often noticed for its air of Old World daintiness. It was towards this cottage that he ran. It was hidden from him by a heathercovered slope, but he rounded this and in less than a minute was standing with his hand on the small latched gate.

  There was a girl standing in the garden, and for a moment Jack jumped to the natural conclusion that it was she who had uttered the cry for help. But he quickly changed his mind.

  She had a little basket in her hand, half-full of weeds, and had evidently just straightened herself up from weeding a wide border of pansies.

  Her eyes, Jack noticed, were just like pansies themselves, velvety and soft and dark, and more violet than blue. She was like a pansy altogether, in her straight purple linen gown.

  The girl was looking at Jack with an expression midway between annoyance and surprise.

  "I beg your pardon," said the young man. "But did you cry out just now?"

  "I? No, indeed."

  Her surprise was so genuine that Jack felt confused. Her voice was very soft and pretty with a slight foreign inflection.

  "But you must have heard it," he exclaimed. "It came from somewhere just near here."

  She stared at him.

  "I heard nothing at all."

  Jack in his turn stared at her. It was perfectly incredible that she should not have heard that agonized appeal for help. And yet her calmness was so evident that he could not believe she was lying to him.

  "It came from somewhere close at hand," he insisted.

  She was looking at him suspiciously now.

  "What did it say?" she asked.

  "Murder - help! Murder!"

  "Murder - help, murder," repeated the girl. "Somebody has played a trick on you, Monsieur. Who could be murdered here?"

  Jack looked about him with a confused idea of discovering a dead body upon a garden path. Yet he was still perfectly sure that the cry he had heard was real and not a product of his imagination. He looked up at the cottage windows. Everything seemed perfectly still and peaceful.

  "Do you want to search our house?" asked the girl dryly.

  She was so clearly sceptical that Jack's confusion grew deeper than ever. He turned away.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "It must have come from higher up in the woods."

  He raised his cap and retreated. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that the girl had calmly resumed her weeding.

  For some time he hunted through the woods, but could find no sign of anything unusual having occurred. Yet he was as positive as ever that he had really heard the cry. In the end, he gave up the search and hurried home to bolt his breakfast and catch the 8.46 by the usual narrow margin of a second or so. His conscience pricked him a little as he sat in the train. Ought he not to have immediately reported what he had heard to the police? That he had not done so was solely owing to the pansy girl's incredulity. She had clearly suspected him of romancing - possibly the police might do the same. Was he absolutely certain that he had heard the cry?

  By now he was not nearly so positive as he had been - the natural result of trying to recapture a lost sensation. Was it some bird's cry in the distance that he had twisted into the resemblance of a woman's voice?

  But he rejected the suggestion angrily. It was a woman's voice, and he had heard it. He remembered looking at his watch just before the cry had come. As nearly as possible it must have been five and twenty minutes past seven when he had heard the call. That might be a fact useful to the police if - if anything should be discovered.

  Going home that evening, he scanned the evening papers anxiously to see if there were any mention of a crime having been committed. But there was nothing, and he hardly knew whether to be relieved or disappointed.

  The following morning was wet - so wet that even the most ardent golfer might have his enthusiasm damped. Jack rose at the last possible moment, gulped his breakfast, ran for the train, and again eagerly scanned the papers. Still no mention of any gruesome discovery having been made. The evening papers told the same tale.

  "Queer," said Jack to himself, "but there it is. Probably some blinking little boys having a game together up in the woods."

  He was out early the following morning. As he passed the cottage, he noted out of the tail of his eye that the girl was out in the garden again weeding. Evidently a habit of hers. He did a particularly good approach shot, and hoped that she had noticed it. As he teed up on the next tee, he glanced at his watch.

  "Just five and twenty past seven," he murmured. "I wonder -"

  The words were frozen on his lips. From behind him came the same cry which had so startled him before. A woman's voice, in dire distress.

  "Murder - help, murder!"

  Jack raced back. The pansy girl was standing by the gate. She looked startled, and Jack ran up to her triumphantly, crying out:

  "You heard it this time, anyway."

  Her eyes were wide with some emotion he could not fathom but he noticed that she shrank back from him as he approached, and even glanced back at the house, as though she meditated running to it for shelter.

  She shook her head, staring at him.

