The Golden Ball and Other Stories Read online

  ArthOr advanced towards her with boyish affection. She shrank back from him, her eyes dilating. Then

  suddenly, with the shriek of a doomed soul, she fell

  backwards through the open door.

  "Lady Carmichael is dead."

  "What is it?" Arthur asked. "What caused it?"

  "Shok," he was told. "The shock of seeing Arthur

  Carmichael, the real Arthur Carmichael, restored to

  life!"

  "The chgmpn deceiver of our time."

  ---NEW YORK TIMES

  Berkley books by Agatha Christie

  APPOINTMENT WITH DEATH

  THE BIG FOUR

  THE BOOMERANG CLUE CARDS ON THE TABLE

  DEAD MAN'S MIRROR

  DEATH IN THE AIR

  DOUBLE SIN AND OTHER STORIES

  ELEPHANTS CAN REMEMBER

  THE GOLDEN BALL AND OTHER STORIES

  THE HOLLOW

  THE LABORS OF HERCULES

  THE MAN IN THE BROWN SUIT

  MISS MARPLE: THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES

  MR. PARKER PYNE. DETECTIVE

  THE MOVING FINGER

  THE MURDER AT HAZELMOOR

  THE MURDER AT THE VICARAGE i!,

  MURDER IN MESOPOTAMIA

  MURDER IN RETROSPECT

  MURDER IN THREE ACTS

  THE MURDER ON THE LINKS

  THE MYSTERIOUS MR. QUIN

  N OR M?

  PARTNERS IN CRIME

  THE PATRIOTIC MURDERS

  POIROT LOSES A CLIENT

  THE REGATTA MYSTERY AND OTHER STORIES

  SAD CYPRESS

  THE SECRET OF CHIMNEYS

  THERE IS A TIDE ...

  THEY CAME TO BAGHDAD

  THIRTEEN AT DINNER

  THREE BLIND MICE AND OTHER STORIES

  THE TUESDAY CLUB MURDERS

  THE UNDER DOG AND OTHER STORIES

  THE WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION AND OTHER STORIES

  AGATHA

  CHR TIE

  THE GOLDEN BALL

  and Other Stories

  II

  BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK

  This Berkley book contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.

  It has been completely reset in a typeface

  designed for easy reading and was printed

  from new film.

  THE GOLDEN BALL AND OTHER STORIES

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with

  G. P. Putnam's Sons

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Dodd, Mead edition published 1971

  Dell edition / September 1972

  Berkley edition / February 1984

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1924, 1926, 1933, 1934 by Christie Copyrights Trust.

  Copyright © 1971 by Christie Copyrights Trusts.

  Book design by Virginia M. Smith.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

  by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

  For information address: G. P. Putnam's Sons,

  200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

  ISBN: 0425099229

  A BERKLEY BOOK ®TM 757,375

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

  The name "Berkley" and the "B" logo

  are trademarks belonging to Berkley Publishing Corporation.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  20

  19 18 17 16 15

  Conn

  The Liste/xlale Mystery

  The Girl in the Train

  The Manhood of Edward Robinson

  Jane in Search of a Job

  A Fruitful Sunday

  The Golden Ball

  The Rajah's Emerald

  Swan Song

  The Hound of Death

  The Gipsy

  The Lamp

  The Strange Case of Sir Arthur Carmichael

  The Call of Wings

  Magnolia Blossom

  Next to a Dog

  1

  19

  38

  53

  74

  84

  95

  112

  127

  145

  155

  164

  184

  199

  216

  The Listerdale Mystery

  Mrs. St. Vincent was adding up figures. Once or twice she sighed, and her hand stole to her aching forehead. She had

  always disliked arithmetic. It was unfortunate that nowadays

  her life should seem to be composed entirely of one particular

  kind of sum, the ceaseless adding together of small

  necessary items of expenditure making a total that never

  failed to surprise and alarm her.

  Surely it couldn't come to that.t She went back over the figures. She had made a trifling error in the pence, but

  otherwise the figures were correct.

  Mrs. St. Vincent sighed again. Her headache by now was very bad indeed. She looked up as the door opened and

  her daughter Barbara came into the room. Barbara St. Vincent

  was a very pretty girl; she had her mother's delicate

  features, and the same proud turn of the head, but her eyes

  were dark instead of blue, and she had a different mouth,

  a sulky red mouth not without attraction.

  "Oh, Mother!" she cried. "Still juggling with those horrid old accounts? Throw them all into the fire."

  "We must know where we are," said Mrs. St. Vincent uncertainly.

  The girl shrugged her shoulders.

  "We're always in the same boat," she said dryly. "Damned

  hard up. Down to the last penny as usual."

  Mrs. St. Vincent sighed.

