Miss Marple and Mystery

by Agatha Christie

  It was then that a scheme of dazzling simplicity suggested itself to James. It was the luncheon hour, the beach would be comparatively deserted, he would return to Mon Desir, hang up the trousers where he had found them, and regain his own garments. He started briskly towards the beach.

  Nevertheless, his conscience pricked him slightly. The emerald ought to be returned to the Rajah. He conceived the idea that he might perhaps do a little detective work – once, that is, that he had regained his own trousers and replaced the others. In pursuance of this idea, he directed his steps towards the aged mariner, whom he rightly regarded as being an exhaustible source of Kimpton information.

  ‘Excuse me!’ said James politely; ‘but I belive a friend of mine has a hut on this beach, Mr Charles Lampton. It is called Mon Desir, I fancy.’

  The aged mariner was sitting very squarely in a chair, a pipe in his mouth, gazing out to sea. He shifted his pipe a little, and replied without removing his gaze from the horizon:

  ‘Mon Desir belongs to his lordship, Lord Edward Campion, everyone knows that. I never heard of Mr Charles Lampton, he must be a newcomer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said James, and withdrew.

  The information staggered him. Surely the Rajah could not himself have slipped the stone into the pocket and forgotten it. James shook his head, the theory did not satisfy him, but evidently some member of the house-party must be the thief. The situation reminded James of some of his favourite works of fiction.

  Nevertheless, his own purpose remained unaltered. All fell out easily enough. The beach was, as he hoped it would be, practically deserted. More fortunate still, the door of Mon Desir remained ajar. To slip in was the work of a moment, Edward was just lifting his own trousers from the hook, when a voice behind him made him spin round suddenly.

  ‘So I have caught you, my man!’ said the voice.

  James stared open-mouthed. In the doorway of Mon Desir stood a stranger; a well-dressed man of about forty years of age, his face keen and hawk-like.

  ‘So I have caught you!’ the stranger repeated. ‘Who – who are you?’ stammered James. ‘Detective-Inspector Merrilees from the Yard,’ said the other crisply. ‘And I will trouble you to hand over that emerald.’

  ‘The – the emerald?’

  James was seeking to gain time.

  ‘That’s what I said, didn’t I?’ said Inspector Merrilees.

  He had a crisp, business-like enunciation. James tried to pull himself together.

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ he said with an assumption of dignity.

  ‘Oh, yes, my lad, I think you do.’

  ‘The whole thing,’ said James, ‘is a mistake. I can explain it quite easily –’ He paused.

  A look of weariness had settled on the face of the other.

  ‘They always say that,’ murmured the Scotland Yard man dryly. ‘I suppose you picked it up as you were strolling along the beach, eh? That is the sort of explanation.’

  It did indeed bear a resemblance to it, James recognized the fact, but still he tried to gain time.

  ‘How do I know you are what you say you are?’ he demanded weakly. Merrilees flapped back his coat for a moment, showing a badge. Edward stared at him with eyes that popped out of his head.

  ‘And now,’ said the other almost genially, ‘you see what you are up against! You are a novice – I can tell that. Your first job, isn’t it?’

  James nodded.

  ‘I thought as much. Now, my boy, are you going to hand over that emerald, or have I got to search you?’

  James found his voice.

  ‘I – I haven’t got it on me,’ he declared.

  He was thinking desperately. ‘Left it at your lodgings?’ queried Merrilees.

  James nodded.

  ‘Very well, then,’ said the detective, ‘we will go there together.’

  He slipped his arm through James’s.

  ‘I am taking no chances of your getting away from me,’ he said gently. ‘We will go to your lodgings, and you will hand that stone over to me.’

  James spoke unsteadily.

  ‘If I do, will you let me go?’ he asked tremulously.

  Merrilees appeared embarrassed.

  ‘We know just how that stone was taken,’ he explained, ‘and about the lady involved, and, of course, as far as that goes – well, the Rajah wants it hushed up. You know what these native rulers are?’

  James, who knew nothing whatsoever about native rulers, except for one cause célèbre, nodded his head with an appearance of eager comprehension.

  ‘It will be most irregular, of course,’ said the detective; ‘but you may get off scot-free.’

