"I see now the reason for the embarrassment the remark seemed to cause."
"Yes, it was awkward for Jim - and for me and Pop too. I was so afraid Jim's face would show something that I just trotted out the first remarks I could think of."
Mr Parker Pyne nodded thoughtfully. Then he asked: "Just why did your father insist on being searched today?"
"You didn't get that? I did. Pop had it in his mind that I might think the whole business was a frame-up against Jim. You see, he's crazy for me to marry the Englishman. Well, he wanted to show me that he had not done the dirty on Jim."
"Dear me," said Mr Parker Pyne, "this is all very illuminating. In a general sense, I mean. It hardly helps us in our particular inquiry."
"You're not going to hand in your checks?"
"No, no." He was silent a moment, then he said, "What is it exactly you want me to do, Miss Carol?"
"Prove it wasn't Jim who took that pearl."
"And suppose - excuse me - that it was?"
"If you think so, you're wrong - dead wrong."
"Yes, but have you really considered the case carefully? Don't you think that the pearl might prove a sudden temptation to Mr Hurst?
The sale of it would bring in a large sum of money - a foundation on which to speculate, shall we say? - which will make him independent, so that he can marry you with or without your father's consent."
"Jim didn't do it," said the girl simply.
This time Mr Parker Pyne accepted her statement.
"Well, I'll do my best."
She nodded abruptly and left the tent. Mr Parker Pyne in his turn sat down on the bed. He gave himself up to thought. Suddenly he chuckled.
"I'm growing slow-witted," he said, aloud. At lunch he was very cheerful.
The afternoon passed peacefully. Most people slept. When Mr Parker Pyne came into the big tent at a quarter past four only Doctor Carver was there. He was examining some fragments of pottery.
"Ah!" said Mr Parker Pyne, drawing up a chair to the table. "Just the man I want to see. Can you let me have that bit of plasticine you carry about?"
The doctor felt in his pockets and produced a stick of plasticine, which he offered to Mr Parker Pyne.
"No," said Mr Parker Pyne, waving it away, "that's not the one I want. I want that lump you had last night. To be frank, it's not the plasticine I want. It's the contents of it."
There was a pause, and then Doctor Carver said quietly. "I don't think I quite understand you."
"I think you do," said Mr Parker Pyne. "I want Miss Blundell's pearl earring."
There was a minute's dead silence. Then Carver slipped his hand into his pocket and took out a shapeless lump of plasticine.
"Clever of you," he said. His face was expressionless.
"I wish you'd tell me about it," said Mr Parker Pyne. His fingers were busy. With a grunt, he extracted a somewhat smeared pearl earring. "Just curiosity, I know," he added apologetically. "But I should like to hear about it."
"I'll tell you," said Carver, "if you'll tell me just how you happened to pitch upon me. You didn't see anything, did you?"
Mr Parker Pyne shook his head. "I just thought about it," he said.
"It was really sheer accident, to start with," said Carver. "I was behind you all this morning and I came across it lying in front of me it must have fallen from the girl's ear a moment before. She hadn't noticed it. Nobody had. I picked it up and put it into my pocket, meaning to return it to her as soon as I caught her up. But I forgot.
"And then, halfway up that climb, I began to think. The jewel meant nothing to that fool of a girl - her father would buy her another without noticing the cost. And it would mean a lot to me. The sale of that pearl would equip an expedition." His impassive face suddenly twitched and came to life. "Do you know the difficulty there is nowadays in raising subscriptions for digging? No, you don't. The sale of that pearl would make everything easy. There's a site I want to dig up in Baluchistan. There's a whole chapter of the past there waiting to be discovered...
"What you said last night came into my mind - about a suggestible witness. I thought the girl was that type. As we reached the summit I told her her earring was loose. I pretended to tighten it. What I really did was to press the point of a small pencil into her ear. A few minutes later I dropped a little pebble. She was quite ready to swear then that the earring had been in her ear and had just dropped off. In the meantime I pressed the pearl into a lump of plasticine in my pocket. That's my story. Not a very edifying one.
Now for your turn."
