Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  "It was a terrible blow," said Lady Rustonbury.

  "Not that he is really a singer," said Brûon.

  He told her at some length why this was so. There had been, it seemed, no baritone of distinction since Edouard Brûon retired.

  "Mme Nazorkoff is singing 'Tosca,'" said Lady Rustonbury. "You know her, I dare say?"

  "I have never met her," said Brûon. "I heard her sing once in New York. A great artist - she has a sense of drama."

  Lady Rustonbury felt relieved - one never knew with these singers - they had such queer jealousies and antipathies.

  She re-entered the hall at the castle some twenty minutes later waving a triumphant hand.

  "I have got him," she cried, laughing. "Dear M. Brûon has really been too kind. I shall never forget it."

  Everyone crowded round the Frenchman, and their gratitude and appreciation were as incense to him. Edouard Brûon, though now close on sixty, was still a fine-looking man, big and dark, with a magnetic personality.

  "Let me see," said Lady Rustonbury. "Where is Madame -? Oh!

  There she is."

  Paula Nazorkoff had taken no part in the general welcoming of the Frenchman. She had remained quietly sitting in a high oak chair in the shadow of the fireplace. There was, of course, no fire, for the evening was a warm one and the singer was slowly fanning herself with an immense palm-leaf fan. So aloof and detached was she, that Lady Rustonbury feared she had taken offence.

  "M. Brûon." She led him up to the singer. "You have never yet met Madame Nazorkoff, you say."

  With a last wave, almost a flourish, of the palm leaf, Paula Nazorkoff laid it down and stretched out her hand to the Frenchman. He took it and bowed low over it, and a faint sigh escaped from the prima donna's lips.

  "Madame," said Brûon, "we have never sung together. That is the penalty of my age! But Fate has been kind to me, and come to my rescue."

  Paula laughed softly.

  "You are too kind, M. Brûon. When I was still but a poor little unknown singer, I have sat at your feet. Your 'Rigoletto' - what art, what perfection! No one could touch you."

  "Alas!" said Brûon, pretending to sigh. "My day is over. Scarpia, Rigoletto, Radams, Sharpless, how many times have I not sung them, and now - no more!"

  "Yes - tonight."

  "True, madame - I forgot. Tonight."

  "You have sung with many 'Tosca's," said Nazorkoff arrogantly, "but never with me!"

  The Frenchman bowed.

  "It will be an honour," he said softly. "It is a great part, madame."

  "It needs not only a singer, but an actress," put in Lady Rustonbury.

  "That is true," Brûon agreed. "I remember when I was a young man in Italy, going to a little out-of-the-way theatre in Milan. My seat cost me only a couple of lira, but I heard as good singing that night as I have heard in the Metropolitan Opera House in New York.

  Quite a young girl sang 'Tosca'; she sang it like an angel. Never shall I forget her voice in 'Vissi D'Arte,' the clearness of it, the purity. But the dramatic force, that was lacking."

  Nazorkoff nodded.

  "That comes later," she said quietly.

  "True. This young girl - Bianca Capelli her name was - I interested myself in her career. Through me she had the chance of big engagements, but she was foolish - regrettably foolish."

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  "How was she foolish?"

  It was Lady Rustonbury's twenty-four-year-old daughter, Blanche Amery, who spoke - a slender girl with wide blue eyes.

  The Frenchman turned to her at once politely.

  "Alas! Mademoiselle, she had embroiled herself with some low fellow, a ruffian, a member of the Camorra. He got into trouble with the police, was condemned to death; she came to me begging me to do something to save her lover."

  Blanche Avery was staring at him.

  "And did you?" she asked breathlessly.

  "Me, mademoiselle, what could I do? A stranger in the country."

  "You might have had influence?" suggested Nazorkoff in her low, vibrant voice.

  "If I had, I doubt whether I should have exerted it. The man was not worth it. I did what I could for the girl."

  He smiled a little, and his smile suddenly struck the English girl as having something peculiarly disagreeable about it. She felt that, at that moment, his words fell far short of representing his thoughts.

  "You did what you could," said Nazorkoff. "That was kind of you, and she was grateful, eh?"

  The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

  "The man was executed," he said, "and the girl entered a convent.

  Eh, voila! The world has lost a singer."

  Nazorkoff gave a low laugh.

  "We Russians are more fickle," she said lightly.