  Again James nodded. They had walked the length of the Esplanade, and were now turning into the town. James intimated the direction, but the other man never relinquished his sharp grip on James’s arm.

  Suddenly James hesitated and half-spoke. Merrilees looked up sharply, and then laughed. They were just passing the police station, and he noticed James’s agonized glances at it.

  ‘I am giving you a chance first,’ he said good-humouredly.

  It was at that moment that things began to happen. A loud bellow broke from James, he clutched the other’s arm, and yelled at the top of his voice:

  ‘Help! thief. Help! thief.’

  A crowd surrounded them in less than a minute. Merrilees was trying to wrench his arm from James’s grasp.

  ‘I charge this man,’ cried James. ‘I charge this man, he picked my pocket.’

  ‘What are you talking about, you fool?’ cried the other.

  A constable took charge of matters. Mr Merrilees and James were escorted into the police station. James reiterated his complaint.

  ‘This man has just picked my pocket,’ he declared excitedly. ‘He has got my note-case in his right-hand pocket, there!’

  ‘The man is mad,’ grumbled the other. ‘You can look for yourself, inspector, and see if he is telling the truth.’

  At a sign from the inspector, the constable slipped his hand deferentially into Merrilees’s pocket. He drew something out and held it up with a gasp of astonishment.

  ‘My God!’ said the inspector, startled out of professional decorum. ‘It must be the Rajah’s emerald.’

  Merrilees looked more incredulous than anyone else. ‘This is monstrous,’ he spluttered; ‘monstrous. The man must have put it into my pocket himself as we were walking along together. It’s a plant.’

  The forceful personality of Merrilees caused the inspector to waver. His suspicions swung round to James. He whispered something to the constable, and the latter went out.

  ‘Now then, gentlemen,’ said the inspector, ‘let me have your statements please, one at a time.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said James. ‘I was walking along the beach, when I met this gentleman, and he pretended he was acquainted with me. I could not remember having met him before, but I was too polite to say so. We walked along together. I had my suspicions of him, and just when we got opposite the police station, I found his hand in my pocket. I held on to him and shouted for help.’

  The inspector transferred his glance to Merrilees. ‘And now you, sir.’

  Merrilees seemed a little embarrassed.

  ‘The story is very nearly right,’ he said slowly; ‘but not quite. It was not I who scraped acquaintance with him, but he who scraped acquaintance with me. Doubtless he was trying to get rid of the emerald, and slipped it into my pocket while we were talking.’

  The inspector stopped writing.

  ‘Ah!’ he said impartially. ‘Well, there will be a gentleman here in a minute who will help us to get to the bottom of the case.’

  Merrilees frowned.

  ‘It is really impossible for me to wait,’ he murmured, pulling out his watch. ‘I have an appointment. Surely, inspector, you can’t be so ridiculous as to suppose I’d steal the emerald and walk along with it in my pocket?’

  ‘It is not likely, sir, I agree,’ the inspector
replied. ‘But you will have to wait just a matter of five or ten minutes till we get this thing cleared up. Ah! here is his lordship.’

  A tall man of forty strode into the room. He was wearing a pair of dilapidated trousers and an old sweater.

  ‘Now then, inspector, what is all this?’ he said. ‘You have got hold of the emerald, you say? That’s splendid, very smart work. Who are these people you have got here?’

  His eyes ranged over James and came to rest on Merrilees. The forceful personality of the latter seemed to dwindle and shrink.

  ‘Why – Jones!’ exclaimed Lord Edward Campion.

  ‘You recognize this man, Lord Edward?’ asked the inspector sharply. ‘Certainly I do,’ said Lord Edward dryly. ‘He is my valet, came to me a month ago. The fellow they sent down from London was on to him at once, but there was not a trace of the emerald anywhere among his belongings.’

  ‘He was carrying it in his coat pocket,’ the inspector declared. ‘This gentleman put us on to him.’ He indicated James.

  In another minute James was being warmly congratulated and shaken by the hand.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said Lord Edward Campion. ‘So you suspected him all along, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ said James. ‘I had to trump up the story about my pocket being picked to get him into the police station.’

