The Case of the City Clerk Read online

  Contents

  The Case of the City Clerk

  About the Author

  The Agatha Christie Collection

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  THE CASE OF THE CITY CLERK

  Mr. Parker Pyne leaned back thoughtfully in his swivel chair and surveyed his visitor. He saw a small sturdily built man of forty-five with wistful, puzzled, timid eyes that looked at him with a kind of anxious hopefulness.

  “I saw your advertisement in the paper,” said that little man nervously.

  “You are in trouble, Mr. Roberts?”

  “No, not in trouble exactly.”

  “You are unhappy?”

  “I shouldn’t like to say that either. I’ve a great deal to be thankful for.”

  “We all have,” said Mr. Parker Pyne. “But when we have to remind ourselves of the fact it is a bad sign.”

  “I know,” said the little man eagerly. “That’s just it! You’ve hit the nail on the head, sir.”

  “Supposing you tell me all about yourself,” suggested Mr. Parker Pyne.

  “There’s not much to tell, sir. As I say, I’ve a great deal to be thankful for. I have a job; I’ve managed to save a little money; the children are strong and healthy.”

  “So you want—what?”

  “I—I don’t know.” He flushed. “I expect that sounds foolish to you, sir.”

  “Not at all,” said Mr. Parker Pyne.

  By skilled questioning he elicited further confidences. He heard of Mr. Roberts’ employment in a well-known firm and of his slow but steady rise. He heard of his marriage; of the struggle to present a decent appearance, to educate the children and have them “looking nice”; of the plotting and planning and skimping and saving to put aside a few pounds each year. He heard, in fact, the saga of a life of ceaseless effort to survive.

  “And—well, you see how it is,” confessed Mr. Roberts. “The wife’s away. Staying with her mother with the two children. Little change for them and a rest for her. No room for me and we can’t afford to go elsewhere. And being alone and reading the paper, I saw your advertisement and it set me thinking. I’m forty-eight. I just wondered . . . Things going on everywhere,” he ended, with all his wistful suburban soul in his eyes.

  “You want,” said Mr. Pyne, “to live gloriously for ten minutes?”

  “Well, I shouldn’t put it like that. But perhaps you’re right. Just to get out of the rut. I’d go back to it thankful afterwards—if only I had something to think about.” He looked at the other man anxiously. “I suppose there’s nothing possible, sir? I’m afraid—I’m afraid I couldn’t afford to pay much.”

  “How much could you afford?”

  “I could manage five pounds, sir.” He waited, breathless.

  “Five pounds,” said Mr. Parker Pyne. “I fancy—I just fancy we might be able to manage something for five pounds. Do you object to danger?” he added sharply.

  A tinge of colour came into Mr. Roberts’ sallow face. “Danger did you say, sir? Oh, no, not at all. I—I’ve never done anything dangerous.”

  Mr. Parker Pyne smiled. “Come to see me again tomorrow and I’ll tell you what I can do for you.”

  The Bon Voyageur is a little-known hostelry. It is a restaurant frequented by a few habitués. They dislike newcomers.

  To the Bon Voyageur came Mr. Pyne and was greeted with respectful recognition. “Mr. Bonnington here?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. He’s at his usual table.”

  “Good. I’ll join him.”

  Mr. Bonnington was a gentleman of military appearance with a somewhat bovine face. He greeted his friend with pleasure.

  “Hallo, Parker. Hardly ever see you nowadays. Didn’t know you came here.”

  “I do now and then. Especially when I want to lay my hand on an old friend.”

  “Meaning me?”

  “Meaning you. As a matter of fact, Lucas, I’ve been thinking over what we were talking about the other day.”

  “The Peterfield business? Seen the latest in the papers? No, you can’t have. It won’t be in till this evening.”

  “What is the latest?”

  “They murdered Peterfield last night,” said Mr. Bonnington, placidly eating salad.

  “Good heavens!” cried Mr. Pyne.

  “Oh, I’m not surprised,” said Mr. Bonnington. “Pigheaded old man, Peterfield. Wouldn’t listen to us. Insisted on keeping the plans in his own hands.”