  Blanche Amery happened to be watching Cowan just as the singer spoke, and she saw his quick look of astonishment, and his lips that half opened and then shut tight in obedience to some warning glance from Paula.

  The butler appeared in the doorway.

  "Dinner," said Lady Rustonbury, rising. "You poor things, I am so sorry for you. It must be dreadful always to have to starve yourself before singing. But there will be a very good supper afterwards."

  "We shall look forward to it," said Paula Nazorkoff. She laughed softly. "Afterwards!"

  III

  Inside the theatre, the first act of Tosca had just drawn to a close.

  The audience stirred, spoke to each other. The royalties, charming and gracious, sat in the three velvet chairs in the front row.

  Everyone was whispering and murmuring to each other; there was a general feeling that in the first act Nazorkoff had hardly lived up to her great reputation. Most of the audience did not realize that in this the singer showed her art; in the first act she was saving her voice and herself. She made of La Tosca a light, frivolous figure, toying with love, coquettishly jealous and exacting. Brûon, though the glory of his voice was past its prime, still struck a magnificent figure as the cynical Scarpia. There was no hint of the decrepit rouû in his conception of the part. He made of Scarpia a handsome, almost benign figure, with just a hint of the subtle malevolence that underlay the outward seeming. In the last passage, with the organ and the procession, when Scarpia stands lost in thought, gloating over his plan to secure Tosca, Brûon had displayed a wonderful art. Now the curtain rose upon the second act, the scene in Scarpia's apartments.

  This time, when Tosca entered, the art of Nazorkoff at once became apparent. Here was a woman in deadly terror playing her part with the assurance of a fine actress. Her easy greeting of Scarpia, her nonchalance, her smiling replies to him! In this scene, Paula Nazorkoff acted with her eyes; she carried herself with deadly quietness, with an impassive, smiling face. Only her eyes that kept darting glances at Scarpia betrayed her true feelings.

  And so the story went from the torture scene, the breaking down of Tosca's composure, and her utter abandonment when she fell at Scarpia's feet imploring him vainly for mercy. Old Lord Leconmere, a connoisseur of music, moved appreciatively, and a foreign ambassador sitting next to him murmured:

  "She surpasses herself, Nazorkoff, tonight. There is no other woman on the stage who can let herself go as she does."

  Leconmere nodded.

  And now Scarpia has named his price, and Tosca, horrified, flies from him to the window. Then comes the beat of drums from afar, and Tosca flings herself wearily down on the sofa. Scarpia, standing over her, recites how his people are raising up the gallows - and then silence, and again the far-off beat of drums.

  Nazorkoff lay prone on the sofa, her head hanging downwards almost touching the floor, masked by her hair. Then, in exquisite contrast to the passion and stress of the last twenty minutes, her voice rang out, high and clear, the voice, as she had told Cowan, of a choir boy or an angel.

  "Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore, no feci mai male ad anima vival. Con man furtiva quante miserie conobbi, aiu-tai."

  It was the voice of a wondering, p
uzzled child. Then she is once more kneeling and imploring, till the instant when Spoletta enters.

  Tosca, exhausted, gives in, and Scarpia utters his fateful words of double-edged meaning. Spoletta departs once more. Then comes the dramatic moment when Tosca, raising a glass of wine in her trembling hand, catches sight of the knife on the table and slips it behind her.

  Brûon rose up, handsome, saturnine, inflamed with passion.

  "Tosca, finalmente mia!" The lightning stab with the knife, and Tosca's hiss of vengeance:

  "Questo e il baccio di Tosca!" ("It is thus that Tosca kisses.")

  Never had Nazorkoff shown such an appreciation of Tosca's act of vengeance. That last fierce whispered "Muori dannato," and then in a strange, quiet voice that filled the theatre:

  "Or gli perdono!" ("Now I forgive him!")

  The soft death tune began as Tosca set about her ceremonial, placing the candles each side of his head, the crucifix on his breast, her last pause in the doorway looking back, the roll of distant drums, and the curtain fell.

  This time real enthusiasm broke out in the audience, but it was short-lived. Someone hurried out from behind the wings and spoke to Lord Rustonbury. He rose, and after a minute or two's consultation, turned and beckoned to Donald Calthorp, who was an eminent physician. Almost immediately the truth spread through the audience. Something had happened; an accident; someone was badly hurt. One of the singers appeared before the curtain and explained that M. Brûon had unfortunately met with an accident -the opera could not proceed. Again the rumour went round, Brûon had been stabbed, Nazorkoff had lost her head, had lived in her part so completely that she had actually stabbed the man who was acting with her. Lord Leconmere, talking to his ambassador friend, felt a touch on his arm, and turned to look into Blanche Amery's eyes.