  ‘Well, it is splendid,’ said Lord Edward, ‘absolutely splendid. You must come back and lunch with us, that is if you haven’t lunched. It is late, I know, getting on for two o’clock.’

  ‘No,’ said James; ‘I haven’t lunched – but –’

  ‘Not a word, not a word,’ said Lord Edward. ‘The Rajah, you know, will want to thank you for getting back his emerald for him. Not that I have quite got the hang of the story yet.’

  They were out of the police station by now, standing on the steps. ‘As a matter of fact,’ said James, ‘I think I should like to tell you the true story.’

  He did so. His lordship was very much entertained.

  ‘Best thing I ever heard in my life,’ he declared. ‘I see it all now. Jones must have hurried down to the bathing-hut as soon as he had pinched the thing, knowing that the police would make a thorough search of the house. That old pair of trousers I sometimes put on for going out fishing, nobody was likely to touch them, and he could recover the jewel at his leisure. Must have been a shock to him when he came today to find it gone. As soon as you appeared, he realized that you were the person who had removed the stone. I still don’t quite see how you managed to see through that detective pose of his, though!’

  ‘A strong man,’ thought James to himself, ‘knows when to be frank and when to be discreet.’

  He smiled deprecatingly whilst his fingers passed gently over the inside of his coat lapel feeling the small silver badge of that little-known club, the Merton Park Super Cycling Club. An astonishing coincidence that the man Jones should also be a member, but there it was!

  ‘Hallo, James!’

  He turned. Grace and the Sopworth girls were calling to him from the other side of the road. He turned to Lord Edward.

  ‘Excuse me a moment?’

  He crossed the road to them. ‘We are going to the pictures,’ said Grace. ‘Thought you might like to come.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said James. ‘I am just going back to lunch with Lord Edward Campion. Yes, that man over there in the comfortable old clothes. He wants me to meet the Rajah of Maraputna.’

  He raised his hat politely and rejoined Lord Edward.

  Chapter 20

  Swan Song

  ‘Swan Song’ was first published in Grand Magazine, September 1926.

  It was eleven o’clock on a May morning in London. Mr Cowan was looking out of the window, behind him was the somewhat ornate splendour of a sitting-room in a suite at the Ritz Hotel. The suite in question had been reserved for Mme Paula Nazorkoff, the famous operatic star, who had just arrived in London. Mr Cowan, who was Madame’s principal man of business, was awaiting an interview with the lady. He turned his head suddenly as the door opened, but it was only Miss Read, Mme Nazorkoff’s secretary, a pale girl with an efficient mïïanner.

  ‘Oh, so it’s you, my dear,’ said Mr Cowan. ‘Madame not up yet, eh?’ Miss Read shook her head. ‘She told me to come round at ten o’clock,’ Mr Cowan said. ‘I have been waiting an hour.’

  He displayed neither resentment nor surprise. Mr Cowan was indeed accustomed to the vagaries of the artistic temperament. He was a tall man, clean-shaven, with a frame rather too well covered, and clothes that were rather too faultless. His hair was very black and shining, and his teeth were aggressively white. When he spoke, he had a way of slurring his ‘s’s’ which was not quite a lisp, but came perilously near to it. It required no stretch of imagination to realize that his father’s name had probably been Cohen. At that minute a door at the other side of the room opened, and a trim, French girl hurried through.

  ‘Madame getting up?’ inquired Cowan hopefully.

  ‘Tell us the news, Elise.’ Elise immediately elevated both hands to heaven.

  ‘Madame she is like seventeen devils this morning, nothing pleases her! The beautiful yellow roses which monsieur sent to her last night, she says they are all very well for New York, but that it is imbecile to send them to her in London. In London, she says, red roses are the only things possible, and straight away she opens the door, and precipitates the yellow roses into the passage, where they descend upon a monsieur, très comme il faut, a military gentleman, I think, and he is justly indignant, that one!’

  Cowan raised his eyebrows, but displayed no other signs of emotion. Then he took from his pocket a small memorandum book and pencilled in it the words ‘red roses’.

