Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  There were two courses open to him. Course number one, to go straight to the police station and tell his story - but it must be admitted that James funked that course badly. Course number two, somehow or other to get rid of the emerald. It occurred to him to do it up in a neat little parcel and post it back to the Rajah. Then he shook his head. He had read too many detective stories for that sort of thing. He knew how your super-sleuth could get busy with a magnifying glass and every kind of patent device. Any detective worth his salt would get busy on James's parcel and would in half an hour or so have discovered the sender's profession, age, habits, and personal appearance. After that it would be a mere matter of hours before he was tracked down.

  It was then that a scheme of dazzling simplicity suggested itself to James. It was the luncheon hour, the beach would be comparatively deserted. He would return to Mon Desir, hang up the trousers where he had found them, and regain his own garments. He started briskly towards the beach.

  Nevertheless, his conscience pricked him slightly. The emerald ought to be returned to the Rajah. He conceived the idea that he might perhaps do a little detective work - once, that is, that he had regained his own trousers and replaced the others. In pursuance of this idea, he directed his steps towards the aged mariner, whom he rightly regarded as being an inexhaustible source of Kimpton information.

  "Excuse me!" said James politely; "but I believe a friend of mine has a hut on this beach, Mr Charles Lampton. It is called Mon Desir, I fancy?"

  The aged mariner was sitting very squarely in a chair, a pipe in his mouth, gazing out to sea. He shifted his pipe a little and replied without removing his gaze from the horizon:

  "Mon Desir belongs to his lordship, Lord Edward Campion; everyone knows that. I never heard of Mr Charles Lampton; he must be a newcomer."

  "Thank you," said James, and withdrew.

  The information staggered him. Surely the Rajah could not himself have slipped the stone into the pocket and forgotten it. James shook his head. The theory did not satisfy him, but evidently some member of the house party must be the thief. The situation reminded James of some of his favourite works of fiction.

  Nevertheless, his own purpose remained unaltered. All fell out easily enough. The beach was, as he hoped it would be, practically deserted. More fortunate still, the door of Mon Desir remained ajar.

  To slip in was the work of a moment, Edward was just lifting his own trousers from the hook, when a voice behind him made him spin round suddenly.

  "So I have caught you, my man!" said the voice.

  James stared open-mouthed. In the doorway of Mon Desir stood a stranger - a well-dressed man of about forty years of age, his face keen and hawklike.

  "So I have caught you!" the stranger repeated.

  "Who - who are you?" stammered James.

  "Detective-Inspector Merrilees from the Yard," said the other crisply. "And I will trouble you to hand over that emerald."

  "The - the emerald?"

  James was seeking to gain time.

  "That's what I said, didn't I?" said Inspector Merrilees.

  He had a crisp, businesslike enunciation. James tried to pull himself together.

  "I don't know what you are talking about," he said with an assumption of dignity.

  "Oh, yes, my lad, I think you do."

  "The whole thing," said James, "is a mistake. I can explain it quite easily -" He paused.

  A look of weariness had settled on the face of the other.

  "They always say that," murmured the Scotland Yard man dryly. "I suppose you picked it up as you were strolling along the beach, eh? That is the sort of explanation."

  It did indeed bear a resemblance to it. James recognized the fact, but still he tried to gain time.

  "How do I know you are what you say you are?" he demanded weakly.

  Merrilees flapped back his coat for a moment, showing a badge.

  Edward stared at him with eyes that popped out of his head.

  "And now," said the other almost genially, "you see what you are up against! You are a novice - I can tell that. Your first job, isn't it?"

  James nodded.

  "I thought as much. Now, my boy, are you going to hand over that emerald, or have I got to search you?"

  James found his voice.

  "I - I haven't got it on me," he declared.

  He was thinking desperately.

  "Left it at your lodgings?" queried Merrilees.

  James nodded.

  "Very well, then," said the detective, "we will go there together."

  He slipped his arm through James's.

  "I am taking no chances of your getting away from me," he said gently. "We will go to your lodgings, and you will hand that stone over to me."

  James spoke unsteadily.

  "If I do, will you let me go?" he asked tremulously.

  Merrilees appeared embarrassed.

  "We know just how that stone was taken," he explained, "and about the lady involved, and, of course, as far as that goes - well, the Rajah wants it hushed up. You know what these native rulers are?"

  James, who knew nothing whatsoever about native rulers, except for one cause cûlùbre, nodded his head with an appearance of eager comprehension.

  "It will be most irregular, of course," said the detective, "but you may get off scot-free."

  Again James nodded. They had walked the length of the Esplanade, and were now turning into the town. James intimated the direction, but the other man never relinquished his sharp grip on James's arm.

  Suddenly James hesitated and half spoke. Merrilees looked up sharply, and then laughed. They were just passing the police station, and he noticed James's agonized glances at it.

  "I am giving you a chance first," he said good-humouredly.

  It was at that moment that things began to happen. A loud bellow broke from James; he clutched the other's arm, and yelled at the top of his voice: "Help! Thief. Help! Thief."

  A crowd surrounded them in less than a minute. Merrilees was trying to wrench his arm from James's grasp.