  “Did they get them?”

  “No; it seems some woman came round and gave the professor a recipe for boiling a ham. The old ass, absentminded as usual, put the recipe for the ham in his safe and the plans in the kitchen.”

  “Fortunate.”

  “Almost providential. But I still don’t know who’s going to take’em to Geneva. Maitland’s in the hospital. Carslake’s in Berlin. I can’t leave. It means young Hooper.” He looked at his friend.

  “You’re still of the same opinion?” asked Mr. Parker Pyne.

  “Absolutely. He’s been got at! I know it. I haven’t a shadow of proof, but I tell you, Parker, I know when a chap’s crooked! And I want those plans to get to Geneva. The League needs ’em. For the first time an invention isn’t going to be sold to a nation. It’s going to be handed over voluntarily to the League.

  “It’s the finest peace gesture that’s ever been attempted, and it’s got to be put through. And Hooper’s crooked. You’ll see, he’ll be drugged on the train! If he goes in a plane it’ll come down at some convenient spot! But confound it all, I can’t pass him over. Discipline! You’ve got to have discipline! That’s why I spoke to you the other day.”

  “You asked me whether I knew of anyone.”

  “Yes. Thought you might in your line of business. Some fire eater spoiling for a row. Whoever I send stands a good chance of being done in. Your man would probably not be suspected at all. But he’s got to have nerve.”

  “I think I know of someone who would do,” said Mr. Parker Pyne.

  “Thank God there are still chaps who will take a risk. Well, it’s agreed then?”

  “It’s agreed,” said Mr. Parker Pyne.

  Mr. Parker Pyne was summing up instructions. “Now, that’s quite clear? You will travel in a first-class sleeper to Geneva. You leave London at ten forty-five, via Folkestone and Boulogne, and you get into your first-class sleeper at Boulogne. You arrive at Geneva at eight the following morning. Here is the address at which you will report. Please memorize it and I will destroy it. Afterwards go to this hotel and await further instructions. Here is sufficient money in French and Swiss notes and currency. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Roberts’ eyes were shining with excitement. “Excuse me, sir, but am I allowed to—er—know anything of what it is I am carrying?”

  Mr. Parker Pyne smiled beneficently. “You are carrying a cryptogram which reveals the secret hiding place of the crown jewels of Russia,” he said solemnly. “You can understand, naturally, that Bolshevist agents will be alert to intercept you. If it is necessary for you to talk about yourself, I should recommend that you say you have come into money and are enjoying a little holiday abroad.”

  Mr. Roberts sipped a cup of coffee and looked out over the Lake of Geneva. He was happy but at the same time he was disappointed.

  He was happy because, for the first time in his life, he was in a foreign country. Moreover, he was staying in the kind of hotel he would never stay in again, and not for one moment had he had to worry about money! He had a room with private bathroom, delicious meals and attentive service. All these things Mr. Roberts had enjoyed very much indeed.

  He was disappointed because so far nothing that could be described as adventure
had come his way. No disguised Bolshevists or mysterious Russians had crossed his path. A pleasant chat on the train with a French commercial traveller who spoke excellent English was the only human intercourse that had come his way. He had secreted the papers in his sponge bag as he had been told to do and had delivered them according to instructions. There had been no dangers to overcome, no hair’s breadth escapes. Mr. Roberts was disappointed.

  It was at that moment that a tall, bearded man murmured “Pardon,” and sat down on the other side of the little table. “You will excuse me,” he said, “but I think you know a friend of mine. ‘P.P.’ are the initials.”

  Mr. Roberts was pleasantly thrilled. Here, at last, was a mysterious Russian. “Qu-quite right.”

  “Then I think we understand each other,” said the stranger.

  Mr. Roberts looked at him searchingly. This was far more like the real thing. The stranger was a man of about fifty, of distinguished though foreign appearance. He wore an eyeglass, and a small coloured ribbon in his buttonhole.

