AgathaChristie-ParkerPineDetective
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Agatha Christie
And the sheer music of the names enchanted him so
much as he said them that he repeated them. Teheran.
Ispahan. Shiraz.
Mr. Parker Pyne looked out at the country below
him. It was flat desert. He felt the mystery of these vast,
unpopulated regions.
At Kermanshah the machine came down for passport
examinations and customs. A bag of Mr. Parker Pyne's
was opened. A certain small cardboard box was scrutin-ized
with some excitement. Questions were asked. Since
Mr. Parker Pyne did not speak or understand Persian,
the matter was difficult.
The pilot of the machine strolled up. He was a fair-haired
young German, a fine-looking man, with deep
blue eyes and a weather-beaten face. "Please?" he in-quired
pleasantly.
Mr. Parker Pyne, who had been indulging in some ex-cellent
realistic pantomine without, it seemed, much
success, turned to him with relief. "It's bug powder,"
he said. "Do you think you could explain to them?"
The pilot looked puzzled. "Please?"
Mr. Parker Pyne repeated his plea in German. The
pilot grinned and translated the sentence into Persian.
The grave and sad officials were pleased; their sor-rowful
faces relaxed; they smiled. One even laughed.
They found the idea humorous.
The three passengers took their places in the machine
again and the flight continued. They swooped down at
Hamadan to drop the mails, but the plane did not stop.
Mr. Parker Pyne peered down, trying to see if he could
distinguish the rock of Behistun, that romantic spot
where Darius describes the extent of his empire and
conquests in three different languages--Babylonian,
Median and Persian.
It was one o'clock when they arrived at Teheran.
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137
There were more police formalities. The German pilot
had come up and was standing by smiling as Mr. Parker
Pyne finished answering a long interrogation which he
had not understood.
"What have I said?" he asked of the German.
"That your father's Christian name is Tourist, that
your profession is Charles, that the maiden name of
your mother is Baghdad, and that you have come from
Harriet."
"Does it matter?"
"Not the least in the world. Just answer something;
that is all they need."
Mr. Parker Pyne was disappointed in Teheran. He
found it distressingly modern. He said as much the
following evening when he happened to run into Herr
Schlagal, the pilot, just as he was entering his hotel. On
an impulse he asked the other man to dine, and the Ger-man
accepted.
The Georgian waiter hovered over them and issued
his orders. The food arrived. When they had reached
the stage of la tourte, a somewhat sticky confection of
chocolate, the German said:
"So you go to Shiraz?"
"Yes, I shall fly there. Then I shall come back from
Shiraz to Ispahan and Teheran by road. Is it you who
will fly me to Shiraz tomorrow?"
"Ach, no. I return to Baghdad."
"You have been long here?"
"Three years. It has only been established three years,
our service. So far, we have never had an accident--
unberufen,t'' He touched the table.
Thick cups of sweet coffee were brought. The two
men smoked.
"My first passengers were two ladies," said the Ger-man
reminiscently. "Two English ladies."
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"Yes?" said Mr. Parker Pyne.
"The one she was a young lady very well born, the
daughter of one of your ministers, the--how does one
say it?rathe Lady Esther Carr. She was handsome, very
handsome, but mad."
"Mad?"
"Completely mad. She lives there at Shiraz in a big
native house. She wears Eastern dress. She will see no
Europeans. Is that a life for a well-born lady to live?"
"There have been others," said Mr. Parker Pyne.
"There was Lady Hester Stanhope--"
"This one is mad," said the other abruptly. "You
could see it in her eyes. Just so have I seen the eyes of
my submarine commander in the war. He is now in an
asylum."
Mr. Parker Pyne was thoughtful. He remembered
Lord Micheldever, Lady Esther Cart's father, well. He
had worked under him when the latter was Home
Secretary--a big blond man with laughing blue eyes. He
had seen Lady Micheldever once--a noted Irish beauty
with her black hair and violet-blue eyes. They were both
handsome, normal people, but for all that there was insanity
in the Carr family. It cropped out every now and
then, after missing a generation. It was odd, he thought,
that Herr Schlagal should stress the point.
"And the other lady?" he asked idly.
"The other lady--is dead."
