Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  The girl acknowledged the introduction with a lazy smile.

  "I guess I'll call you Parker almost at once," she murmured. "My name's Dolores."

  Basil returned with the drinks. Miss Ramona divided her conversation (what there was of it - it was mostly glances) between Basil and Mr Parker Pyne. Of the two women she took no notice whatever. Betty attempted once or twice to join in the conversation but the other girl merely stared at her and yawned.

  Suddenly Dolores rose.

  "Guess I'll be going along now. I'm at the other hotel. Anyone coming to see me home?"

  Basil sprang up.

  "I'll come with you."

  Mrs Chester said: "Basil, my dear -"

  "I'll be back presently, Mother."

  "Isn't he the mother's boy?" Miss Ramona asked of the world at large. "Just toots 'round after her, don't you?"

  Basil flushed and looked awkward. Miss Ramona gave a nod in Mrs Chester's direction, a dazzling smile to Mr Parker Pyne and she and Basil moved off together.

  After they had gone there was rather an awkward silence. Mr Parker Pyne did not like to speak first. Betty Gregg was twisting her fingers and looking out to sea. Mrs Chester looked flushed and angry.

  Betty said: "Well, what do you think of our new acquisition in Pollensa Bay?" Her voice was not quite steady.

  Mr Parker Pyne said cautiously:

  "A little - er - exotic."

  "Exotic?" Betty gave a short bitter laugh.

  Mrs Chester said: "She's terrible - terrible. Basil must be quite mad."

  Betty said sharply: "Basil's all right."

  "Her toenails," said Mrs Chester with a shiver of nausea.

  Betty rose suddenly.

  "I think, Mrs Chester, I'll go home and not stay to dinner after all."

  "Oh, my dear - Basil will be so disappointed."

  "Will he?" asked Betty with a short laugh. "Anyway, I think I will.

  I've got rather a headache."

  She smiled at them both and went off. Mrs Chester turned to Mr Parker Pyne.

  "I wish we had never come to this place - never!"

  Mr Parker Pyne shook his head sadly.

  "You shouldn't have gone away," said Mrs Chester. "If you'd been here this wouldn't have happened."

  Mr Parker Pyne was stung to respond, "My dear lady, I can assure you that when it comes to a question of a beautiful young woman, I should have no influence over your son whatever. He - er - seems to be of a very susceptible nature."

  "He never used to be," said Mrs Chester tearfully.

  "Well," said Mr Parker Pyne with an attempt at cheerfulness, "this new attraction seems to have broken the back of his infatuation for Miss Gregg. That must be some satisfaction to you."

  "I don't know what you mean," said Mrs Chester. "Betty is a dear child and devoted to Basil. She is behaving extremely well over this. I think my boy must be mad."

  Mr Parker Pyne received this startling change of face without wincing. He had met inconsistency in women before. He said mildly:

  "Not exactly mad - just bewitched."

  "The creature's a Dago. She's impossible."

  "But extremely good-looking."

  Mrs Chester snorted.

  Basil ran up the steps from the sea front.

  "Hullo, Mater, here I am. Where's Betty?"

  "Betty's gone home with a headache. I don't wonder."

  "Sulking, you mean."

  "I consider, Basil, that you are being extremely unkind to Betty."

  "For God's sake, Mother, don't jaw. If Betty is going to make this fuss every time I speak to another girl a nice sort of life we'll lead together."

  "You are engaged."

  "Oh, we're engaged all right. That doesn't mean that we're not going to have any friends of our own. Nowadays people have to lead their own lives and try to cut out jealousy."

  He paused.

  "Look here, if Betty isn't going to dine with us - I think I'll go back to the Mariposa. They did ask me to dine -"

  "Oh, Basil -"

  The boy gave her an exasperated look, then ran off down the steps.

  Mrs Chester looked eloquently at Mr Parker Pyne.

  "You see," she said.

  He saw.

  Matters came to a head a couple of days later. Betty and Basil were to have gone for a long walk, taking a picnic lunch with them.

  Betty arrived at the Pino d'Oro to find that Basil had forgotten the plan and gone over to Formentor for the day with Dolores Ramona's party.

  Beyond a tightening of the lips the girl made no sign. Presently, however, she got up and stood in front of Mrs Chester (the two women were alone on the terrace).