  "It was not an accident," the girl was saying. "I am sure it was not an accident. Didn't you hear, just before dinner, that story he was telling about the girl in Italy? That girl was Paula Nazorkoff. Just after, she said something about being Russian, and I saw Mr Cowan look amazed. She may have taken a Russian name, but he knows well enough that she is Italian."

  "My dear Blanche," said Lord Leconmere.

  "I tell you I am sure of it. She had a picture paper in bedroom opened at the page showing M. Brûon in his English country home.

  She knew before she came down here. I believe she gave something to that poor little Italian man to make him ill."

  "But why?" cried Lord Leconmere. "Why?"

  "Don't you see? It's the story of Tosca all over again. He wanted her in Italy, but she was faithful to her lover, and she went to him to try to get him to save her lover, and he pretended he would.

  Instead be let him die. And now at last her revenge has come.

  Didn't you hear the way she hissed 'I am Tosca'? And I saw Brûon's face when she said it, he knew then - he recognized her!"

  In her dressing room, Paula Nazorkoff sat motionless, a white ermine cloak held round her. There was a knock at the door.

  "Come in," said the prima donna.

  Elise entered. She was sobbing.

  "Madame, madame, he is dead! And -"

  "Yes?"

  "Madame, how can I tell you? There are two gentlemen of the police there; they want to speak to you."

  Paula Nazorkoff rose to her full height.

  "I will go to them," she said quietly.

  She untwisted a collar of pearls from her neck and put them into the French girl's hands.

  "Those are for you, Elise; you have been a good girl. I shall not need them now where I am going. You understand, Elise? I shall not sing 'Tosca' again."

  She stood a moment by the door, her eyes sweeping over the dressing room, as though she looked back over the past thirty years of her career.

  Then softly between her teeth, she murmured the last line of another opera:

  "La commedia e finita!"

  Murder in the Mews (Dead Man's Mirror) *1937 *

  Murder in the Mews

  Chapter 1

  I 'Penny for the guy, sir?' A small boy with a grimy face grinned ingratiatingly. 'Certainly not!' said Chief Inspector Japp. 'And, look here, my lad - ' A short homily followed. The dismayed urchin beat a precipitate retreat, remarking briefly and succinctly to his youthful friends: 'Blimey, if it ain't a cop all togged up!' The band took to its heels, chanting the incantation:

  Remember, remember The fifth of November Gunpowder treason and plot We see no reason Why gunpowder treason Should ever be forgot The chief inspector's companion, a small, elderly man with an eggshaped head and large, military-looking moustaches, was smiling to himself. 'Très bien, Japp,' he observed. 'You preach the sermon very well! I congratulate you!'

  'Rank excuse for begging, that's what Guy Fawkes' Day is!' said Japp. 'An interesting survival,' mused Hercule Poirot. 'The fireworks go up - crack - crack - long after the man they commemorate and his deed are forgotten.' The Scotland Yard man agreed. 'Don't suppose many of those kids really know who Guy Fawkes was.'

  'And soon, doubtless, there will be confusion of thought. Is it in honour or in execration that on the fifth of November the feu d'artifice are sent up? To blow up an English Parliament, was it a sin or a noble deed?' Japp chuckled. 'Some people would say undoubtedly the latter.' Turning off the main road, the two men passed into the comparative quiet of a mews. They had been dining together and were now taking a short cut to Hercule Poirot's flat. As they walked along the sound of squibs was still heard periodically. An occasional shower of golden rain illuminated the sky. 'Good night for a murder,' remarked Japp with professional interest. 'Nobody would hear a shot, for instance, on a night like this.'

  'It has always seemed odd to me that more criminals do not take advantage of the fact,' said Hercule Poirot. 'Do you know, Poirot, I almost wish sometimes that you would commit a murder.'

  'Mon cher!'

  'Yes, I'd like to see just how you'd set about it.'

  'My dear Japp, if I committed a murder you would not have the least chance of seeing - how I set about it! You would not even be aware, probably, that a murder had been committed.' Japp laughed good-humouredly and affectionately. 'Cocky little devil, aren't you?' he said indulgently. II At half-past eleven the following morning, Hercule Poirot's telephone rang. '

  'Allo? 'Allo?'

