At half-past-one, Mrs. Packington kept her appoint.
ment at the Ritz. Mr. Parker Pyne, faultlessly dresse¢
and carrying with him his atmosphere of soothin
reassurance, was waiting for her.
"Charming," he said, an experienced eye sweepinl
her from head to foot. "I have ventured to order you
White Lady."
Mrs. Packington, who had not contracted the cock.
tail habit, made no demur. As she sipped the excitinl
fluid gingerly, she listened to her benevolent instructor.
"Your husband, Mrs. Packington," said Mr. Parkel
Pyne, "must be made to Sit Up. You understand--to
Sit Up. To assist in that, I am going to introduce to you
a young friend of mine. You will lunch with him
today."
At that moment a young man came along, looking
from side to side. He espied Mr. Parker Pyne and came
gracefully towards them.
"Mr. Claude Luttrell, Mrs. Packington."
8
Agatha Christie
Mr. Claude Luttrell was perhaps just short of thirty.
He was graceful, debonair, perfectly dressed, extremely
handsome.
"Delighted to meet you," he murmured.
Three minutes later Mrs. Packington was facing her
new mentor at a small table for two.
She was shy at first, but Mr. Luttrell soon put her at
her ease. He knew Paris well and had spent a good deal
of time on the Riviera. He asked Mrs. Packington if she
were fond of dancing. Mrs. Packington said she was,
but that she seldom got any dancing nowadays as Mr.
Packington didn't care to go out in the evenings.
"But he couldn't be so unkind as to keep you at
home," said Claude Luttrell, smiling and displaying a
dazzling row of teeth. "Women will not tolerate male
jealousy in these days."
Mrs. Packington nearly said that jealousy didn't enter
into the question. But the words rema:,ned unspoken.
After all, it was an agreeable idea.
Claude Luttrell spoke airily of night clubs. It was settled
that on the following evening Mrs. Packington and
Mr. Luttrell should patronize the popular Lesser Archangel.
Mrs. Packington was a little nervous about announcing
this fact to her husband. George, she felt, would
think it extraordinary and possibly ridiculous. But she
was saved all trouble on this score. She had been too
nervous to make her announcement at breakfast, and at
two o'clock a telephone message came to the effect that
Mr. Packington would be dining in town.
The evening was a great success. Mrs. Packington had
been a good dancer as a girl and under Claude Luttrell's
skilled guidance she soon picked up modern steps. He
congratulated her on her gown and also on the arrange
THE CASE OF THE MIDDLE-AGED WIFE
ment of her hair. (An appointment had been made
her that morning with a fashionable hairdresser.)
bidding her farewell, he kissed her hand in a most th
ing manner. Mrs. Packington had not enjoyed an ev
ing so much for years.
A bewildering ten days ensued. Mrs. Packing
lunched, teaed, tangoed, dined, danced and supped. I
heard all about Claude Luttrell's sad childhood.
heard the sad circumstances in which his father lost
his money. She heard of his tragic romance and his
bittered feelings towards women generally.
On the eleventh day they were dancing at the Red
miral. Mrs. Packington saw her spouse before he .
her. George was with the young lady from his offi
Both couples were dancing.
"Hello, George," said Mrs. Packington lightly,
their orbits brought them together.
It was with considerable amusement that She saw 1
husband's face grow first red, then purple with ast
ishment. With the astonishment was blended an expr
sion of guilt detected.
Mrs. Packington felt amusedly mistress of the sill
tion. Poor old George! Seated once more at her ta she watched them. How stout he was, how bald, h.
terribly he bounced on his feet! He danced in the style
twenty years ago. Poor George, how terribly he wan
to be young! And that poor girl he was dancing with h
to pretend to like it. She looked bored enough now, 1
face over his shoulder where he couldn't see it.
How much more enviable, thought Mrs. Packingt,
contentedly, was her own situation. She glanced at t
perfect Claude, now tactfully silent. How well he und
stood her. He never jarred--as husbands so inevitat
did jar after a lapse of years.
10
Agatha Christie
She looked at him again. Their eyes met. He smiled;
his beautiful dark eyes, so melancholy, so romantic,
looked tenderly into hers.
"Shall we dance again?" he murmured.
They danced again. It was heaven!
She was conscious of George's apoplectic gaze
following them. It had been the idea, she remembered,
to make George jealous. What a long time ago that was!
She really didn't want George to be jealous now. It
might upset him. Why should he be upset, poor thing?
Everyone was so happy ....
Mr. Packington had been home an hour when Mrs.
