The Golden Ball and Other Stories

by Agatha Christie

  companion whispered, "Leave it to me. It will be all right."

  George was only too pleased to leave it to her. The situation, he considered, called for feminine finesse.

  They were shown into a drawing room. No sooner had the butler left the room than the door almost immediately

  reopened and a big florid lady with peroxide hair came in

  expectantly.

  Mary Montresor made a movement towards her, then paused in well-stimulated surprise.

  "Why!" she exclaimed. "It isn't Amy! What an extraordinary thing!"

  "It is an extraordinary thing," said a grim voice.

  A man had entered behind Mrs. Pardonstenger, an enormous man with a bulldog face and a sinister frown. George

  thought he had never seen such an unpleasant brute. The

  man closed the door and stood with his back against it.

  "A very extraordinary thing," he repeated sneeringly. "But I fancy we understand your little game!" He suddenly

  produced what seemed an outsize in revolvers. "Hands up.

  Hands up, I say. Frisk 'em, Bella."

  George in reading detective stories had often wondered what it meant to be frisked. Now he knew. Bella (alias Mrs.

  P.) satisfied herself that neither he nor Mary concealed any

  lethal weapons on their persons.

  "Thought you were mighty clever, didn't you?" sneered the man. "Coming here like this and playing the innocents.

  You've made a mistake this timewa bad mistake. In fact,

  I very much doubt whether your friends and relations will

  ever see you again. Ah! You would, would you?" as George

  made a movement. "None of your games. I'd shoot you as

  soon as look at you."

  "Be careful, George," quavered Mary.

  "I shall," said George with feeling. "Very careful." "And now march," said the man. "Open the door, Bella.

  Keep your hands above your heads, you two. The lady

  ftrstwthat's right. I'll come behind you both. Across the

  hall. Upstairs..."

  THE GOLDEN BALL 89

  They obeyed. What else could they do? Mary mounted

  the stairs, her hands held high. George followed. Behind

  them came the huge ruffian, revolver in hand.

  Mary reached the top of the staircase and turned the

  corner. At the same moment, without the least warning,

  George lunged out a fierce backward kick. He caught the

  man full in the middle and he capsized backwards down the

  stairs. In a moment George had turned and leaped down

  after him, kneeling on his chest. With his right hand, he

  picked up the revolver which had fallen from the other's

  hand as he fell.

  Bella gave a scream and retreated through a baize door.

  Mary came running down the stairs, her face as white as

  paper.

  "George, you haven't killed him?"

  The man was lying absolutely still. George bent over

  him.

  "I don't think I've killed him," he said regretfully. "But

  he's certainly taken the count all right."

  "Thank God." She was breathing rapidly.

  "Pretty neat," said George with permissible self-admi-ration.

  "Many a lesson to be learnt from a jolly old mule.

  Eh, what?"

  Mary pulled at his hand.

  "Come away," she cried feverishly. "Come away quick."

  "If we had something to tie this fellow up with," said

  George, intent on his own plans. "I suppose you couldn't

  find a bit of rope or cord anywhere?"

  "No, I couldn't," said Mary. "And come away, please--please--I'm

  so frightened."

  "You needn't be frightened," said George with manly

  arrogance. "I'm here."

  "Darling George, please--for my sake. I don't want to

  be mixed up in this. Please let's go."

  The exquisite way in which she breathed the words "fo

  my sake" shook George's resolution. He allowed himself

  to be led forth from the house and hurried down the drive

  to the waiting car. Mary said faintly: "You drive. I don't

  feel I can." George took command of the wheel.

  "But we've got to see this thing through," he said. "Heaven

  knows what blackguardism that nasty-looking fellow is up

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  Agatha Christie

  to. I won't bring the police into it if you don't want me

  tombut I'll have a try on my own. I ought to be able to

  get on their track all right."

  "No, George, I don't want you to."

  "We have a first-class adventure like this, and you want

  me to back out of it? Not on my life."

  "I'd no idea you were so bloodthirsty," said Mary tearfully.

  "I'm not bloodthirsty. I didn't begin it. The damned

  cheek of the fellow--threatening us with an outsize revolver.

  By the way--why on earth didn't that revolver go

  off when I kicked him downstairs?"

  He stopped the car and fished the revolver out of the side

  pocket of the car where he had placed it. After examining

  it, he whistled..

  "Well, I'm damned! The thing isn't loaded. If I'd known

  that---" He paused, wrapped in thought. "Mary, this is a

  very curious business."

  "I know it is. That's why I'm begging you to leave it

  alone."

  "Never," said George firmly.

  Mary uttered a heart-rending sigh.

  "I see," she said, "that I shall have to tell you. And the

  worst of it is that I haven't the least idea how you'll take

  it."

  "What do you mean--tell me?"

  "You see, it's like this." She paused. "I feel girls should

  stick together nowadays--they should insist on knowing

  something about the men they meet."