"There isn't much of my story," said Mr Parker Pyne. "You were the only man who'd picked up things from the ground - that's what made me think of you. And finding that little pebble was significant.
It suggested the trick you'd played. And then -"
"Go on," said Carver.
"Well, you see, you'd talked about honesty a little too vehemently last night. Protesting overmuch - well, you know what Shakespeare says. It looked, somehow, as though you were trying to convince yourself. And you were a little too scornful about money."
The face of the man in front of him looked lined and weary. "Well, that's that," he said. "It's all up with me now. You'll give the girl back her gewgaw, I suppose? Odd thing, the barbaric instinct for ornamentation. You find it going back as far as paleolithic times.
One of the first instincts of the female sex."
"I think you misjudge Miss Carol," said Mr Parker Pyne. "She has brains - and what is more, a heart. I think she will keep this business to herself."
"Father won't, though," said the archaeologist.
"I think he will. You see, 'Pop' has his own reasons for keeping quiet. There's no forty-thousand-dollar touch about this earring. A mere fiver would cover its value."
"You mean -?"
"Yes. The girl doesn't know. She thinks they are genuine, all right. I had my suspicions last night. Mr Blundell talked a little too much about all the money he had. When things go wrong and you're caught in the slump - well, the best thing to do is to put a good face on it and bluff. Mr Blundell was bluffing."
Suddenly Doctor Carver grinned. It was an engaging small-boy grin, strange to see on the face of an elderly man. "Then we're all poor devils together," he said.
"Exactly," said Mr Parker Pyne and quoted, "'A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind.'"
DEATH ON THE NILE
Lady Grayle was nervous. From the moment of coming on board the
S.S. Fayoum she complained of everything. She did not like her cabin. She could bear the morning sun, but not the afternoon sun.
Pamela Grayle, her niece, obligingly gave up her cabin on the other side. Lady Grayle accepted it grudgingly.
She snapped at Miss MacNaughton, her nurse, for having given her the wrong scarf and for having packed her little pillow instead of leaving it out. She snapped at her husband, Sir George, for having just bought her the wrong string of beads. It was lapis she wanted, not carnelian. George was a fool!
Sir George said anxiously, "Sorry, me dear, sorry. I'll go back and change 'em. Plenty of time."
She did not snap at Basil West, her husband's private secretary, because nobody ever snapped at Basil. His smile disarmed you before you began.
But the worst of it fell assuredly to the dragoman - an imposing and richly dressed personage whom nothing could disturb. When Lady Grayle caught sight of a stranger in a basket chair and realized that he was a fellow passenger, the vials of her wrath were poured out like water.
"They told me distinctly at the office that we were the only passengers! It was the end of the season and there was no one else going!"
"That right, lady," said Mohammed calmly. "Just you and party and one gentleman, that's all."
"But I was told that there would be only ourselves."
"That quite right, lady."
"It's not all right! It was a lie! What is that man doing there?"
"He come later, lady. After you take tickets. He only decide come this morning."
"It's an absolute swindle!"
"That all right, lady; him very quiet gentleman, very nice, very quiet."
"You're a fool! You know nothing about it. Miss MacNaughton, where are you? Oh, there you are. I've repeatedly asked you to stay near me. I might feel faint. Help me to my cabin and give me an aspirin, and don't let Mohammed come near me. He keeps on saying 'That right, lady,' till I feel I could scream."
Miss MacNaughton proffered an arm without a word. She was a tall woman of about thirty-five, handsome in a quiet, dark way. She settled Lady Grayle in the cabin, propped her up with cushions, administered an aspirin and listened to the thin flow of complaint.
Lady Grayle was forty-eight. She had suffered since she was sixteen from the complaint of having too much money. She had married that impoverished baronet, Sir George Grayle, ten years before.
She was a big woman, not bad-looking as regarded features, but her face was fretful and lined, and the lavish make-up she applied only accentuated the blemishes of time and temper. Her hair had been in turn platinum-blond and henna-red, and was looking tired in consequence. She was overdressed and wore too much jewelry.
