Large plates were stuck in holders on the sides of the carriages.
PARIS - ATHENS. PARIS - BUCHAREST. PARIS - STAMBOUL.
At the last named the porter came to an abrupt halt. He undid the strap which held the suitcases together and they slipped heavily to the ground. "Voici, Madame."
The wagon-lit conductor was standing beside the steps. He came forward, remarking, "Bonsoir, Madame," with an empressement perhaps due to the richness and perfection of the mink coat.
The woman handed him her sleeping-car ticket of flimsy paper.
"Number Six," he said; "this way."
He sprang nimbly into the train, the woman following him. As she hurried down the corridor after him, she nearly collided with a portly gentleman who was emerging from the compartment next to hers. She had a momentary glimpse of a large bland face with benevolent eyes.
"Voici, Madame."
The conductor displayed the compartment. He threw up the window and signaled to the porter. A lesser employee took in the baggage and put it up in the racks. The woman sat down.
Beside her on the seat she had placed a small scarlet case and her hand bag. The carriage was hot, but it did not seem to occur to her to take off her coat. She stared out of the window with unseeing eyes. People were hurrying up and down the platform. There were sellers of newspapers, of pillows, of chocolate, of fruit of mineral waters. They held up their wares to her, but her eyes looked blankly through them. The Gare de Lyon had faded from her sight. On her face were sadness and anxiety.
"If Madame will give me her passport?"
The words made no impression on her. The conductor, standing in the doorway, repeated them. Elsie Jeffries roused herself with a start.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your passport, Madame."
She opened her bag, took out the passport and gave it to him.
"That will be all right, Madame, I will attend to everything." A slight significant pause. "I shall be going with Madame as far as Stamboul."
Elsie drew out a fifty-franc note and handed it to him. He accepted it in a businesslike manner, and inquired when she would like her bed made up and whether she was taking dinner.
These matters settled, he withdrew and almost immediately the restaurant man came rushing down the corridor ringing his little bell frantically, and bawling out, "Premier service. Premier service."
Elsie rose, divested herself of the heavy fur coat, took a brief glance at herself in the little mirror, and picking up her hand bag and jewel case, stepped out into the corridor. She had gone only a few steps when the restaurant man came rushing along on his return journey. To avoid him, Elsie stepped back for a moment into the doorway of the adjoining compartment, which was now empty.
As the man passed and she prepared to continue her journey to the dining car, her glance fell idly on the label of a suitcase which was lying on the seat.
It was a stout pigskin case, somewhat worn. On the label were the words, "J. Parker Pyne, passenger to Stamboul." The suitcase itself bore the initials "P.P."
A startled expression came over the girl's face. She hesitated a moment in the corridor, then going back to her own compartment she picked up a copy of the Times which she had laid down on the table with some magazines and books.
She ran her eye down the advertisement columns on the front page, but what she was looking for was not there. A slight frown on her face, she made her way to the restaurant car.
The attendant allotted her a seat at a small table already tenanted by one person - the man with whom she had nearly collided in the corridor. In fact, the owner of the pig-skin suitcase.
Elsie looked at him without appearing to do so. He seemed very bland, very benevolent, and in some way impossible to explain, delightfully reassuring. He behaved in reserved British fashion, and it was not till the fruit was on the table that he spoke.
"They keep these places terribly hot," he said.
"I know," said Elsie. "I wish one could have the window open."
He gave a rueful smile. "Impossible! Every person present except ourselves would protest."
She gave an answering smile. Neither said any more. Coffee was brought and the usual indecipherable bill. Having laid some notes upon it, Elsie suddenly took her courage in both hands.
"Excuse me," she murmured. "I saw your name upon your suitcase - Parker Pyne. Are you - are you, by any chance -?"
She hesitated and he came quickly to her rescue.
"I believe I am. That is -" he quoted from the advertisement which Elsie had noticed more than once in the "Times," and for which she had searched vainly just now - " 'Are you happy? If not, consult Mr Parker Pyne.' Yes, I'm that one, all right."
"I see," said Elsie. "How - how extraordinary!"