  "It's quite all right," she said. "It doesn't matter. But I think - all the same - that we'd better call the whole thing off."

  She slipped from her finger the signet ring that Basil had given her - he would buy the real engagement ring later.

  "Will you give him back this, Mrs Chester? And tell him it's all right - not to worry..."

  "Betty dear, don't! He does love you - really."

  "It looks like it, doesn't it?" said the girl with a short laugh. "No -

  I've got some pride. Tell him everything's all right and that I - I wish him luck."

  When Basil returned at sunset he was greeted by a storm.

  He flushed a little at the sight of his ring.

  "So that's how she feels, is it? Well, I daresay it's the best thing."

  "Basil!"

  "Well, frankly, Mother, we don't seem to have been hitting it off lately."

  "Whose fault was that?"

  "I don't see that it was mine particularly. Jealousy's beastly and I really don't see why you should get all worked up about it. You begged me yourself not to marry Betty."

  "That was before I knew her. Basil - my dear - you're not thinking of marrying this other creature."

  Basil Chester said soberly:

  "I'd marry her like a shot if she'd have me - but I'm afraid she won't."

  Cold chills went down Mrs Chester's spine. She sought and found Mr Parker Pyne, placidly reading a book in a sheltered corner.

  "You must do something! You must do something! My boy's life will be ruined."

  Mr Parker Pyne was getting a little tired of Basil Chester's life being ruined.

  "What can I do?"

  "Go and see this terrible creature. If necessary buy her off."

  "That may come very expensive."

  "I don't care."

  "It seems a pity. Still there are, possibly, other ways."

  She looked a question. He shook his head.

  "I'll make no promises - but I'll see what I can do. I have handled that kind before. By the way, not a word to Basil - that would be fatal."

  "Of course not."

  Mr Parker Pyne returned from the Mariposa at midnight. Mrs Chester was sitting up for him.

  "Well?" she demanded breathlessly.

  His eyes twinkled.

  "The Señorita Dolores Ramona will leave Pollensa tomorrow morning and the island tomorrow night."

  "Oh, Mr Parker Pyne! How did you manage it?"

  "It won't cost a cent," said Mr Parker Pyne. Again his eyes twinkled. "I rather fancied I might have a hold over her - and I was right."

  "You are wonderful. Nina Wycherley was quite right. You must let me know - er - your fees -"

  Mr Parker Pyne held up a well-manicured hand.

  "Not a penny. It has been a pleasure. I hope all will go well. Of course the boy will be very upset at first when he finds she's disappeared and left no address. Just go easy with him for a week or two."

  "If only Betty will forgive him -"

  "She'll forgive him all right. They're a nice couple. By the way, I'm leaving tomorrow, too."

  "Oh, Mr Parker Pyne, we shall miss you."

  "Perhaps it's just as well I should go before that boy of yours gets infatuated with yet a third girl."

  Mr Parker Pyne leaned over the rail of the steamer and looked
at the lights of Palma. Beside him stood Dolores Ramona. He was saying appreciatively:

  "A very nice piece of work, Madeleine. I'm glad I wired you to come out. It's odd when you're such a quiet stay-at-home girl really."

  Madeleine de Sara, alias Dolores Ramona, alias Maggie Sayers, said primly: "I'm glad you're pleased, Mr Parker Pyne. It's been a nice little change. I think I'll go below now and get to bed before the boat starts. I'm such a bad sailor."

  A few minutes later a hand fell on Mr Parker Pyne's shoulder. He turned to see Basil Chester.

  "Had to come and see you off, Mr Parker Pyne, and give you Betty's love and her and my best thanks. It was a grand stunt of yours. Betty and Mother are as thick as thieves. Seemed a shame to deceive the old darling - but she was being difficult. Anyway it's all right now. I must just be careful to keep up the annoyance stuff a couple of days longer. We're no end grateful to you, Betty and I."

  "I wish you every happiness," said Mr Parker Pyne.

  "Thanks."

  There was a pause, then Basil said with somewhat overdone carelessness:

  "Is Miss - Miss de Sara - anywhere about? I'd like to thank her, too."

  Mr Parker Pyne shot a keen glance at him.