  "I wish---" she began, and then stopped.

  "I must find something to do," said Barbara in hard tones. "And find it quickly. After all, I have taken that shorthand

  and typing course. So have about one million other girls

  from all I can see! 'What experience?' 'None, but--' 'Oh!

  2 Agatha Christie

  Thank you, good morning. We'll let you know.' But they

  never do! I must find some other kind of a job---any job." "Not yet, dear," pleaded her mother. "Wait a little longer."

  Barbara went to the window and stood looking out with

  unseeing eyes that took no note of the dingy line of houses

  opposite.

  "Sometimes," she said slowly, "I'm sorry Cousin Amy took me with her to Egypt last winter. Oh! I know I had

  fun--about the only fun I've ever had or am likely to have

  in my life. I did enjoy myself--enjoyed myself thoroughly.

  But it was very unsettling. I mean--coming back to this."

  She swept a hand round the room. Mrs. St. Vincent followed it with her eyes and winced. The room was typical

  of cheap furnished lodgings. A dusty aspidistra, showily

  ornamental furniture, a gaudy wallpaper faded in patches.

  There were signs that the personality of the tenants had

  struggled with that of the landlady; one or two pieces of

  good china, much cracked and mended, so that their saleable

  value was nil, a piece of embroidery thrown over the back

  of the sofa, a water colour sketch of a young girl in the

  fashion of twenty years ago, near enough still to Mrs. St.

  Vincent not to be mistaken.

  "It wouldn't matter," continued Barbara, "if we'd never known anything else. But to think of Ansteys--"

  She broke o
ff, not trusting herself to speak of that dearly loved home which had belonged to the St. Vincent family

  for centuries and which was now in the hands of strangers.

  "If only Father--hadn't speculated--and borrowed--"

  "My dear," said Mrs. St. Vincent. "Your father was never, in any sense of the word, a businessman."

  She said it with a graceful kind of finality, and Barbara came over and gave her an aimless sort of kiss as she

  murmured, "Poor old Mums. I won't say anything."

  Mrs. St. Vincent took up her pen again and bent over her desk. Barbara went back to the window. Presently the

  girl said:

  "Mother. I heard from--from Jim Masterton this morning. He wants to c6me and see me."

  Mrs. St. Vincent laid down her pen and looked up sharply. "Here?" she exclaimed.

  THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY

  "Well, we can't ask him to dinner at the Ritz very wel sneered Barbara.

  Her mother looked unhappy. Again she looked round I

  room with innate distaste.

  "You're fight," said Barbara. "It's a disgusting pla

  Genteel poverty! Sounds all right--a whitewashed cott2

  in the country, shabby chintzes of good design, bowls

  roses, crown Derby tea service that you wash up yours{

  That's what it's like in books. In real life, with a son starti

  on the bottom rung of office life, it means London. Frov

  landladies, dirty children on the stairs, haddocks for bre:

  fasts that aren't quite--quite and so on."

  "If only---" began Mrs. St. Vincent. "But, really, l

  beginning to be afraid we can't afford even this room mi

  longer."

  "That means a bed-sitting-room--horror!--for you a

  me," said Barbara. "And a cupboard under the tiles:

  Rupert. And when Jim comes to call, I'll receive him

  that dreadful room downstairs with tabbies all round 1

  walls knitting, and stating at us, and coughing that dread

  kind of gulping cough they have!"

  There was a pause.

  "Barbara," said Mrs. St. Vincent at last. "Do you-mean--would

  you--.9''

  She stopped, flushing a little.

  "You needn't be delicate, Mother," said Barbara. "

  body is nowadays. Marry 3im, I suppose you mean? I we

  like a shot if he asked me. But I'm so awfully afraid

  won't."

  "Oh! Barbara, dear."

  "Well, it's one thing seeing me out there with Cot

  Amy, moving (as they say in novelettes) in the best socie

  He did take a fancy to me. Now he'll come here and

  me in this! And he's a funny creature, you know, fastidi

  and old-fashioned. I--I rather like him for that. It remi

  me of Ansteys and the village--everything a hundred ye

  behind the times, but so--so--oh! I don't know--so t

  grant. Like lavender!"

  She laughed, half-ashamed of her eagerness. Mrs.

  Vincent spoke with a kind of earnest simplicity.

  4

  Agatha Christie

  "I should like you to marry Jim Mastcrton," she said.

  "He is--one of us. He is very well off, also, but that I don't mind about so much."

  "I do," said Barbara. "I'm sick of being hard up."

  "But, Barbara, it isn't---"

  "Only for that? No. I do really. I--oh! Mother, can't you see I do?"

  Mrs. St. Vincent looked very unhappy.

  "I wish he could see you in your proper setting, darling," she said wistfully.