  'Hallo, that you, Poirot?'

  'Oui, c'est moi.'

  'Japp speaking here. Remember we came home last night through Bardsley Gardens Mews?'

  'Yes?'

  'And that we talked about how easy it would be to shoot a person with all those squibs and crackers and the rest of it going off?'

  'Certainly.'

  'Well, there was a suicide in that mews. No. 14. A young widow - Mrs Allen. I'm going round there now. Like to come?'

  'Excuse me, but does someone of your eminence, my dear friend, usually get sent to a case of suicide?'

  'Sharp fellow. No - he doesn't. As a matter of fact our doctor seems to think there's something funny about this. Will you come? I kind of feel you ought to be in on it.'

  'Certainly I will come. No. 14, you say?'

  'That's right.' III

  Poirot arrived at No. 14 Bardsley Gardens Mews almost at the same moment as a car drew up containing Japp and three other men. No. 14 was clearly marked out as the centre of interest. A big circle of people, chauffeurs, their wives, errand boys, loafers, well-dressed passers-by and innumerable children were drawn up all staring at No. 14 with open mouths and a fascinated stare. A police constable in uniform stood on the step and did his best to keep back the curious. Alert-looking young men with cameras were busy and surged forward as Japp alighted. 'Nothing for you now,' said Japp, brushing them aside. He nodded to Poirot. 'So here you are. Let's get inside.' They passed in quickly, the door shut behind them and they found themselves squeezed together at the foot of a ladder-like flight of stairs. A man came to the top of the staircase, recognized Japp and said: 'Up here, sir.' Japp and Poirot mounted the stairs
. The man at the stairhead opened a door on the left and they found themselves in a small bedroom. 'Thought you'd like me to run over the chief points, sir.'

  'Quite right, Jameson,' said Japp. 'What about it?' Divisional Inspector Jameson took up the tale. 'Deceased's a Mrs Allen, sir. Lived here with a friend - a Miss Plenderleith. Miss Plenderleith was away staying in the country and returned this morning. She let herself in with her key, was surprised to find no one about. A woman usually comes in at nine o'clock to do for them. She went upstairs first into her own room (that's this room) then across the landing to her friend's room. Door was locked on the inside. She rattled the handle, knocked and called, but couldn't get any answer. In the end getting alarmed she rang up the police station. That was at ten forty-five. We came along at once and forced the door open. Mrs Allen was lying in a heap on the ground shot through the head. There was an automatic in her hand - a Webley .25

  - and it looked a clear case of suicide.'

  'Where is Miss Plenderleith now?'

  'She's downstairs in the sitting-room, sir. A very cool, efficient young lady, I should say. Got a head on her.'

  'I'll talk to her presently. I'd better see Brett now.' Accompanied by Poirot he crossed the landing and entered the opposite room. A tall, elderly man looked up and nodded. 'Hallo, Japp, glad you've got here. Funny business, this.'

  Japp advanced towards him. Hercule Poirot sent a quick searching glance round the room. It was much larger than the room they had just quitted. It had a builtout bay window, and whereas the other room had been a bedroom pure and simple, this was emphatically a bedroom disguised as a sitting-room. The walls were silver and the ceiling emerald green. There were curtains of a modernistic pattern in silver and green. There was a divan covered with a shimmering emerald green silk quilt and numbers of gold and silver cushions. There was a tall antique walnut bureau, a walnut tallboy, and several modern chairs of gleaming chromium. On a low glass table there was a big ashtray full of cigarette stubs. Delicately Hercule Poirot sniffed the air. Then he joined Japp where the latter stood looking down at the body. In a heap on the floor, lying as she had fallen from one of the chromium chairs, was the body of a young woman of perhaps twenty-seven. She had fair hair and delicate features. There was very little make-up on the face. It was a pretty, wistful, perhaps slightly stupid face. On the left side of the head was a mass of congealed blood. The fingers of the right hand were clasped round a small pistol. The woman was dressed in a simple frock of dark green high to the neck. 'Well, Brett, what's the trouble?' Japp was looking down also at the huddled figure. 'Position's all right,' said the doctor. 'If she shot herself she'd probably have slipped from the chair into just that position. The door was locked and the window was fastened on the inside.'