  He said:

  "I'm afraid Miss de Sara's gone to bed."

  "Oh, too bad - well, perhaps I'll see her in London sometime."

  "As a matter of fact she is going to America on business for me almost at once."

  "Oh!" Basil's tone was blank. "Well," he said. "I'll be getting along..."

  Mr Parker Pyne smiled. On his way to his cabin he tapped on the door of Madeleine's.

  "How are you, my dear? All right? Our young friend has been along. The usual slight attack of Madeleinitis. He'll get over it in a day or two, but you are rather distracting."

  THE SECOND GONG

  Joan Ashby came out of her bedroom and stood a moment on the landing outside her door. She was half turning as if to go back into the room when, below her feet as it seemed, a gong boomed out.

  Immediately Joan started forward almost at a run. So great was her hurry that at the top of the big staircase she collided with a young man arriving from the opposite direction.

  'Hullo, Joan! Why the wild hurry?'

  'Sorry, Harry. I didn't see you.'

  'So I gathered,' said Harry Dalehouse dryly. 'But as I say, why the wild haste?'

  'It was the gong.'

  'I know. But it's only the first gong.'

  'No, it's the second.'

  'First.'

  'Second.'

  Thus arguing they had been descending the stairs. They were now in the hall, where the butler, having replaced the gongstick, was advancing toward them at a grave and dignified pace.

  'It is the second,' persisted Joan. 'I know it is. Well, for one thing, look at the time.'

  Harry Dalehouse glanced up at the grandfather clock.

  'Just twelve minutes past eight,' he remarked. 'Joan, I believe you're right, but I never heard the first one. Digby,' he addressed the butler, 'is this the first gong or the second?'

  'The first, sir.'

  'At twelve minutes past eight? Digby, somebody will get the sack for this.'

  A faint smile showed for a minute on the butler's face.

  'Dinner is being served ten minutes later tonight, sir. The master's orders.'

  'Incredible!' cried Harry Dalehouse. 'Tut, tut! Upon my word, things are coming to a pretty pass! Wonders will never cease.

  What ails my revered uncle?'

  'The seven o'clock train, sir, was half an hour late, and as -' The butler broke off, as a sound like the crack of a whip was heard.

  'What on earth -' said Harry. 'Why, that sounded exactly like a shot.'

  A dark, handsome man of thirty-five came out of the drawing room on their left.

  'What was that?' he asked. 'It sounded exactly like a shot.'

  'It must have been a car backfiring, sir,' said the butler. 'The road runs quite close to the house this side and the upstairs windows are open.'

  'Perhaps,' said Joan doubtfully. 'But that would be over there.' She waved a hand to the right. 'And I thought the sound came from here.' She pointed to the left.

  The dark man shook his head.

  'I don't think so. I was in the drawing room. I came out here because I thought the sound came from this direction.' He nodded his head in front of him in the direction of the gong and the front door.

  'East, west, and south, eh?' said the irrepressible Harry. 'Well, I'll make it complete, Keene. North for me. I thought it came from behind us. Any solutions offered?'

  'Well, there's always murder,' said Geoffrey Keene, smiling. 'I beg your pardon, Miss Ashby.'

  'Only a shiver,' said Joan. 'It's nothing. A what-do-you-call-it walking over my grave.'

  'A good thought - murder,' said Harry. 'But, alas! No groans, no blood. I fear the solution is a poacher after a rabbit.'

  'Seems tame, but I suppose that's it,' agreed the other. 'But it sounded so near. However, let's come into the drawing room.'

  'Thank goodness, we're not late,' said Joan fervently. 'I was simply haring it down the stairs thinking that was the second gong.'

  All laughing, they went into the big drawing room.

  Lytcham Close was one of the most famous old houses in England. Its owner, Hubert Lytcham-Roche, was the last of a long line, and his more distant relatives were apt to remark that 'Old Hubert, you know, really ought to be certified. Mad as a hatter, poor old bird.'

  Allowing for the exaggeration natural to friends and relatives, some truth remained. Hubert Lytcham-Roche was certainly eccentric. Though a very fine musician, he was a man of ungovernable temper and had an almost abnormal sense of his own importance. People staying in the house had to respect his prejudices or else they were never asked again.