Packington got in. He looked bewildered and unsure of
himself.
"Humph," he remarked. "So you're back."
Mrs. Packington cast off an evening wrap which had
cost her forty guineas that very morning. "Yes," she
said, smiling. "I'm back."
· George coughed. "Er--rather odd meeting you."
"Wasn't it?" said Mrs. Packington.
"I--well, I thought it would be a kindness to take
that girl somewhere. She's been having a lot of trouble
at home. I thought--well, kindness you know."
Mrs. Packington nodded. Poor old George--bouncing
on his feet and getting so hot and being so pleased
with himself.
"Who's that chap you were with? I don't know him,
do I?"
"Luttrell, his name is. Claude Luttrell."
"How did you come across him?"
"Oh, someone introduced me," said Mrs. Pack-ington
vaguely.
"Rather a queer thing for you to go out dancing--at
your time of life. Mustn't make a fool of yourself, my
dear."
THE CASE OF THE MIDDLE-AGED WIFE
11
Mrs. Packington smiled. She was feeling much too
kindly to the universe in general to make the obvious
reply. "A change is always nice," she said amiably.
"You've got to be careful, you know. A lot of these
lounge-lizard fellows going about. Middle-aged women
sometimes make awful fools of themselves. I'm just
warning you, my dear. I don't like to see you doing
anything unsuitable."
"I find the exercise very beneficial," said Mrs. Pack-ington.
"UmNyes."
"I expect you do, too," said Mrs. Packington kindly.
"The great thing is to be happy, isn't it? I remember
your saying so one morning at breakfast, about ten days
ago. ' '
Her husband looked at her sharply, but her
expres-sion
was devoid of sarcasm. She yawned.
"I must go to bed. By the way, George, I've been
dreadfully extravagant lately. Some terrible bills will be
coming in. You don't mind, do you?"
"Bills?" said Mr. Packington.
"Yes. For clothes. And massage. And hair treatment.
Wickedly extravagant I've been--but I know you won't
mind."
She passed up the stairs. Mr. Packington remained
with his mouth open. Maria had been amazingly nice
about this evening's business; she hadn't seemed to care
at all. But it was a pity she had suddenly taken to spend-ing
money. Maria--that model of economy!
Women! George Packington shook his head. The
scrapes that girl's brothers had been getting into lately.
Well, he'd been glad to help. All the same--and dash it
all, things weren't going too well in the City.
Sighing, Mr. Packington in his turn slowly climbed
the stairs.
12
Agatha Christie
Sometimes words that fail to make their effect at the
time are remembered later. Not till the following morn-ing
did certain words uttered by Mr. Packington really
penetrate his wife's consciousness.
Lounge lizards; middle-aged women; awful fools of
themselves.
Mrs. Packington was courageous at heart. She sat
down and faced facts. A gigolo. She had read all about
gigolos in the papers. Had read, too, of the follies of
middle-aged women.
Was Claude a gigolo? She supposed he was. But then,
gigolos were paid for and Claude always paid for her.
Yes, but it was Mr. Parker Pyne who paid, not Claude
--or, rather, it was really her own two hundred guineas.
Was she a middle-aged fool? Did Claude Luttrell
laugh at her behind her back? Her face flushed at the
thought.
Well, what of it? Claude was a gigolo. She was a
middle-aged fool. She supposed she should have given
him something. A gold cigaret case. That sort of thing.
A queer impulse drove her out 'there and then to
Asprey's. The cigaret case was chosen and paid for. She
was to meet Claude at Claridge's for lunch.
As they were sipping coffee she produced it from her
bag. "A little present," she murmured.
He looked up, frowned. "For me?"
"Yes. I--I hope you like it."
His hand closed over it and he slid it violently across
the table. "Why do you give me that? I won't take it.
Take it back. Take it back, I say." He was angry. His
dark eyes flashed.
She murmured, "I'm sorry," and put it away in her
bag again.
There was constraint between them that day.
The following morning he rang her up. "I must see
THE CASE OF THE MIDDLE-AGED WIFE
yOU. Can I come to your house this afternoon?"
She told him to come at three o'clock.
He arrived very white, very tense. They greeted PA
other. The constraint was more evident.
Suddenly he sprang up and stood facing her. "Wh
do you think I am? That is what I've come to ask yo
We've been friends, haven't we? Yes, friends. But:
the same, you think l'm--well, a gigolo. A creature wi
lives on women. A lounge lizard. You do, don't you?"
"No, no."