Something in his voice made Mr. Parker Pyne look
up sharply.
"I have a heart," said Herr Schlagal. "I feel. She
was, to me, most beautiful, that lady. You know how it
is, these things come over you all of a sudden. She was a
flower--a flower." He sighed deeply. "I went to see
them once--at the house at Shiraz. The Lady Esther,
she asked me to come. My little one, my flower, she was
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1
afraid of something, I could see it. When next I ca
back from Baghdad, I hear that she is dead. Dead!"
He paused and then said thoughtfully: "It might
that the other one killed her. She was mad, I tell you.'
He sighed, and Mr. Parker Pyneordered two
dictines.
"The curacao, it is good," said the Georgian wait,
and brought them two curaCaos.
Just after noon the following day, Mr. Parker Py
had his first view of Shiraz. They had flown over mou
tain ranges with narrow, desolate valleys between, al
all arid, parched, dry wilderness. Then suddenly Shir
came into view--an emerald-green jewel in the heart
the wilderness.
Mr. Parker Pyne enjoyed Shiraz as he had not e
joyed Teheran. The primitive character of the hotel d
not appall him, nor the equally primitive character
the streets.
He found himself in the midst of a Persian holida
The Nan Ruz festival had begun on the previous evenil
--the fifteen-day period in which the Persians celebr
their New Year. He wandered through the empty b
zaars and passed out into the great open stretch of col
mon on the north side of the city. All Shiraz w
celebrating.
One day he walked just outside the town. He h
been to the tomb of Hanfiz the poet, and it was c
returning that he saw and was fascinated by a house.
house all tiled in blue and rose and yellow, set in agre¢
garden with water and orange trees and roses. It was,
felt, the house of a dream.
That night he was dining with the English consu
l an
he asked about the house.
"Fascinating place, isn't it? It was built by a form
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wealthy governor of Luristan, who had made a good
thing out of his official position. An Englishwoman's
got it now. You must have heard of her. Lady Esther
Carr. Mad as a hatter. Gone completely native. Won't
have anything to do with a. nything or anyone British."
"Is she young?"
"Too young to play the fool in this way. She's about
thirty."
"There was another Englishwoman with her, wasn't
there? A woman who died?"
"Yes; that was about three years ago. Happened the
day after I took up my post here, as a matter of fact.
Barham, my predecessor, died suddenly, you know."
"How did she die?" asked Mr. Parker Pyne bluntly.
"Fell from that courtyard or balcony place on the
first floor. She was Lady Esther's maid or companion, I
forget which. Anyway, she was carrying the breakfast
tray and stepped back over the edge. Very sad; nothing
to be done; cracked her skull on the stone below."
"What was her name?"
"King, I think; or was it Wills? No, that's the missionary
woman. Rather a nice-looking girl."
"Was Lady Esther upset?"
"Yes--no, I don't know. She was very queer; I
couldn't make her out. She's a very--well, imperious
creature. You can see she is somebody, if you know
what I mean; she rather scared me with her commanding
ways and her dark, flashing eyes."
He laughed half apologetically, then looked curiously
at his companion. Mr. Parker Pyne was apparently staring
into space. The match he had just struck to light his
cigaret was burning away unheeded in his hand. It
burned down to his fingers and he dropped it with an
ejaculation of pain. Then he saw the consul's astonished
expression and smiled.
rT
THE
HOUSE OF SHIRAZ
141
"I beg your pardon," he said.
"Woolgathering, weren't you?"
"Three bags full," said Mr. Parker Pyne enigmat-ically.
They talked of other matters.
That evening, by the light of a small oil lamp, Mr.
Parker Pyne wrote a letter. He hesitated a good deal
over its composition. Yet in the end it was very simple:
Mr. Parker Pyne presents his compliments to
Lady Esther Cart and begs to state that he is stay-ing
at the Hotel Fars for the next three days should
she wish to consult him.
He enclosed a cuttingmthe famous advertisement:
.
"That ought to do the trick," said Mr. Parker Pyne,
as he got gingerly into his rather uncomfortable bed.
"Let me see, nearly three years; yes, it ought to do it."
On the following day about four o'clock the answer
came. It was brought by a Persian servant who knew no
English.