  One such prejudice was his music. If he played to his guests, as he often did in the evening, absolute silence must obtain. A whispered comment, a rustle of a dress, a movement even - and he would turn round scowling fiercely, and goodbye to the unlucky guest's chances of being asked again.

  Another point was absolute punctuality for the crowning meal of the day. Breakfast was immaterial - you might come down at noon if you wished. Lunch also - a simple meal of cold meats and stewed fruit. But dinner was a rite, a festival, prepared by a cordon bleu whom he had tempted from a big hotel by the payment of a fabulous salary.

  A first gong was sounded at five minutes past eight. At a quarter past eight a second gong was heard, and immediately after the door was flung open, dinner announced to the assembled guests, and a solemn procession wended its way to the dining room.

  Anyone who had the temerity to be late for the second gong was henceforth excommunicated - and Lytcham Close shut to the unlucky diner forever.

  Hence the anxiety of Joan Ashby, and also the astonishment of Harry Dalehouse, at hearing that the sacred function was to be delayed ten minutes on this particular evening. Though not very intimate with his uncle, he had been to Lytcham Close often enough to know what a very unusual occurrence that was.

  Geoffrey Keene, who was Lytcham-Roche's secretary, was also very much surprised.

  'Extraordinary,' he commented. 'I've never known such a thing to happen. Are you sure?'

  'Digby said so.'

  'He said something about a train,' said Joan Ashby. 'At least I think so.'

  'Queer,' said Keene thoughtfully. 'We shall hear all about it in due course, I suppose. But it's very odd.'

  Both men were silent for a moment or two, watching the girl. Joan Ashby was a charming creature, blue-eyed and golden-haired, with an impish glance. This was her first visit to Lytcham Close and her invitation was at Harry's prompting.

  The door opened and Diana Cleves, the Lytcham-Roches' adopted daughter, came into the room.

  There was a daredevil grace about Diana, a witchery in her dark eyes and her mocking tongue. Nearly all men fell for Diana and she enjoyed her conquests. A strange creat
ure, with her alluring suggestion of warmth and her complete coldness.

  'Beaten the Old Man for once,' she remarked. 'First time for weeks he hasn't been here first, looking at his watch and tramping up and down like a tiger at feeding time.'

  The young men had sprung forward. She smiled entrancingly at them both - they turned to Harry. Geoffrey Keene's dark cheek flushed as he dropped back.

  He recovered himself, however, a moment as Mrs Lytcham-Roche came in. She was a tall, dark woman, naturally vague in manner, wearing floating draperies of an indeterminate shade of green.

  With her was a middle-aged man with a beaklike nose and a determined chin - Gregory Barling. He was a somewhat prominent figure in the financial world, well-bred on his mother's side, he had for some years been an intimate friend of Hubert Lytcham-Roche.

  Boom!

  The gong resounded imposingly. As it died away, the door was flung open and Digby announced:

  'Dinner is served.'

  Then, well-trained servant that he was, a look of complete astonishment flashed over his impassive face. For the first time in his memory, his master was not in the room!

  That his astonishment was shared by everybody was evident. Mrs Lytcham-Roche gave a little nervous laugh.

  'Most amazing. Really - I don't know what to do.'

  Everybody was taken aback. The whole tradition of Lytcham Close was undermined. What could have happened? Conversation ceased. There was a strained sense of waiting.

  At last the door opened once more; a sigh of relief went round only tempered by a slight anxiety as to how to treat the situation. Nothing must be said to emphasize the fact that the host himself transgressed the stringent rule of the house.

  But the newcomer was not Lytcham-Roche. Instead of the big, bearded, viking-like figure, there advanced into the long drawing room a very small man, palpably a foreigner, with an egg-shaped head, a flamboyant moustache, and most irreproachable evening clothes.

  His eyes twinkling, the newcomer advanced toward Mrs Lytcham Roche.

  'My apologies, madame ,' he said. 'I am, I fear, a few minutes late.'

  'Oh, not at all!' murmured Mrs Lytcham-Roche vaguely. 'Not at all, Mr -' She paused.

  'Poirot, madame . Hercule Poirot.'

  He heard behind him a very soft 'Oh' - a gasp rather than an articulate word - a woman's ejaculation. Perhaps he was flattered.