  "Oh, well!" said Barbara. "Why worry? We might as well try and be cheerful about things. Sorry I've had such

  a grouch. Cheer up, 'darling."

  She bent over her mother, kissed her forehead lightly, and went out. Mrs. St. Vincent, relinquishing all attempts

  at finance, sat down on the uncomfortable sofa. Her thoughts

  ran round in circles like squirrels in a cage.

  "One may say what one likes, appearances do put a man off. Not later--not if they were really engaged. He'd know

  then what a sweet, dear girl she is. But it's so easy for

  young people to take the tone of their surroundings. Rupert,

  now, he's quite different from what he used to be. Not that

  I want my children to be stuck-up. That's not it a bit. But

  I should hate it if Rupert got engaged to that dreadful girl

  in the tobacconist's. I daresay she may be a very nice girl,

  really. But she's not our kind. It's all so difficult. Poor little

  Babs. If I could do anything--anything. But where's the

  money to come from? We've sold everything to give Rupert

  his start. We really can't even afford this."

  To distract herself Mrs. St. Vincent picked up the Morning Post and glanced down the advertisements on the front

  page. Most of them she knew by heart. People who wanted

  capital, people who had capital and were anxious to dispose

  of it on note of hand alone, people who wanted to buy teeth

  (she always wondered why), people who wanted to sell furs

  and gowns and who had optimistic ideas on the subject of price.

  Suddenly she stiffened to attention. Again and again she read the printed words.

  "To gentlepeople only. Small house in Westminster, exquisitely furnished, offered to those who would really care

  THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY 5

  for it. Rent purely nominal. No agents."

  A very ordinary advertisement. She had read many the same or--well, nearly the same. Nominal rent, that was

  where the trap lay.

  Yet, since she was restless and anxious to escape from her thoughts, she put on her hat straightaway and took a

  convenient bus to the address given in the advertisement.

  It pr6ved to be that of a firm of house agents. Not a new bustling firma rather decrepit, old-fashioned place. Rather

  timidly she produced the advertisement, which she had torn

  out, and asked for particulars.

  The white-haired old gentleman who was attending to her stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  "Perfectly. Yes, perfectly, madam. That house, the house mentioned in the advertisement, is No. 7 Cheviot Place.

  You would like an order?"

  "I should like to know the rent first?" said Mrs. St. Vincent.

  "Ah! The rent. The exact figure is not settled, but I can assure you that it is purely nominal."

  "Ideas of what is purely nominal can vary," said Mrs. St. Vincent.

  The old gentleman permitted himself to chuckle a little. "Yes, that's an old trick--an old trick. But you can take

  my word for it, it isn't so in this case. Two or three guineas

  a week, perhaps, not more."

  Mrs. St. Vincent decided to have the order. Not, of course, that there was any real likelihood of her being able

  to afford the place. But, after all, she might just see it.

  There must be some grave disadvantage attaching to it, to

  be offered at such a price.

  But her heart gave a little throb as she looked up at the outside of 7 Cheviot Place. A gem of a house. Queen Anne,

  and in perfect condition! A butler answered the door. He

  had grey hair and little side whiskers, and the meditative

  calm of an archbishop. A kindly archbishop, Mrs. St. Vincent

  thought.

  He accepted the order with a benevolent air.

  "Certainly, madam, I will show you over. The house is ready for occupation."

  He went before her, opening doors, announcing rooms.

  6 Agatha Christie

  "The drawing room, the white study, a powder closet

  through here, madam."

  It was perfect--a dream. The f
urniture all of the period,

  each piece with signs of wear, but polished with loving

  care. The loose rugs were of beautiful dim old colours. In

  each room were bowls of fresh flowers. The back of the

  house looked over the Green Park. The whole place radiated

  an old-world charm.

  The tears came into Mrs. St. Vincent's eyes, and she

  fought them back with difficulty. So had Ansteys looked--Ansteys..,

  She wondered whether the butler had noticed her emotion.

  If so, he was too much the perfectly trained servant

  to show it. She liked these old servants, one felt safe with

  them, at ease. They were .like friends.

  "It is a beautiful house," she said softly. "Very beautiful.

  I am glad to have seen it."

  "Is it for yourself alone, madam?"

  "For myself and my son and daughter. But I'm

  afraid--"

  She broke off. she wanted it so dreadfully--so dreadfully.

  She felt instinctively that the butler understood. He did

  not look at her, as he said in a detached, impersonal way:

  "I happen to be aware, madam, that the owner requires

  above all suitable tenants. The rent is of no importance to

  him. He wants the house to be tenanted by someone who

  will really care for and appreciate it."

  "I should appreciate it," said Mrs. St. Vincent in a low

  voice.

  She turned to go.

  "Thank you for showing me over," she said courteously.