  "I charge this man," cried James. "I charge this man; he picked my pocket."

  "What are you talking about, you fool?" cried the other.

  A constable took charge of matters. Mr Merrilees and James were escorted into the police station. James reiterated his complaint.

  "This man has just picked my pocket," he declared excitedly. "He has got my notecase in his right-hand pocket, there!"

  "The man is mad," grumbled the other. "You can look for yourself, inspector, and see if he is telling the truth."

  At a sign from the inspector, the constable slipped his hand deferentially into Merrilees's pocket. He drew something up and held it out with a gasp of astonishment.

  "My God!" said the inspector, startled out of professional decorum. "It must be the Rajah's emerald."

  Merrilees looked more incredulous than anyone else.

  "This is monstrous," he spluttered; "monstrous. The man must have put it into my pocket himself as we were walking along together. It's a plant."

  The forceful personality of Merrilees caused the inspector to waver. His suspicions swung round to James. He whispered something to the constable, and the latter went out.

  "Now then, gentlemen," said the inspector, "let me have your statements please, one at a time."

  "Certainly," said James. "I was walking along the beach when I met this gentleman, and he pretended he was acquainted with me.

  I could not remember having met him before, but I was too polite to say so. We walked along together. I had my suspicions of him, and just when we got opposite the poli ce station, I found his hand in my pocket. I held on to him and shouted for help."

  The inspector transferred his glance to Merrilees.

  "And now you, sir."

  Merrilees seemed a little embarrassed.

  "The story is very nearly right," he said slowly, "but not quite. It was not I who scraped acquaintance with him, but he who scraped acquaintance
with me. Doubtless he was trying to get rid of the emerald, and slipped it into my pocket while we were talking."

  The inspector stopped writing. "Ah!" he said impartially. "Well, there will be a gentleman here in a minute who will help us to get to the bottom of the case."

  Merrilees frowned.

  "It is really impossible for me to wait," he murmured, pulling out his watch. "I have an appointment. Surely, inspector, you can't be so ridiculous as to suppose I'd steal the emerald and walk along with it in my pocket?"

  "It is not likely, sir, I agree," the inspector replied. "But you will have to wait just a matter of five or ten minutes till we get this thing cleared up. Ah! Here is his lordship."

  A tall man of forty strode into the room. He was wearing a pair of dilapidated trousers and an old sweater.

  "Now then, inspector, what is all this?" he said. "You have got hold of the emerald, you say? That's splendid; very smart work. Who are these people you have got here?"

  His eye ranged over James and came to rest on Merrilees. The forceful personality of the latter seemed to dwindle and shrink.

  "Why - Jones!" exclaimed Lord Edward Campion.

  "You recognize this man, Lord Edward?" asked the inspector sharply.

  "Certainly I do," said Lord Edward dryly. "He is my valet, came to me a month ago. The fellow they sent down from London was on to him at once, but there was not a trace of the emerald anywhere among his belongings."

  "He was carrying it in his coat pocket," the inspector declared.

  "This gentleman put us on to him." He indicated James.

  In another minute James was being warmly congratulated and shaken by the hand.

  "My dear fellow," said Lord Edward Campion. "So you suspected him all along, you say?"

  "Yes," said James. "I had to trump up the story about my pocket being picked to get him into the police station."

  "Well, it is splendid," said Lord Edward, "absolutely splendid. You must come back and lunch with us; that is, if you haven't lunched?

  It is late, I know, getting on for two o'clock."

  "No," said James; "I haven't lunched - but -"

  "Not a word, not a word," said Lord Edward. "The Rajah, you know, will want to thank you for getting back his emerald for him.

  Not that I have quite got the hang of the story yet."

  They were out of the police station by now, standing on the steps.

  "As a matter of fact," said James, "I think I should like to tell you the true story."

  He did so. His lordship was very much entertained.

  "Best thing I ever heard in my life," he declared. "I see it all now.

  Jones must have hurried down to the bathing hut as soon as he had pinched the thing, knowing that the police would make a thorough search of the house. That old pair of trousers I sometimes put on for going out fishing; nobody was likely to touch them, and he could recover the jewel at his leisure. Must have been a shock to him when he came today to find it gone. As soon as you appeared, he realized that you were the person who had removed the stone. I still don't quite see how you managed to see through that detective pose of his, though!"

  "A strong man," thought James to himself, "knows when to be frank and when to be discreet."

  He smiled deprecatingly while his fingers passed gently over the inside of his coat lapel feeling the small silver badge of that littleknown club, the Merton Park Super Cycling Club. An astonishing coincidence that the man Jones should also be a member, but there it was!

  "Hallo, James!"

  He turned. Grace and the Sopworth girls were calling to him from the other side of the road. He turned to Lord Edward.

  "Excuse me a moment?"

  He crossed the road to them. "We are going to the pictures," said Grace. "Thought you might like to come." "I am sorry," said James. "I am just going back to lunch with Lord Edward Campion. Yes, that man over there in the comfortable old clothes. He wants me to meet the Rajah of Maraputna." He raised his hat politely and rejoined Lord Edward.