  "Well?" said George, utterly fogged.

  "And the most important thing to a girl is how a man

  will behave in an emergency--has he got presence of mind--courage--quickwittedness?

  That's the kind of thing you

  can hardly ever know--until it's too late. An emergency

  mightn't arise until you'd been married for years. All you

  do know about a man is how he dances and if he's good at

  getting taxis on a wet night."

  "Both very useful accomplishments," George pointed out.

  "Yes, but one wants to feel a man is a man."

  "The great wide-open spaces where men are men," George

  quoted absently.

  THE GOLDEN BALL

  91

  · "Exactly. But we have no wide-open spaces in England.

  So one has to create a situation artificially. That's what I

  did."

  "Do you mean--"

  "I do mean. That house, as it happens, actually is my

  house. We came to it by design--not by chance. And the

  man--that man that you nearly killed--"

  "Yes?"

  "He's Rube Wallace--the film actor. He does prize

  fighters, you know. The dearest and gentlest of men. I

  engaged him. Bella's his wife. That's why I was so terrified

  that you'd killed him. Of course the revolver wasn't loaded.

  It's a stage property. Oh, George, are you very angry?"

  "Am I the first person you have--er--tried this test on?"

  "Oh, no. There have been--let me see--nine and a

  half!"

  "Who was the half?" inquired George with curiosity.

  "Bingo," replied Mary coldly.

  "Did any of them think of kicking like a mule?"

  "No--they didn't. Some trie
d to bluster and some gave

  in at once, but they all allowed themselves to be marched

  upstairs and tied up, and gagged. Then, of course, I managed

  to work myself loose from my bonds--like in books--and

  I freed them and we got away--finding the house

  empty."

  "And nobody thought of the mule trick or anything like

  it?"

  "No."

  "In that case," said George graciously, "I forgive you."

  "Thank you, George," said Mary meekly.

  "In fact," said George, "the only question that arises is:

  Where do we go now? I'm not sure if it's Lambeth Palace

  or Doctor's Commons, wherever that is."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The license. A special license, I think, is indicated.

  You're too fond of getting engaged to one man and then

  immediately asking another one to marry you."

  "I didn't ask you to marry me!"

  "You did. At Hyde Park Corner. Not a place I should

  choose for a proposal myself, but everyone has their idiosyncrasies

  in these matters."

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  Agatha Christie

  "I did nothing of the kind. I just asked, as a joke, whether

  you would care to marry me? It wasn't intended seriously."

  "If I were to take counsel's opinion, I am .sure that he

  would say it constituted a genuine proposal. Besides, you

  know you want to marry me."

  "I don't."

  "Not after nine and a half failures? Fancy what a feeling

  of security it will give you to go through life with a man

  who can extricate you from any dangerous situation."

  Mary appeared to weaken slightly at this telling argument.

  But she said firmly: "I wouldn't marry any man unless

  he went on his knees to me."

  George looked at her. She was adorable. But George had

  other characteristics of the mule besides its kick. He said

  with equal firmness:

  "To go on one's knees to any woman is degrading. I will

  not do it."

  Mary said with enchanting wistfulness: "What a pity."

  They drove back to London. George was stern and silent.

  Mary's face was hidden by the brim of her hat. As they

  passed Hyde Park Corner, she murmured softly: "Couldn't

  you go on your knees to me?"

  George said firmly: "No."

  He felt he was being a superman. She admired him for

  his attitude. But unluckily he suspected her of mulish tendencies

  herself. He drew up suddenly.

  "Excuse me," he said.

  He jumped out of the car, retraced his steps to a fruit

  barrow they had passed and returned so quickly that the

  policeman who was bearing down upon them to ask what

  they meant by it, had not had time to arrive.

  George drove on, lightly tossing an apple into Mary's

  lap.

  "Eat more fruit," he said. "Also symbolical."

  "Symbolical?"

  "Yes, originally Eve gave Adam an apple. Nowadays

  Adam gives Eve one. See?"

  "Yes," said Mary rather doubtfully.

  "Where shall I drive you?" inquired George formally.

  "Home, please."

  He drove to Grosvenor Square. His face was absolutely

  TH C,Or: BAL

  93

  impassive. He jumped out and came round to help her out. She made a last appeal.

  "Darling George--couldn't you? Just to please me?" "Never," said George.

  And at that moment it happened. He slipped, tried to recover his balance and failed. He was kneeling in the mud

  before her. Mary gave a squeal of joy and clapped her hands.

  "Darling George! Now I will marry you. You can go straight to 'Lambeth Palace and fix up with the Archbishop

  of Canterbury about it."

  "I didn't mean to," said George hotly. "It was a bl--er--a banana skin." He held the offender up reproachfully.

