Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  "The blighter's asleep still. Look at him."

  True enough, Smethurst still sat in his armchair, his head sagging forward and his whole body slumped down.

  "I'll rouse him," said O'Rourke.

  He sprang in through the door. A minute later he reappeared. His voice had changed.

  "I say. I think he's ill - or something. Where's the doctor?"

  Squadron Leader Loftus, the Air Force doctor, a quiet looking man with greying hair detached himself from the group by the wheel.

  "What's the matter with him?" he asked.

  "I - don't know."

  The doctor entered the car. O'Rourke and Parker Pyne followed him. He bent over the sagging figure. One look and touch was enough.

  "He's dead," he said quietly.

  "Dead? But how?" Questions shot out. "Oh! how dreadful!" from Netta.

  Loftus looked round in an irritated manner.

  "Must have hit his head against the top," he said. "We went over one bad bump."

  "Surely that wouldn't kill him? Isn't there anything else?"

  "I can't tell unless I examine him properly," snapped Loftus. He looked round him with a harassed air. The women were pressing closer. The men outside were beginning to crowd in.

  Mr Parker Pyne spoke to the driver. He was a strong athletic young man. He lifted each female passenger in turn, carrying her across the mud and setting her down on dry land. Madame Pentemian and Netta he managed easily, but he staggered under the weight of the hefty Miss Pryce.

  The interior of the six-wheeler was left clear for the doctor to make his examination.

  The men went back to their efforts to jack up the car. Presently the sun rose over the horizon. It was a glorious day. The mud was drying rapidly, but the car was still stuck. Three jacks had been broken and so far no efforts had been of any avail. The drivers started preparing breakfast - opening tins of sausages and boiling water for tea.

  A little way apart Squadron Leader Loftus was giving his verdict.

  "There's no mark or wound on him. As I said he must have hit his head against the top."

  "You're satisfied he died naturally?" asked Mr Parker Pyne.

  There was something in his voice that made the doctor look at him quickly.

  "There's only one other possibility."

  "Yes?"

  "Well, that someone hit him on the back of the head with something in the nature of a sandbag." His voice sounded apologetic.

  "That's not very likely," said Williamson, the other Air Force officer.

  He was a cherubic looking youth. "I mean, nobody could do that without our seeing."

  "If we were asleep?" suggested the doctor.

  "Fellow couldn't be sure of that," pointed out the other. "Getting up and all that would have roused someone or other."

  "The only way," said General Poli, "would be for anyone sitting behind him. He could choose his moment and need not even rise from his seat."

  "Who was sitting behind Captain Smethurst?" asked the doctor.

  O'Rourke replied readily.

  "Hensley, sir - so that's no good. Hensley was Smethurst's best pal."

  There was a silence. Then Mr Parker Pyne's voice rose with quiet certainty.

  "I think," he said, "that Flight Lieutenant Williamson has something to tell us."

  "I, sir? I - well -"

  "Out with it, Williamson," said O'Rourke.

  "It's nothing, really - nothing at all."

  "Out with it."

  "It's only a scrap of conversation I overheard - at Rutbah - in the courtyard. I'd got back into the six-wheeler to look for my cigarette case. I was hunting about. Two fellows were just outside talking.

  One of them was Smethurst. He was saying -"

  He paused.

  "Come on, man, out with it."

  "Something about not wanting to let a pal down. He sounded very distressed. Then he said: 'I'll hold my tongue till Baghdad - but not a minute afterwards. You'll have to get out quickly.'"

  "And the other man?"

  "I don't know, sir. I swear I don't. It was dark and he only said a word or two and that I couldn't catch."

  "Who amongst you knows Smethurst well?"

  "I don't think the words 'a pal' could refer to any one but Hensley," said O'Rourke slowly. "I knew Smethurst, but very slightly.

  Williamson is new out - so is Squadron Leader Loftus. I don't think either of them have ever met him before."

  Both men agreed.

  "You, General?"

  "I never saw the young man until we crossed the Lebanon in the same car from Beirut."

  "And that Armenian rat?"

  "He couldn't be a pal," said O'Rourke with decision. "And no Armenian would have the nerve to kill anyone."

  "I have, perhaps, a small additional piece of evidence," said Mr Parker Pyne.

  He repeated the conversation he had had with Smethurst in the cafû at Damascus.

  He made use of the phrase - "don't like to go back on a pal," said O'Rourke thoughtfully. "And he was worried."

  "Has no one else anything to add?" asked Mr Parker Pyne.

  The doctor coughed.

  "It may have nothing to do with it -" he began.

  He was encouraged.

  "It was just that I heard Smethurst say to Hensley, 'You can't deny that there is a leakage in your department.'"

  "When was this?"

  "Just before starting from Damascus yesterday morning. I thought they were just talking shop. I didn't imagine - " He stopped.