  SWAN SONG

  II

  Lady Rustonbury was both an ambitious and an artistic woman; she ran the two qualities in harness with complete success. She had the good fortune to have a husband who cared for neither ambition nor art and who therefore did not hamper her in any way.

  The Earl of Rustonbury was a large, square man, with an interest in horseflesh and in nothing else. He admired his wife, and was proud of her, and was glad that his great wealth enabled her to indulge all her schemes. The private theatre had been built less than a hundred years ago by his grandfather. It was Lady Rustonbury's chief toy - she had already given an Ibsen drama in it, and a play of the ultra new school; all divorce and drugs, also a poetical fantasy with Cubist scenery. The forthcoming performance of Tosca had created widespread interest. Lady Rustonbury was entertaining a very distinguished house party for it, and all London that counted was motoring down to attend.

  Mme Nazorkoff and her company had arrived just before luncheon.

  The new young American tenor, Hensdale, was to sing "Cavaradossi," and Roscari, the famous Italian baritone, was to be Scarpia. The expense of the production had been enormous, but nobody cared about that. Paula Nazorkoff was in the best of humours; she was charming, gracious, her most delightful and cosmopolitan self. Cowan was agreeably surprised, and prayed that this state of things might continue.

  After luncheon the company went out to the theatre and inspected the scenery and various appointments. The orchestra was under the direction of Mr Samuel Ridge, one of England's most famous conductors. Everything seemed to be going without a hitch, and strangely enough, that fact worried Mr Cowan. He was more at home in an atmosphere of trouble; this unusual peace disturbed him.

  "Everything is going a darned sight too smoothly," murmured Mr Cowan to himself. "Madame is like a cat that has been fed on cream. It's too good to last; something is bound to happen."

  Perhaps as the result of his long contact with the operatic world, Mr Cowan had developed the sixth sense, certainly his prognostications were justified. It was just before seven o'clock that evening when the French maid, Elise, came running to him in great distress.

  "Ah, Mr Cowan, come quickly; I beg of you come quickly."

  "What's the matter?" demanded Cowan anxiously. "Madame got her back up about anything - ructions, eh, is that it?"

  "No, no, it is not Madame; it is Signor Roscari. He is ill; he is dying!"

  "Dying? Oh, come now."

  Cowan hurried after her as she led the way to the stricken Italian's bedroom. The little man was lying on his bed, or rather jerking himself all over it in a series of contortions that would have been humorous had they been less grave. Paula Nazorkoff was bending over him; she greeted Cowan imperiously.

  "Ah! There you are. Our poor Roscari, he suffers horribly.

  Doubtless he has eaten something."

  "I am dying," groaned the little man. "The pain - it is terrible. Ow!"

  He contorted himself again, clasping both hands to his stomach, and rolling about on the bed.

  "We must send for a doctor," said Cowan.

  Paula arrested him as he was about to move to the door.

  "The doctor is already on his way; he will do all that can be done for the poor suffering one, that is arranged for, but never, never will Roscari be able to sing tonight."

  "I shall never sing again; I am dying," groaned the Italian.

  "No, no, you are not dying," said Paula. "It is but an indigestion, but all the same, impossible that you should sing."

  "I have been poisoned."

  "Yes, it is the ptomaine without doubt," said Paula. "Stay with him, Elise, till the doctor comes."

  The singer swept Cowan with her from the room.

  "What are we to do?" she demanded.

  Cowan shook his head hopelessly. The hour was so far advanced that it would not be possible to get anyone from London to take Roscari's place. Lady Rustonbury, who had just been informed of her guest'
s illness, came hurrying along the corridor to join them.

  Her principal concern, like Paula Nazorkoff's, was the success of Tosca.

  "If there were only someone near at hand," groaned the prima donna.

  "Ah!" Lady Rustonbury gave a sudden cry. "Of course! Brûon."

  "Brûon?"

  "Yes, Edouard Brûon, you know, the famous French baritone. He lives near here. There was a picture of his house in this week's Country Homes. He is the very man."

  "It is an answer from heaven," cried Nazorkoff. "Brûon as Scarpia, I remember him well, it was one of his greatest ræles. But he has retired, has he not?"

  "I will get him," said Lady Rustonbury. "Leave it to me."

  And being a woman of decision, she straightway ordered out the Hispano Suiza. Ten minutes later, M. Edouard Brûon's country retreat was invaded by an agitated countess. Lady Rustonbury, once she had made her mind up, was a very determined woman, and doubtless M. Brûon realized that there was nothing for it but to submit. Also, it must be confessed, he had a weakness for countesses. Himself a man of very humble origin, he had climbed to the top of his profession, and had consorted on equal terms with dukes and princes, and the fact never failed to gratify him. Yet, since his retirement to this old-world English spot, he had known discontent. He missed the life of adulation and applause, and the English county had not been as prompt to recognize him as he thought they should have been. So he was greatly flattered and charmed by Lady Rustonbury's request.

  "I will do my poor best," he said, smiling. "As you know, I have not sung in public for a long time now. I do not even take pupils, only one or two as a great favour. But there - since Signor Roscari is unfortunately indisposed -"