  “You have accomplished your mission in the most satisfactory manner,” said the stranger. “Are you prepared to undertake a further one?”

  “Certainly. Oh, yes.”

  “Good. You will book a sleeper on the Geneva-Paris train for tomorrow night. You will ask for Berth Number Nine.”

  “Supposing it is not free?”

  “It will be free. That will have been seen to.”

  “Berth Number Nine,” repeated Roberts. “Yes, I’ve got that.”

  “During the course of your journey someone will say to you, ‘Pardon, Monsieur, but I think you were recently at Grasse?’ To that you will reply ‘Yes, last month.’ The person will then say, ‘Are you interested in scent?’ And you will reply, ‘Yes, I am a manufacturer of synthetic Oil of Jasmine.’ After that you will place yourself entirely at the disposal of the person who has spoken to you. By the way, are you armed?”

  “No,” said Mr. Roberts in a flutter. “No; I never thought—that is—”

  “That can soon be remedied,” said the bearded man. He glanced around. No one was near them. Something hard and shining was pressed into Mr. Roberts’ hand. “A small weapon but efficacious,” said the stranger, smiling.

  Mr. Roberts, who had never fired a revolver in his life, slipped it gingerly into a pocket. He had an uneasy feeling that it might go off at any minute.

  They went over the passwords again. Then Roberts’ new friend rose.

  “I wish you good luck,” he said. “May you come through safely. You are a brave man, Mr. Roberts.”

  “Am I?” thought Roberts, when the other had departed. “I’m sure I don’t want to get killed. That would never do.”

  A pleasant thrill shot down his spine, slightly adulterated by a thrill that was not quite so pleasant.

  He went to his room and examined the weapon. He was still uncertain about its mechanism and hoped he would not be called upon to use it.

  He went out to book his seat.

  The train left Geneva at nine thirty. Roberts got to the station in good time. The sleeping car conductor took his ticket and his passport, and stood aside while an underling swung Roberts’ suitcase on to the rack. There was other luggage there: a pigskin case and a Gladstone bag.

  “Number Nine is the lower berth,” said the conductor.

  As Roberts turned to leave the carriage he ran into a big man who was entering. They drew apart with apologies—Roberts’ in English and the stranger’s in French. He was a big burly man, with a closely shaven head and thick eyeglasses through which his eyes seemed to peer suspiciously.

  “An ugly customer,” said the little man to himself.

  He sensed something vaguely sinister about his travelling companion. Was it to keep a watch on this man that he had been told to ask for Berth Number Nine? He fancied it might be.

  He went out again into the corridor. There was still ten minutes before the train was due to start and he thought he would walk up and down the platform. Halfway along the passage he stood back to allow a lady to pass him. She was just entering the train and the conductor preceded her, ticket in hand. As she passed Roberts she dropped her handbag. The Englishman picked it up and handed it to her.

  “Thank you, Monsieur.” She spoke in English but her voice was foreign, a rich low voice very seductive in quality. As she was about to pass on, she hesitated and murmured: “Pardon, Monsieur, but I think you were recently at Grasse?”

  Roberts’ heart leaped with excitement. He was to place himself at the disposal of this lovely creature—for she was lovely, of that there was no doubt. She wore a travelling coat of fur, a chic hat. There were pearls round her neck. She was dark and her lips were scarlet.

  Roberts made the required answer. “Yes, last month.”

  “You are interested in scent?”

  “Yes, I am a manufacturer of synthetic Oil of Jasmine.”

  She bent her head and passed on, leaving a mere whisper behind her. “In the corridor as soon as the train starts.”

  The next ten minutes seemed an age to Roberts. At last the train started. He walked slowly along the corridor. The lady in the fur coat was struggling with a window. He hurried to her assistance.

  “Thank you, Monsieur. Just a little air before they insist on closing everything.” And then in a soft, low, rapid voice: “After the frontier, when our fellow traveller is asleep—not before—go into the washing place and through it into the compartment on the other side. You understand?”

  “Yes.” He let down the window and said in a louder voice: “Is that better, madame?”