  "My friends, this is interesting," said the General. "Piece by piece you assemble the evidence."

  "You said a sandbag, doctor," said Mr Parker Pyne. "Could a man manufacture such a weapon?"

  "Plenty of sand," said the doctor drily. He took some up in his hand as he spoke.

  "If you put some in a sock," began O'Rourke and hesitated.

  Everyone remembered two short sentences spoken by Hensley the night before.

  "Always carry spare socks. Never know."

  There was silence. Then Mr Parker Pyne said quietly. "Squadron Leader Loftus, I believe Mr Hensley's spare socks are in the pocket of his overcoat which is now in the car."

  Their eyes went for one minute to where a moody figure was pacing to and from on the horizon. Hensley had held aloof since the discovery of the dead man. His wish for solitude had been respected since it was known that he and the dead man had been friends.

  Mr Parker Pyne went on.

  "Will you get them and bring them here?"

  The doctor hesitated.

  "I don't like -" he muttered. He looked again at that pacing figure.

  "Seems a bit low down -"

  "You must get them please," said Mr Parker Pyne. "The circumstances are unusual. We are marooned here. And we have got to know the truth. If you will fetch those socks I fancy we shall be a step nearer."

  Loftus turned away obediently.

  Mr Parker Pyne drew General Poli a little aside.

  "General, I think it was you who sat across the aisle from Captain Smethurst."

  "That is so."

  "Did anyone get up and pass down the car?"

  "Only the English lady, Miss Pryce. She went to the wash place at the back."

  "Did she stumble at all?"

  "She lurched a little with the movement of the car, naturally."

  "She was the only person you saw moving about?"

  "Yes."

  The General looked at him curiously and said, "Who are you, I wonder? You take command, yet you are not a soldier."

  "I have seen a good deal of life," said Mr Parker Pyne.

  "You have traveled, eh?"

  "No," said Mr Parker Pyne. "I have sat in an office."

  Loftus returned carrying the socks. Mr Parker Pyne took them from him and examined them. To the inside of one of them wet sand still adhered.

  Mr Parker Pyne drew a deep breath.

  "Now I know," he said.

  All their eyes went to the pacing fi
gure on the horizon.

  "I should like to look at the body if I may," said Mr Parker Pyne.

  He went with the doctor to where Smethurst's body had been laid down covered with a tarpaulin.

  The doctor removed the cover.

  "There's nothing to see," he said.

  But Mr Parker Pyne's eyes were fixed on the dead man's tie.

  "So Smethurst was an old Etonian," he said. Loftus looked surprised.

  Then Mr Parker Pyne surprised him still further.

  "What do you know of young Williamson?" he asked.

  "Nothing at all. I only met him at Beirut. I'd come from Egypt. But why? Surely -"

  "Well, it's on his evidence we're going to hang a man, isn't it?" said Mr Parker Pyne cheerfully. "One's got to be careful."

  He still seemed to be interested in the dead man's tie and collar. He unfastened the studs and removed the collar. Then he uttered an exclamation.

  "See that?"

  On the back of the collar was a small round blood-stain.

  He peered closer down at the uncovered neck.

  "This man wasn't killed by a blow on the head, doctor," he said briskly. "He was stabbed - at the base of the skull. You can just see the tiny puncture."

  "And I missed it!"

  "You'd got your preconceived notion," said Mr Parker Pyne apologetically. "A blow on the head. It's easy enough to miss this.

  You can hardly see the wound. A quick stab with a small sharp instrument and death would be instantaneous. The victim wouldn't even cry out."

  "Do you mean a stiletto? You think the General -"

  "Italians and stilettos go together in the popular fancy - Hullo, here comes a car!"

  A touring car had appeared over the horizon.

  "Good," said O'Rourke as he came up to join them. "The ladies can go on in that."

  "What about our murderer?" asked Mr Parker Pyne.

  "You mean Hensley -"

  "No, I don't mean Hensley," said Mr Parker Pyne. "I happen to know that Hensley's innocent."

  "You - but why?"

  "Well, you see, he had sand in his sock."

  O'Rourke stared.

  "I know, my boy," said Mr Parker Pyne gently, "it doesn't sound like sense, but it is. Smethurst wasn't hit on the head, you see, he was stabbed."

  He paused a minute and then went on.

  "Just cast your mind back to the conversation I told you about - the conversation we had in the cafû. You picked out what was, to you, the significant phrase. But it was another phrase that struck me.

  When I said to him that I did the Confidence trick he said 'What, you too?' Doesn't that strike you as rather curious? I don't know that you'd describe a series of speculations from a Department as a 'Confidence Trick.' Confidence Trick is more descriptive of someone like the absconding Mr Samuel Long, for instance."

  The doctor started O'Rourke said. "Yes - perhaps..."