  "I heard nothing at all," she said wonderingly.

  It was as though she had struck him a blow between the eyes. Her sincerity was so evident that he could not disbelieve her. Yet he couldn't have imagined it - he couldn't - he couldn't -

  He heard her voice speaking gently - almost with sympathy.

  "You have had the shell-shock, yes?"

  In a flash he understood her look of fear, her glance back at the house.

  She thought that he suffered from delusions...

  And then, like a douche of cold water, came the horrible thought, was she right? Did he suffer from delusions? Obsessed by the horror of the thought, he turned and stumbled away without vouchsafing a word. The girl watched him go, sighed, shook her head, and bent down to her weeding again.

  Jack endeavored to reason matters out with himself. "If I hear the damned thing again, at twenty-five minutes past seven," he said to himself, "it's clear that I've got hold of a hallucination of some sort. But I won't hear it."

  He was nervous all day, and went to bed early, determined to put the matter to the proof the following morning.

  As was perhaps natural in such a case, he remained awake half the night and finally overslept himself. It was twenty past seven by the time he was clear of the hotel and running towards the links. He realized that he would not be able to get to the fatal spot by twenty-five past, but surely, if the voice were a hallucination pure and simple, he would hear it anywhere. He ran on, his eyes fixed on the hands of his watch.

  Twenty-five past. From far off came the echo of a woman's voice, calling. The words could not be distinguished, but he was convinced that it was the same cry he had heard before, and that it came from the same spot, somewhere in the neighborhood of the cottage.

  Strangely enough, that fact reassured him. It might, after all, be a hoax.

  Unlikely as it seemed, the girl herself might be playing a trick on him.

  He set his shoulders resolutely, and took out a club from his golf bag.

  He would play the few holes up to the cottage.

  The girl was in the garden as usual. She looked up this morning, and when he raised his cap to her, said good morning rather shyly... She looked, he thought, lovelier than ever.

  "Nice day, isn't it?" Jack called out cheerily, cursing the unavoidable banality of the observation.

  "Yes, indeed, it is lovely."

  "Good for the garden, I expect?"

  The girl smiled a little, disclosing a fascinating dimple.

  "Alas, no! For my flowers the rain is needed. See, they are all dried up."

  Jack accepted the invitation of her gesture, and came up to the low hedge dividing the garden from the course, looking over it into the garden.

  "They seem all right," he remarked awkwardly, conscious as he spoke of the girl's slightly pitying glance run
ning over him.

  "The sun is good, is it not?" she said. "For the flowers one can always water them. But the sun gives strength and repairs the health. Monsieur is much better today, I can see."

  Her encouraging tone annoyed Jack intensely.

  "Curse it all," he said to himself. "I believe she's trying to cure me by suggestion.

  "I'm perfectly well," he said irritably.

  "That is good then," returned the girl, quickly and soothingly.

  Jack had the irritating feeling that she didn't believe him.

  He played a few more holes and hurried back to breakfast. As he ate it, he was conscious, not for the first time, of the close scrutiny of a man who sat at the table next to him. He was a man of middle-age, with a powerful, forceful face. He had a small dark beard and very piercing gray eyes, and an ease and assurance of manner which placed him among the higher ranks of the professional classes. His name, Jack knew, was Lavington, and he had heard vague rumors as to his being a well-known medical specialist, but as Jack was not a frequenter of Harley Street, the name had conveyed little or nothing to him.

  But this morning he was very conscious of the quiet observation under which he was being kept, and it frightened him a little. Was his secret written plainly in his face for all to see? Did this man, by reason of his professional calling, know that there was something amiss in the hidden gray matter?

  Jack shivered at the thought. Was it true? Was he really going mad?

  Was the whole thing a hallucination, or was it a gigantic hoax?

  And suddenly a very simple way of testing the solution occurred to him.

  He had hitherto been alone on his round. Supposing someone else was with him? Then one out of three things might happen. The voice might be silent. They might both hear it. Or - he only might hear it.

  That evening he proceeded to carry his plan into effect. Lavington was the man he wanted with him. They fell into conversation easily enough the older man might have been waiting for such an opening. It was clear that for some reason or other Jack interested him. The latter was able to come quite easily and naturally to the suggestion that they might play a few holes together before breakfast. The arrangement was made for the following morning.