He shook his head. "Not really. Extraordinary from your point of view, but not from mine." He smiled reassuringly, then leaned forward. Most of the other diners had left the car. "So you are unhappy?" he said.
"I -" began Elsie, and stopped.
"You would not have said 'How extraordinary' otherwise," he pointed out.
Elsie was silent a minute. She felt strangely soothed by the mere presence of Mr Parker Pyne. "Ye-es," she admitted at last. "I am unhappy. At least, I am worried."
He nodded sympathetically.
"You see," she continued, "a very curious thing has happened - and I don't know in the least what to make of it."
"Suppose you tell me about it," suggested Mr Pyne. Elsie thought of the advertisement. She and Edward had often commented on it and laughed. She had never thought that she... Perhaps she had better not... If Mr Parker Pyne were a charlatan... But he looked - nice!
Elsie made her decision. Anything to get this worry off her mind.
"I'll tell you. I'm going to Constantinople to join my husband. He does a lot of Oriental business, and this year he found it necessary to go there. He went a fortnight ago. He was to get things ready for me to join him. I've been very excited at the thought of it. You see, I've never been abroad before. We've been in England six months."
"You and your husband are both American?"
"Yes."
"And you have not, perhaps, been married very long?"
"We've been married a year and a half."
"Happily?"
"Oh, yes! Edward's a perfect angel." She hesitated. "Not, perhaps, very much go to him. Just a little - well, I'd call it strait-laced. Lot of Puritan ancestry and all that. But he's a dear," she added hastily.
Mr Parker Pyne looked at her thoughtfully for a moment or two, then he said, "Go on."
"It was about a week after Edward had started. I was writing a letter in his study, and I noticed that the blotting paper was all new and clean, except for a few lines of writing across it. I'd just been reading a detective story with a clue in a blotter and so, just for fun, I held it up to a mirror. It really was just fun, Mr Pyne - I mean, I wasn't spying on Edward or anything like that. I mean, he's such a mild lamb one wouldn't dream of anything of that kind."
"Yes, yes; I quite understand."
"The thing was quite easy to read. First there was the word 'wife,' then 'Simplon Express,' and lower down, 'just before Venice would be the best time.'" She stopped.
"Curious," said Mr Pyne. "Distinctly curious. It was your husband's handwriting?"
"Oh, yes. But I've cudgeled my brains and I cannot see under what circumstances he would write a letter with just those words in it."
"'Just before Venice would be the best time,'" repeated Mr Parker Pyne. "Distinctly curious."
Mrs Jeffries was leaning forward looking at him with a flattering hopefulness. "What shall I do?" she asked simply.
"I am afraid," said Mr Parker Pyne, "that we shall have to wait until just before Venice." He took up a folder from the table. "Here is the schedule time of our train. It arrives at Venice at two-twenty-seven tomorrow afternoon."
They looked at each other.
"Leave it to me," said Mr Parker Pyne.
&nbs
p; It was five minutes past two. The Simplon Express was eleven minutes late. It had passed Mestre about a quarter of an hour before.
Mr Parker Pyne was sitting with Mrs Jeffries in her compartment.
So far the journey had been pleasant and uneventful. But now the moment had arrived when, if anything was going to happen, it presumably would happen. Mr Parker Pyne and Elsie faced each other. Her heart was beating fast, and her eyes sought his kind of anguished appeal for reassurance.
"Keep perfectly calm," he said. "You are quite safe. I am here."
Suddenly a scream broke out from the corridor.
"Oh, look - look! The train is on fire!"
With a bound Elsie and Mr Parker Pyne were in the corridor. An agitated woman with a Slav countenance was pointing a dramatic finger. Out of one of the front compartments smoke was pouring in a cloud. Mr Parker Pyne and Elsie ran along the corridor. Others joined them. The compartment in question was full of smoke. The first-comers drew back, coughing. The conductor appeared.
"The compartment is empty!" he cried. "Do not alarm yourselves, messieurs et dames. Le feu, it will controlled."
A dozen excited questions and answers broke out. The train was running over the bridge that joins Venice to the mainland.