Lady Esther Carr will be glad if Mr. Parker Pyne
will call upon her at nine o'clock this evening.
Mr. Parker Pyne smiled.
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It was the same servant who received him that eve-ning.
He was taken through the dark garden and up an
outside staircase that led round to the back of the house.
From there a door was opened and he passed through
into the central court or balcony, which was open to the
night. A big divan was placed against the wall and on it
reclined a striking figur,e.
Lady Esther was attired in Eastern robes, and it might
have been suspected that one reason for her preference
lay in the fact that they suited her rich, Oriental style of
beauty. Imperious, the consul had called her, and in-deed
imperious she looked. Her chin was held high and
her brows were arrogant.
-"You are Mr. Parker Pyne? Sit down there."
Her hand pointed to a heap of cushions. On the third
finger there flashed a big emerald carved with the arms
of her family. It was an heirloom and must be worth a
small fortune, Mr. Parker Pyne reflected.
He lowered himself obediently, though with a little
difficulty. For a man of his figure it is not easy to sit on
the ground gracefully.
A servant appeared with coffee. Mr. Parker Pyne
took his cup and sipped appreciatively.
His hostess had acquired the Oriental habit of infinite
leisure. She did not rush into conversation. She, too,
sipped her coffee with half-closed eyes. At last she
spoke.
"So you help unhappy people," she said. "At least,
that is what your advertisement claims."
"Yes."
"Why did you send it to me? Is it your way of--doing
business on your travels?"
There was something decidedly offensive in her voice,
but Mr. Parker Pyne ignored it. He answered simply,
"No. My idea in traveling is to have a complete holiday
from business."
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143
"Then why send it to me?"
"Because I had reason to believe that you--are
unhappy."
There was a moment's silence. He was very curious.
How would she take that? She gave herself a minute to
decide that point. Then she laughed.
"I suppose you thought that anyone who leaves the
world, who lives as I do, cut off from my race, from my
country, must do so because she is unhappy! Sorrow,
disappointment--you think something like that drove
me into exile? Oh, well, how should you understand?
There--in England--I was a fish out of water. Here I
am myself. I am an Oriental at heart. I love this seclu-sion.
I dare say you can't understand that..To you, I
must seem"--she hesitated a moment--"mad."
"You're not mad," said Mr. Parker Pyn¢.
There was a good deal of quiet assurance in his voice.
She looked at him curiously.
"But they've been saying I am, I suppose. Fools! It
takes all kinds to make a world. I'm perfectly happy."
"And yet you told me to come here," said Mr. Parker
Pyne.
"I will admit I was curious to see you." She hesitated.
"Besides, I never want to go back there--to England--but
all the same, sometimes I like to hear what is going
on in--"
"In the world you have left?"
She acknowledged the sentence with a nod.
Mr. Parker Pyne began to talk. His voice, mellow and
reassuring, began quietly, then rose ever so little as he
emphasized this point and that.
He talked of London, of society gossip, of famous
men and women, of new restaurants and new night
clubs, of race meetings and shooting parties and
country-house scandals. He talked of clothes, of fash-ions
from Paris, of little shops in unfashionable streets
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where marvelous bargains could be had. He described
theaters and cinemas, he gave film news, he described
the building of new garden suburbs, he talked of bulbs
and gardeni
ng, and he came last to a homely description
of London in the evening, with the trams and the busses
and the hurrying crowds going homeward after the
day's work and of the little homes awaiting them, and
of the whole strange intimate pattern of English family
life.
It was a very remarkable performance, displaying as
it did wide and unusual knowledge and a clever marshal-ing
of the facts. Lady Esther's head had drooped; the
arrogance of her poise had been abandoned. For some
time her tears had been quietly falling, and now that he
had finished, she abandoned all pretense and wept
openly.
Mr. Parker Pyne said nothing. He sat there watching
her. His face had the quiet, satisfied expression of one
who has conducted an experiment and obtained the
desired result.
She raised her head at last. "Well," she said bitterly,
"are you satisfied?"
"I think so--now."
"How shall I bear it; how shall I bear it? Never to
leave here; never to see--anyone again!" The cry came
as though wrung out of her. She caught herself up,