  "I said in jest that perhaps the absconding Mr Long was one of our party. Suppose that that is the truth."

  "What - but it's impossible!"

  "Not at all. What do you know of people besides their passports and the accounts they give of themselves. Am I really Mr Parker Pyne?

  Is General Poli really an Italian General? And what of the masculine Miss Pryce senior who needs a shave most distinctly."

  "But he - but Smethurst - didn't know Long?"

  "Smethurst is an old Etonian. Long, also, was at Eton. Smethurst may have known him although he didn't tell you so. He may have recognised him amongst us. And if so, what is he to do? He has a simple mind, and he worries over the matter. He decides at last to say nothing till Baghdad is reached. But after that he will hold his tongue no longer."

  "You think one of us is Long," said O'Rourke, still dazed.

  He drew a deep breath.

  "It must be the Italian fellow - it must. Or what about the Armenian?"

  "To make up as a foreigner and get a foreign passport is really much more difficult than to remain English," said Mr Parker Pyne.

  "Miss Pryce?" cried O'Rourke incredulously.

  "No," said Mr Parker Pyne. "This is our man!"

  He laid what seemed an almost friendly hand on the shoulder of the man beside him. But there was nothing friendly in his voice, and the fingers were vice-like in their grip.

  "Squadron Leader Loftus or Mr Samuel Long, it doesn't matter which you call him!"

  "But that's impossible - impossible," spluttered O'Rourke. "Loftus has been in the service for years."

  "But you've never met him before, have you? He was a stranger to all of you. It isn't the real Loftus, naturally."

  The quiet man found his voice.

  "Clever of you to guess. How did you, by the way?"

  "Your ridiculous statement that Smethurst had been killed by bumping his head. O'Rourke put that idea into your head when we were standing talking in Damascus yesterday. You thought - how simple! You were the only doctor with us - whatever you said would be accepted. You'd got Loftus's kit. You'd got his instruments. It was easy to select a neat little tool for your purpose. You lean over to speak to him and as you are speaking you drive the little weapon home. You talk a minute or two longer. It is dark in the car. Who will suspect?

  "Then comes the discovery of the body. You give your verdict. But it does not go as easily as you thought. Doubts are raised. You fall back on a second line of defense. Williamson repeats the conversation he has overheard Smethurst having with you. It is taken to refer to Hensley and you add a damaging little invention of your own about a leakage in Hensley's department. And then I make a final test. I mention the sand and the socks. You are holding a handful of sand. I send you to find the socks so that we may know the truth. But by that I did not mean what you thought I meant. I had already examined Hensley's socks. There was no sand in either of them. You put it there."

  Mr Samuel Long lit a cigarette.

  "I give it up," he said. "My luck's turned. Well, I had a good run while it lasted. They were getting hot on my trail when I reached Egypt. I came across Loftus. He was just going to join up in Baghdad - and he knew none of them there. It was too good a chance to be missed.

  I bought him. It cost me twenty thousand pounds. What was that to me? Then, by cursed ill luck, I run into Smethurst - an ass if there ever was one! He was my fag at Eton. He had a bit of hero worship for me in those days. He didn't like the idea of giving me away. I did my best and at last he promised to say nothing till we reached Baghdad. What chance should I have then? None at all. There was only one way - to eliminate him. But I can assure you I am not a murderer by nature. My talents lie in quite another direction."

  His face changed - contracted. He swayed and pitched forward.

  O'Rourke bent over him.

  "Probably prussic acid - in the cigarette," said Mr Parker Pyne.

  "The gambler has lost his last throw."

  He looked round him - at the wide desert. The sun beat down on him. Only yesterday they had left Damascus - by the gate of Baghdad.

  "Pass not beneath, O Caravan, or pass not singing.

  Have you heard That silence where the birds are dead yet something pipeth like a bird?"

  THE HOUSE AT SHIRAZ

  It was six in the morning when Mr Parker Pyne left Persia after a stop in Baghdad.

  The passenger space in the little monoplan was limited, and the small width of the seats was not sufficient to accommodate the bulk of Mr Parker Pyne with something like comfort. There were two fellow traveling: a large, florid man whom Mr Parker Pyne judged to be of a talkative habit, and a thin woman with pursed lips and a determined air.

  "At any rate," thought Mr Parker Pyne, "they don't look as though they would want to consult professionally."

  Nor did they. The little woman was an American missionary, full of hard work and happiness, and the man was employed by an oil company. They had given their fellow traveler a rûsumû of their lives before the plane started.

  "I am merely a tourist, I am
afraid," Mr Parker Pyne had said deprecatingly. "I am going to Teheran and Ispahan and Shiraz."

  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 scrutinized 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 weatherbeaten face. "Please?" he inquired pleasantly.

  Mr Parker Pyne, who had been indulging in some excellent 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 sorrowful 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.

  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 German accepted.