Suddenly Mr Parker Pyne turned, forced his way through the little pack of people behind him and hurried down the corridor to Elsie's compartment. The lady with the Slav face was seated in it, drawing deep breaths from the open window.
"Excuse me, Madame," said Parker Pyne. "But this is not your compartment."
"I know. I know," said the Slav lady. "Pardon. It is the shock, the emotion - my heart.' She sank back on the seat and indicated the open window. She drew her breath in great gasps.
Mr Parker Pyne stood in the doorway. His voice was fatherly and reassuring. "You must not be afraid," he said. "I do not think for a moment that the fire is serious."
"Not? Ah, what a mercy! I feel restored." She half rose. "I will return to my own compartment."
"Not just yet." Mr Parker Pyne's hand pressed her gently back. "I will ask of you to wait a moment, Madame."
"Monsieur, this is an outrage!"
"Madame, you will remain."
His voice rang out coldly. The woman sat still looking at him. Elsie joined them.
"It seems it was a smoke bomb," she said breathlessly. "Some ridiculous practical joke. The conductor is furious. He is asking everybody -" She broke off, staring at the second occupant of the carriage.
"Mrs Jeffries," said Mr Parker Pyne, "what do you carry in your little scarlet case?"
"My jewelry."
"Perhaps you would be so kind as to look and see that everything is there."
There was immediately a torrent of words from the Slav lady. She broke into French, the better to do justice to her feelings.
In the meantime Elsie had picked up the jewel case.
"Oh!" she cried. "It's unlocked."
"... et je porterai plainte a la Compagnie des Wagons-Lits," finished the Slav lady.
"They're gone!" cried Elsie. "Everything! My diamond bracelet. And the necklace Pop gave me. And the emerald and ruby rings. And some lovely diamond brooches. Thank goodness I was wearing my pearls. Oh, Mr Pyne, what shall we do?"
"If you will fetch the conductor," said Mr Parker Pyne, "I will see that this woman does not leave this compartment till he comes."
"Scûlûrat! Monstre!" shrieked the Slav lady. She went on to further insults. The train drew in to Venice.
The events of the next half hour may be briefly summarized. Mr Parker Pyne dealt with several different officials in several different languages - and suffered defeat. The suspected lady consented to be searched - and emerged without a stain on her character. The jewels were not on her.
Between Venice and Trieste Mr Parker Pyne and Elsie discussed the case.
"When was the last time you actually saw your jewels?"
"This morning. I put away some sapphire earrings I was wearing yesterday and took out a pair of plain pearl ones."
"And all the jewelry was there intact?"
"Well, I didn't go through it all, naturally. But it looked the same as usual. A ring or something like that might have been missing, but not more."
Mr Parker Pyne nodded. "Now, when the conductor made up the compartment this morning?"
"I had the case with me - in the restaurant car. I always take it with me. I've never left it except when I ran out just now."
"Therefore," said Mr Parker Pyne, "that injured innocent, Madame Subayska, or whatever she calls herself, must have been the thief.
But what the devil did she do with the things? She was only in here a minute and a half - just time to open the case with a duplicate key and take out the stuff - yes, but what next?"
"Could she have handed them to anyone else?"
"Hardly. I had turned back and was forcing my way along the corridor. If anyone had come out of this compartment I should have seen them."
"Perhaps she threw them out of the window to someone."
"An excellent suggestion; only, as it happens, we were passing over the sea at that moment. We were on the bridge."
"Then she must have hidden them actually in the carriage."
"Let's hunt for them."
With true transatlantic energy Elsie began to look about. Mr Parker Pyne participated in the search in a somewhat absent fashion.
Reproached for not trying, he excused himself.
"I'm thinking that I must send a rather important telegram at Trieste," he explained.
Elsie received the explanation coldly. Mr Parker Pyne had fallen heavily in her estimation.
"I'm afraid you're annoyed with me, Mrs Jeffries," he said meekly.
"Well, you've not been very successful," she retorted.
"But my dear lady, you must remember I am not a detective. Theft and Crime are not in my line at all. The human heart is my province."