"Tell Sir George," she finished, while the silent Miss MacNaughton waited with an expressionless face, "tell Sir George that he must get that man off the boat! I must have privacy. All I've gone through lately -" She shut her eyes.
"Yes, Lady Grayle," said Miss MacNaughton, and left the cabin.
The offending last-minute passenger was still sitting in the deck chair. He had his back to Luxor and was staring out across the Nile to where the distant hills showed golden above a line of dark green.
Miss MacNaughton gave him a swift, appraising glance as she passed.
She found Sir George in the lounge. He was holding a string of beads in his hand and looking at it doubtfully.
"Tell me, Miss MacNaughton, do you think these will be all right?"
Miss MacNaughton gave a swift glance at the lapis.
"Very nice indeed," she said.
"You think Lady Grayle will be pleased - eh?"
"Oh, no, I shouldn't say that, Sir George. You see, nothing would please her. That's the real truth of it. By the way, she sent me with a message to you. She wants you to get rid of this extra passenger."
Sir George's jaw dropped. "How can I? What could I say to the fellow?"
"Of course you can't." Elsie MacNaughton's voice was brisk and kindly. "Just say there was nothing to be done." She added encouragingly, "It will be all right."
"You think it will, eh?" His face was ludicrously pathetic.
Elsie MacNaughton's voice was still kinder as she said: "You really must not take these things to heart, Sir George. It's just health, you know. Don't take it seriously."
"You think she's really bad, nurse?"
A shade crossed the nurse's face. There was something odd in her voice as she answered: "Yes, I - I don't quite like her condition. But please don't worry, Sir George. You mustn't. You really mustn't."
She gave him a friendly smile and went out.
Pamela came in, very languid and cool in her white.
"Hullo, Nunks."
"Hullo, Pam, me dear."
"What have you got there? Oh, nice!"
"Well, I'm glad you think so. Do you think your aunt will think so, too?"
"She's incapable of liking anything. I can't think why you married the woman, Nunks."
Sir George was silent. A confused panorama of unsuccessful racing, pressing creditors and a handsome, if domineering woman rose before his mental vision.
"Poor old dear," said Pamela. "I suppose you had to do it. But she does give us both rather hell, doesn't she?"
"Since she's been ill -" began Sir George.
Pamela interrupted him. "She's not ill! Not really. She can always do anything she wants to. Why, while you were up at Assouan she was as merry as a - a cricket. I bet you Miss MacNaughton knows she's a fraud."
"I don't know what we'd do without Miss MacNaughton," said Sir George, with a sigh.
"She's an efficient creature," admitted Pamela. "I don't exactly dote on her as you do, though, Nunks. Oh, you do! Don't contradict. You think she's wonderful. So she is, in a way. But she's a dark horse. I never know what she's thinking. Still, she manages the old cat quite well."
"Look here, Pam, you mustn't speak of your aunt like that. Dash it all, she's very good to you."
"Yes, she pays all our bills, doesn't she? It's the hell of a life, though."
Sir George passed on to a less painful subject. "What are we to do about this fellow who's coming on the trip? Your aunt wants the boat to herself."
"Well, she can't have it," said Pamela coolly. "The man's quite presentable. His name's Parker Pyne. I should think he was a civil servant out of the Records Department - if there is such a thing.
Funny thing is, I seem to have heard the name somewhere. Basil!"
The secretary had just entered. "Where have I seen the name Parker Pyne?"
"Front page of the 'Times.' Agony Column," replied the young man promptly. "'Are you happy? If not, consult Mr Parker Pyne.'"
"Never! How frightfully amusing! Let's tell him all our troubles all the way to Cairo."
"I haven't any," said Basil West simply. "We're going to glide down the golden Nile, and see temples -" he looked quickly at Sir George, who had picked up a paper - "together."
The last word was only just breathed, but Pamela caught it. Her eyes met his.
"You're right, Basil," she said lightly. "It's good to be alive."
Sir George got up and went out. Pamela's face clouded over.
"What's the matter, my sweet?"
"My detested aunt-by-marriage -"
"Don't worry," said Basil quickly. "What does it matter what she gets in her head? Don't contradict her. You see," he laughed, "it's good camouflage."