  “Thank you very much.”

  He retired to his compartment. His travelling companion was already stretched out in the upper berth. His preparations for the night had obviously been simple. The removal of boots and a coat, in fact.

  Roberts debated his own costume. Clearly, if he were going into a lady’s compartment he could not undress.

  He found a pair of slippers, substituting them for his boots, and then lay down, switching out the light. A few minutes later, the man above began to snore.

  Just after ten o’clock they reached the frontier. The door was thrown open; a perfunctory question was asked. Had Messieurs anything to declare? The door was closed again. Presently the train drew out of Bellegarde.

  The man in the upper berth was snoring again. Roberts allowed twenty minutes to elapse, then he slipped to his feet and opened the door of the lavatory compartment. Once inside, he bolted the door behind him and eyed the door on the farther side. It was not bolted. He hesitated. Should he knock?

  Perhaps it would be absurd to knock. But he didn’t quite like entering without knocking. He compromised, opened the door gently about an inch and waited. He even ventured on a small cough.

  The response was prompt. The door was pulled open, he was seized by the arm, pulled through into the farther compartment, and the girl closed and bolted the door behind him.

  Roberts caught his breath. Never had he imagined anything so lovely. She was wearing a long foamy garment of cream chiffon and lace. She leaned against the door into the corridor, panting. Roberts had often read of beautiful hunted creatures at bay. Now for the first time, he saw one—a thrilling sight.

  “Thank God!” murmured the girl.

  She was quite young, Roberts noted, and her loveliness was such that she seemed to him like a being from another world. Here was romance at last—and he was in it!

  She spoke in a low, hurried voice. Her English was good but the inflection was wholly foreign. “I am so glad you have come,” she said. “I have been horribly frightened. Vassilievitch is on the train. You understand what that means?”

  Roberts did not understand in the least what it meant, but he nodded.

  “I thought I had given them the slip. I might have known better. What are we to do? Vassilievitch is in the next carriage to me. Whatever happens, he must not get the jewels.”

  “He’s not going to murder you and he
’s not going to get the jewels,” said Robert with determination.

  “Then what am I to do with them?”

  Roberts looked past her to the door. “The door’s bolted,” he said.

  The girl laughed. “What are locked doors to Vassilievitch?”

  Roberts felt more and more as though he were in the middle of one of his favourite novels. “There’s only one thing to be done. Give them to me.”

  She looked at him doubtfully. “They are worth a quarter of a million.”

  Roberts flushed. “You can trust me.”

  The girl hesitated a moment longer, then: “Yes, I will trust you,” she said. She made a swift movement. The next minute she was holding out to him a rolled-up pair of stockings—stockings of cobweb silk. “Take them, my friend,” she said to the astonished Roberts.

  He took them and at once he understood. Instead of being light as air, the stockings were unexpectedly heavy.

  “Take them to your compartment,” she said. “You can give them to me in the morning—if—if I am still here.”

  Roberts coughed. “Look here,” he said. “About you.” He paused. “I—I must keep guard over you.” Then he flushed in an agony of propriety. “Not in here, I mean. I’ll stay in there.” He nodded towards the lavatory compartment.

  “If you like to stay here—” She glanced at the upper unoccupied berth.

  Roberts flushed to the roots of his hair. “No, no,” he protested. “I shall be all right in there. If you need me, call out.”

  “Thank you, my friend,” said the girl softly.

  She slipped into the lower berth, drew up the covers and smiled at him gratefully. He retreated into the washroom.

  Suddenly—it must have been a couple of hours later—he thought he heard something. He listened—nothing. Perhaps he had been mistaken. And yet it certainly seemed to him that he had heard a faint sound from the next carriage. Supposing—just supposing. . . .

  He opened the door softly. The compartment was as he had left it, with the tiny blue light in the ceiling. He stood there with his eyes straining through the dimness till they got accustomed to it. The girl was not there!

  He switched the light full on. The compartment was empty. Suddenly he sniffed. Just a whiff but he recognized it—the sweet, sickly odour of chloroform!