"Well, I was a bit unhappy when I got on this train," said Elsie, "but nothing to what I am now! I could just cry buckets. My lovely, lovely bracelet - and the emerald ring Edward gave me when we were engaged."
"But surely you are insured against theft?" Mr Parker Pyne interpolated.
"Am I? I don't know. Yes, I suppose I am. But it's the sentiment of the thing, Mr Pyne."
The train slackened speed. Mr Parker Pyne peered out of the window. "Trieste," he said. "I must send my telegram."
"Edward!" Elsie's face lighted up as she saw her husband hurrying to meet her on the platform at Stamboul.
For the moment even the loss of her jewelry faded from her mind.
She forgot the curious words she had found on the blotter. She forgot everything except that it was a fortnight since she had seen her husband last, and that in spite of being sober and strait-laced he was really a most attractive person.
They were just leaving the station when Elsie got a friendly tap on the shoulder and turned to find Mr Parker Pyne. His bland face was beaming good-naturedly.
"Mrs Jeffries," he said, "will you come to see me at the Hotel Tokatlian in half an hour? I think I may have good news for you."
Elsie looked uncertainly at Edward. Then she made the introduction. "This - er - is my husband - Mr Parker Pyne."
"As I believe your wife wired you, her jewels have been stolen," said Mr Parker Pyne. "I have been doing what I can to help her recover them. I think I may have news for her in about half an hour."
Elsie looked inquiringly at Edward. He replied promptly:
"You'd better go, dear. The Tokatlian, you said, Mr Pyne? Right; I'll see she makes it."
It was just half an hour later that Elsie was shown into Mr Parker Pyne's private sitting room. He rose to receive her.
"You've been disappointed in me, Mrs Jeffries," he said. "Now, don't deny it. Well, I don't pretend to be a magician, but I do what I can. Take a look inside here."
He passed along the table a small stout cardboard box. Elsie opened it. Rings, brooches, brac
elet, necklace - they were all there.
"Mr Pyne, how marvelous! How - how too wonderful!"
Mr Parker Pyne smiled modestly. "I am glad not to have failed you, my dear young lady."
"Oh, Mr Pyne, you make me feel just mean! Ever since Trieste I've been horrid to you. And now - this. But how did you get hold of them? When? Where?"
Mr Parker Pyne shook his head thoughtfully. "It's a long story," he said. "You may hear it one day. In fact, you may hear it quite soon."
"Why can't I hear it now?"
"There are reasons," said Mr Parker Pyne.
And Elsie had to depart with her curiosity unsatisfied.
When she had gone, Mr Parker Pyne took up his hat and stick and went out into the streets of Pera. He walked along smiling to himself, coming at last to a little cafû, deserted at the moment, which overlooked the Golden Horn. On the other side, the mosques of Stamboul showed slender minarets against the afternoon sky. It was very beautiful. Mr Pyne sat down and ordered two coffees.
They came thick and sweet. He had just begun to sip his when a man slipped into the seat opposite.
It was Edward Jeffries.
"I have ordered some coffee for you," said Mr Parker Pyne, indicating the little cup.
Edward pushed the coffee aside. He leaned forward across the table. "How did you know?" he asked.
Mr Parker Pyne sipped his coffee dreamily. "Your wife will have told you about her discovery on the blotter? No? Oh, but she will tell you; it has slipped her mind for the moment."
He mentioned Elsie's discovery.
"Very well; that linked up perfectly with the curious incident that happened just before Venice. For some reason or other you were engineering the theft of your wife's jewels. But why the phrase 'just before Venice would be the best time'? There seemed no sense in that. Why did you not leave it to your - agent - to choose he own time and place?
"And then, suddenly, I saw the point. Your wife jewels were stolen before you yourself left London and were replaced by paste duplicates. But that solution did not satisfy you. You were a highminded, conscientious young man. You have a horror of some servant or other innocent person being suspected. A theft must actually occur - at a place and in a manner which will leave no suspicion attached to anybody of your acquaintance or household.
Short Stories Page 103