  Elise hurried out through the other door, and Cowan turned once more to the window. Vera Read sat down at the desk, and began opening letters and sorting them. Ten minutes passed in silence, and then the door of the bedroom burst open, and Paula Nazorkoff flamed into the room. Her immediate effect upon it was to make it seem smaller, Vera Read appeared more colourless, and Cowan retreated into a mere figure in the background.

  ‘Ah, ha! My children,’ said the prima donna, ‘am I not punctual?’

  She was a tall woman, and for a singer not unduly fat. Her arms and legs were still slender, and her neck was a beautiful column. Her hair, which was coiled in a great roll half-way down her neck, was of a dark, glowing red. If it owed some at least of its colour to henna, the result was none the less effective. She was not a young woman, forty at least, but the lines of her face were still lovely, though the skin was loosened and wrinkled round the flashing, dark eyes. She had the laugh of a child, the digestion of an ostrich, and the temper of a fiend, and she was acknowledged to be the greatest dramatic soprano of her day. She turned directly upon Cowan.

  ‘Have you done as I asked you? Have you taken that abominable English piano away, and thrown it into the Thames?’

  ‘I have got another for you,’ said Cowan, and gestured towards where it stood in the corner.

  Nazorkoff rushed across to it, and lifted the lid. ‘An Erard,’ she said, ‘that is better. Now let us see.’

  The beautiful soprano voice rang out in an arpeggio, then it ran lightly up and down the scale twice, then took a soft little run up to a high note, held it, its volume swelling louder and louder, then softened again till it died away in nothingness.

  ‘Ah!’ said Paula Nazorkoff in naïve satisfaction. ‘What a beautiful voice I have! Even in London I have a beautiful voice.’

  ‘That is so,’ agreed Cowan in hearty congratulation. ‘And you bet London is going to fall for you all right, just as New York did.’

  ‘You think so?’ queried the singer.

  There was a slight smile on her lips, and it was evident that for her the question was a mere commonplace.

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Cowan.

  Paula Nazorkoff closed the piano lid down and walked across to the table, with that slow undulating walk that proved so
effective on the stage.

  ‘Well, well,’ she said, ‘let us get to business. You have all the arrangements there, my friend?’

  Cowan took some papers out of the portfolio he had laid on a chair.

  ‘Nothing has been altered much,’ he remarked. ‘You will sing five times at Covent Garden, three times in Tosca, twice in Aida.’

  ‘Aida! Pah,’ said the prima donna; ‘it will be unutterable boredom. Tosca, that is different.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Cowan. ‘Tosca is your part.’

  Paula Nazorkoff drew herself up.

  ‘I am the greatest Tosca in the world,’ she said simply.

  ‘That is so,’ agreed Cowan. ‘No one can touch you.’

  ‘Roscari will sing “Scarpia”, I suppose?’

  Cowan nodded.

  ‘And Emile Lippi.’

  ‘What?’ shrieked Nazorkoff. ‘Lippi, that hideous little barking frog, croak – croak – croak. I will not sing with him, I will bite him, I will scratch his face.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Cowan soothingly. ‘He does not sing, I tell you, he is a mongrel dog who barks.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see, we’ll see,’ said Cowan.

  He was too wise ever to argue with temperamental singers.

  ‘The Cavardossi?’ demanded Nazorkoff. ‘The American tenor, Hensdale.’

  The other nodded.

  ‘He is a nice little boy, he sings prettily.’

  ‘And Barrère is to sing it once, I believe.’

  ‘He is an artist,’ said Madame generously. ‘But to let that croaking frog Lippi be Scarpia! Bah – I’ll not sing with him.’

  ‘You leave it to me,’ said Cowan soothingly.

  He cleared his throat, and took up a fresh set of papers.

  ‘I am arranging for a special concert at the Albert Hall.’

  Nazorkoff made a grimace. ‘I know, I know,’ said Cowan; ‘but everybody does it.’

  ‘I will be good,’ said Nazorkoff, ‘and it will be filled to the ceiling, and I shall have much money. Ecco!ó8’

  Again Cowan shuffled papers. ‘Now here is quite a different proposition,’ he said, ‘from Lady Ruston-bury. She wants you to go down and sing.’