He swept aside her protest. His face had gone ye
white. "You do think that! Well, it's true. That's wh I've come to say. It's true! I had my orders to take y
about, to amuse you, to make love to you, to make yl
forget your husband. That was my job. A despicat
one, eh?"
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked.
"Because I'm through with it. I can't carry on with
Not with you. You,re different. You're the kind
woman I could believe in, trust, adore. You think I'
just saying this; that it's part of the game." He can
closer to her. "I'm going to prove to you it isn't. I'
going away--because of you. I'm going to make myse
into a man instead of the loathsome creature I a:
because of you."
He took her suddenly in his arms. His lips closed ¢
hers. Then he released her and stood away.
"Good-by. I've been a rotter--always. But I swe;
it will be different now. Do you remember once sayil
you liked to read the advertisements in the Agony cc
umn? On this day every year you'll find there a messal
from me saying that I remember and am making goo
You'll know, then, all you've meant to me. One thir
more. I've taken nothing from you. I want you to tal
something from me." He drew a plain gold seal rin
14
Agatha Christie
from his finger. "This was my mother's. I'd like you to
have it. Now good-by."
He left her standing there amazed, the gold ring in her
hand.
George Packington came home early. He found his
wife gazing into the fire with a far-away look. She spoke
kindly but absently to him.
"Look here, Maria," he jerked out suddenly.
"About that girl?"
"Yes, dear?"
"I--I never meant to upset you, you know. About
her. Nothing in it."
"I know. I was foolish. See as much as you like of her
if it makes you happy."
These words, surely, should have cheered George
Packington. Strangely enough, they annoyed him. How
could you enjoy taking a girl about when your wife
fairly urged you on? Dash it all, it wasn't decent! All
that feeling of being a gay dog, of being a strong man
playing with fire, fizzled out and died an ignominious
death. George Packington felt suddenly tired and a
great deal poorer in pocket. The girl was a shrewd little
piece.
"We might go away together somewhere for a bit if
you like, Maria?" he suggested timidly.
"Oh, never mind about me. I'm quite happy."
"But I'd like to take you away. We might go to the
Riviera."
Mrs. Packington smiled at him from a distance.
Poor old George. She was fond of him. He was such a
pathetic old dear. There was no secret splendor in his
life as there was in hers. She smiled more tenderly still.
"That would be lovely, my dear," she said.
Mr. Parker Pyne was speaking to Miss Lemon.
"Entertainment account?"
THE CASE OF THE MIDDLE-AGED WIFE
"One hundred and two pounds, fourteen and sixpence,"
said Miss Lemon.
The door was pushed open and Claude Luttrell
entered. He looked moody.
"Morning, Claude," said Mr. Parker Pyne. "Everything
go off satisfactorily?"
"I suppose so."
"The ring? What name did you put in it, by the
way?"
"Matilda," said Claude gloomily. "1899."
"Excellent. What wording for the advertisement?"
"'Making good. Still remember. Claude.'"
"Make a note of that, please. Miss Lemon. The
Agony column. November third for--let me see, expenses
a hundred and two pounds, fourteen and six.
Yes, for ten years, I think. That leaves us a pro
fit of
ninety-two pounds, two and fourpence. Adequate.
Quite adequate."
Miss Lemon departed.
"Look here," Claude burst out. "I don't like this.
It's a rotten game."
"My dear boy!"
"A rotten game. That was a decent womanma good
sort. Telling her all those lies, filling her up with this sob
stuff, dash it all, it makes me sick!"
Mr. Parker Pyne adjusted his glasses and looked at
Claude with a kind of scientific interest. "Dear me!" he
said dryly. "I do not seem to remember that your conscience
ever troubled you during your somewhat--ahem!--notorious
career. Your affairs on the Riviera
were particularly brazen, and your exploitation of Mrs.
Hattie West, the Californian Cucumber King's wife,
was especially notable for the callous mercenary instinct
you displayed."
"Well, I'm beginning to feel different," grumbled
16
Agatha Christie
Claude. "It isn't--nice, this game."
Mr. Parker Pyne spoke in the voice of a head master
admonishing a favorite pupil. "You have, my dear
Claude, performed a meritorious action. You have
given an unhappy woman what every woman needs--a
romance. A woman tears a passion to pieces and gets
no good from it, but a romance can be laid. up in
lavender and looked at all through the long years to
come. I know human nature, my boy, and I tell you that
a woman can feed on such an incident for years." He
coughed. "We have discharged our commission to Mrs.
Packington very satisfactorily."
"Well," muttered Claude, "I don't like it." He left
the room.
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