  "Never mind," said Mary. "It happened. When we quarrel and you throw it in my teeth that I proposed to you, I

  can retort that you had to go on your knees to me before I

  would marry you. And all because of that blessed banana

  skin! It was a blessed banana skin you were going to say?"

  "Something of the sort," said George.

  At five-thirty that afternoon, Mr. Leadbetter was informed that his nephew had called and would like to see

  him.

  "Called to eat humble pie," said Mr. Leadbetter to himself. "I dare say I was rather hard on the lad, but it was for

  his own good."

  And he gave orders that George should be admitted. George came in airily.

  "I want a few words with you, Uncle," he said. "You did me a grave injustice this morning. I should like to know

  whether, at my age, you could have gone out into the street,

  disowned by your relatives, and between the hours of eleven-fifteen

  and five-thirty acquire an income of twenty thousand

  a year. That is what I have done!"

  "You're mad, boy."

  "Not mad; resourceful! I am going to marry a young, rich, beautiful society girl. One, moreover, who is throwing

  over a duke for my sake."

  "Marrying a girl for her money? I'd not have thought it of you."

  "And you'd have been right. I would never have dared to ask her if she hadn't--very fortunately--asked me. She

  94 Agatha Christie

  retracted afterwards, but I made her change her mind. And do you know, Uncle, how all this was done? By a judicious

  expenditure of twopence and a grasping of the golden ball

  of opportunity."

  "Why the tuppence?" asked Mr. Leadbetter, financially interested.

  "One banana--off a barrow. Not everyone would have thought of that banana. Where do you get a marriage license?

  Is it Doctor's Commons or Lambeth Palace?"

  The Rajah's Emerald

  With a serious effort James Bond bent his attention once more on the little yellow book in his hand. On its outside

  the book bore the simple but pleasing legend, "Do you want

  your salary increased by £300 per annum?" Its price was

  one shilling. James had just finished reading two pages of

  crisp paragraphs instructing him to look his boss in the face,

  to cultivate a dynamic personality, and to radiate an atmosphere

  of efficiency. He had now arrived at subtler matter,

  "There is a time for frankness, there is a time for

  discretion," the little yellow book informed him. "A strong

  man does not always blurt out all he knows." James let the

  little book close and, raising his head, gazed out over a blue

  expanse of ocean. A horrible suspicion assailed him, that

  he was not a strong man. A strong man would have been

  in command of the present situation, not a victim to it. For

  the sixtieth time that morning James rehearsed his wrongs.

  This was his holiday. His holiday! Ha, ha! Sardonic laughter. Who had persuaded him to come to that fashionable

  seaside resort, Kimpton-on-Sea? Grace. Who had urged

  him into an expenditure of more than he could afford? Grace.

  And he had fallen in with the plan eagerly. She had got him

  here, and what was the result? While he was staying in an

  obscure boarding house about a mile and a half from the

  sea front, Grace, who should have been in a similar boarding

  house (not the same one--the proprieties of James's circle

  were very strict), had flagrantly deserted him and was staying
<
br />   at no less than the Esplanade Hotel upon the sea front.

  It seemed that she had friends there. Friends! Again James laughed sardonically. His mind went back over the last three

  years of his leisurely courtship of Grace. Extremely pleased

  96 Agatha Christie

  she had been when he lust singled her out for notice. That

  was before she had risen to heights of glory in the millinery

  salons at Messrs. Bartles in the High Street. In those early

  days it had been James who gave himself airs; now, alas!

  the boot was on the olher leg. Grace was what is technically

  known as "earning good money." It had made her uppish.

  Yes, that was it, thoroughly uppish. A confused fragment

  out of a poetry book came back to James's mind, something

  about "thanking heaven fasting, for a good man's love."

  But there was nothing of that kind of thing observable about

  Grace. WeB-fed on an Esplanade Hotel breakfast, she was

  ignoring the good man's love utterly. She was indeed accepting

  the attentions of a poisonous idiot called Claud

  Sopworth, a man, James felt convinced, of no moral worth

  whatsoever.

  James ground a heel into the earth and scowled darkly

  at the horizon. Kimpton-on-Sea. What had possessed him

  to come to such a place? It was pre-eminently a resort of

  the rich and fashionable, it possessed two large hotels, and

  several miles of picturesque bungalows belonging to fashionable

  actresses, rich merchants and those members of the

  English aristocracy who had married wealthy wives. The

  rent, furnished, of the smallest bungalow was twenty-five

  guineas a week. Imagination boggled at what the rent of

  the large ones might amount to. There was one of these

  palaces immediately behind James's seat. It belonged to that

  famous sportsman Lord Edward Campion, and there were

  staying there at the moment a houseful of distinguished

  guests including the Rajah of Maraputna, whose wealth was

  fabulous. James had read all about him in the local weekly

  newspaper that morning: the extent of his Indian possessions,

  his palaces, his wonderful collection of jewels, with

  a special mention of one famous emerald which the papers