The benevolent figure of Mr Parker Pyne entered the lounge.
Behind him came the picturesque figure of Mohammed, prepared to say his piece.
"Lady, gentlemans, we start now. In a few minutes we pass temples of Karnak right-hand side. I tell you story now about little boy who went to buy a roasted lamb for his father..."
Mr Parker Pyne mopped his forehead. He had just returned from a visit to the Temple of Dendera. Riding on a donkey was, he felt, an exercise ill suited to his figure. He was proceeding to remove his collar when a note propped up on the dressing table caught his attention. He opened it. It ran as follows:
Dear Sir, I should be obliged if you would not visit the Temple of Abydos but would remain on the boat, as I wish to consult you.
Yours truly, Ariadne Grayle A smile creased Mr Parker Pyne's large, bland face. He reached for a sheet of paper and unscrewed his fountain pen.
Dear Lady Grayle (he wrote), I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am at present on holiday and am not doing any professional business.
He signed his name and dispatched the letter by a steward. As he completed his change of toilet, another note was brought to him.
Dear Mr Parker Pyne, I appreciate the fact that you are on holiday, but I am prepared to pay a fee of a hundred pounds for a consultation.
Yours truly, Ariadne Grayle Mr Parker Pyne's eyebrows rose. He tapped his teeth thoughtfully with his fountain pen. He wanted to see Abydos, but a hundred pounds was a hundred pounds. And Egypt had been even more wickedly expensive than he had imagined.
Dear Lady Grayle (he wrote), I shall not visit the Temple of Abydos.
Yours faithfully, J. Parker Pyne Mr Parker Pyne's refusal to leave the boat was a source of great grief to Mohammed.
"Very nice temple. All my gentlemans like see that temple. I get you carriage. I get you chair, and sailors carry you."
Mr Parker Pyne refused all these tempting offers. The others set off.
Mr Parker Pyne waited on deck. Presently the door of Lady Grayle's cabin opened and the lady herself trailed out on deck.
"Such a hot afternoon," she observed grac
iously. "I see you have stayed behind, Mr Pyne. Very wise of you. Shall we have some tea together in the lounge?"
Mr Parker Pyne rose promptly and followed her. It cannot be denied that he was curious.
It seemed as though Lady Grayle felt some difficulty in coming to the point. She fluttered from this subject to that. But finally she spoke in an altered voice.
"Mr Pyne, what I am about to tell you is in the strictest confidence!
You do understand that, don't you?"
"Naturally."
She paused, took a deep breath. Mr Parker Pyne waited.
"I want to know whether or not my husband is poisoning me."
Whatever Mr Parker Pyne had expected, it was not this. He showed his astonishment plainly. "That is a very serious accusation to make, Lady Grayle."
"Well, I'm not a fool and I wasn't born yesterday. I've had my suspicions for some time. Whenever George goes away I get better.
My food doesn't disagree with me and I feel a different woman.
There must be some reason for that."
"What you say is very serious, Lady Grayle. You must remember I am not a detective. I am, if you like to put it that way, a heart specialist -"
She interrupted him. "Eh - and don't you think it worries me, all this?
It's not a policeman I want - I can look after myself, thank you - it's certainty I want. I've got to know. I'm not a wicked woman, Mr Pyne.
I act fairly by those who act fairly by me. A bargain's a bargain. I've kept my side of it. I've paid my husband's debts and I've not stinted him in money."
Mr Parker Pyne had a fleeting pang of pity for Sir George.
"And as for the girl, she's had clothes and parties and this, that and the other. Common gratitude is all I ask."
"Gratitude is not a thing that can be produced to order, Lady Grayle."
"Nonsense!" said Lady Grayle. She went on. "Well, there it is! Find out the truth for me! Once I know -"
He looked at her curiously. "Once you know, what then, Lady Grayle?"
"That's my business." Her lips closed sharply.
Mr Parker Pyne hesitated a minute, then he said:
"You will excuse me, Lady Grayle, but I have the impression that you are not being entirely frank with me."
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