Miss Marple and Mystery Read online

  Agatha Christie

  Miss

  Marple

  and Mystery

  The Complete Short Stories

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Author’s Foreword to Miss Marple and the Thirteen Problems

  Chapter 1 - The Actress

  Chapter 2 - The Girl in the Train

  Chapter 3 - While the Light Lasts

  Chapter 4 - The Red Signal

  Chapter 5 - The Mystery of the Blue Jar

  Chapter 6 - Jane in Search of a Job

  Chapter 7 - Mr Eastwood’s Adventure

  Chapter 8 - Philomel Cottage

  Chapter 9 - The Manhood of Edward Robinson

  Chapter 10 - The Witness for the Prosecution

  Chapter 11 - Wireless

  Chapter 12 - Within a Wall

  Chapter 13 - The Listerdale Mystery

  Chapter 14 - The Fourth Man

  Chapter 15 - The House of Dreams

  Chapter 16 - S.O.S.

  Chapter 17 - Magnolia Blossom

  Chapter 18 - The Lonely God

  Chapter 19 - The Rajah’s Emerald

  Chapter 20 - Swan Song

  Chapter 21 - The Last Séance

  Chapter 22 - The Edge

  Chapter 23 - The Tuesday Night Club

  Chapter 24 - The Idol House of Astarte

  Chapter 25 - Ingots of Gold

  Chapter 26 - The Bloodstained Pavement

  Chapter 27 - Motive v. Opportunity

  Chapter 28 - The Thumb Mark of St Peter

  Chapter 29 - A Fruitful Sunday

  Chapter 30 - The Golden Ball

  Chapter 31 - Accident

  Chapter 32 - Next to a Dog

  Chapter 33 - Sing a Song of Sixpence

  Chapter 34 - The Blue Geranium

  Chapter 35 - The Companion

  Chapter 36 - The Four Suspects

  Chapter 37 - A Christmas Tragedy

  Chapter 38 - The Herb of Death

  Chapter 39 - The Affair at the Bungalow

  Chapter 40 - Manx Gold

  Chapter 41 - Death by Drowning

  Chapter 42 - The Hound of Death

  Chapter 43 - The Gipsy

  Chapter 44 - The Lamp

  Chapter 45 - The Strange Case of Sir Arthur Carmichael

  Chapter 46 - The Call of Wings

  Chapter 47 - In a Glass Darkly

  Chapter 48 - Miss Marple Tells a Story

  Chapter 49 - Strange Jest

  Chapter 50 - Tape-Measure Murder

  Chapter 51 - The Case of the Caretaker

  Chapter 52 - The Case of the Perfect Maid

  Chapter 53 - Sanctuary

  Chapter 54 - Greenshaw’s Folly

  Chapter 55 - The Dressmaker’s Doll

  Appendix - Short Story Chronology

  Books by Agatha Christie

  ALSO IN THIS SERIES

  Agatha Christie - MISS MARPLE Omnibus

  Agatha Christie - MISS MARPLE Omnibus

  Agatha Christie - MISS MARPLE Omnibus

  Agatha Christie - HERCULE POIROT: The Complete Short Stories

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  Agatha Christie - The MARY WESTMACOTT - Collection

  Agatha Christie - The MARY WESTMACOTT - Collection

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Author’s Foreword to Miss Marple and the Thirteen Problems

  These problems were Miss Marple’s first introduction to the world of detective story readers. Miss Marple has some faint affinity with my own grandmother, also a pink and white pretty old lady who, although having led the most sheltered and Victorian of lives, nevertheless always appeared to be intimately acquainted with all the depths of human depravity. One could be made to feel incredibly naïve and credulous by her reproachful remark: ‘But did you believe what they said to you? You shouldn’t do that. I never do!’

  I enjoyed writing the Miss Marple stories very much, conceived a great affection for my fluffy old lady, and hoped that she might be a success. She was. After the first six stories had appeared, six more were requested, Miss Marple had definitely come to stay.

  She has appeared now in several books and also in a play – and actually rivals Hercule Poirot in popularity. I get about an equal number of letters, one lot saying: ‘I wish you would always have Miss Marple and not Poirot,’ and the other ‘I wish you would have Poirot and not Miss Marple.’ I myself incline to her side. I think, that she is at her best in the solving of short problems; they suit her more intimate style. Poirot, on the other hand, insists on a full length book to display his talents.

  These Thirteen Problems contain, I consider, the real essence of Miss Marple for those who like her.

  AGATHA CHRISTIE

  Penguin edition, 1953

  Chapter 1

  The Actress

  ‘The Actress’ was first published as ‘A Trap for the Unwary’ in The Novel Magazine, May 1923.

  The shabby man in the fourth row of the pit leant forward and stared incredulously at the stage. His shifty eyes narrowed furtively.

  ‘Nancy Taylor!’ he muttered. ‘By the Lord, little Nancy Taylor!’

  His glance dropped to the programme in his hand. One name was printed in slightly larger type than the rest.

  ‘Olga Stormer! So that’s what she calls herself. Fancy yourself a star, don’t you, my lady? And you must be making a pretty little pot of money, too. Quite forgotten your name was ever Nancy Taylor, I daresay. I wonder now – I wonder now what you’d say if Jake Levitt should remind you of the fact?’

  The curtain fell on the close of the first act. Hearty applause filled the auditorium. Olga Stormer, the great emotional actress, whose name in a few short years had become a household word, was adding yet another triumph to her list of successes as ‘Cora’, in The Avenging Angel.

  Jake Levitt did not join in the clapping, but a slow, appreciative grin gradually distended his mouth. God! What luck! Just when he was on his beam-ends, too. She’d try to bluff it out, he supposed, but she couldn’t put it over on him. Properly worked, the thing was a gold-mine!

  On the following morning the first workings of Jake Levitt’s gold-mine became apparent. In her drawing-room, with its red lacquer and black hangings, Olga Stormer read and re-read a letter thoughtfully. Her pale face, with its exquisitely mobile features, was a little more set than usual, and every now and then the grey-green eyes under the level brows steadily envisaged the middle distance, as though she contemplated the threat behind rather than the actual words of the letter.

  In that wonderful voice of hers which could throb with emotion or be as clear-cut as the click of a typewriter, Olga called: ‘Miss Jones!’

  A neat young woman with spectacles, a shorthand pad and a pencil clasped in her hand, hastened from an adjoining room.

  ‘Ring up Mr Danahan, please, and ask him to come round, immediately.’

  Syd Danahan, Olga Stormer’s manager, entered the room with the usual apprehension of the man whose life it is to deal with and overcome the vagaries of the artistic feminine. To coax, to soothe, to bully, one at a time or all together, such was his daily routine. To his relief, Olga appeared calm and composed, and merely flicked a note across the table to him.

  ‘Read that.’

  The letter was scrawled in an illiterate hand, on cheap paper.

  Dear Madam,

  I much appreciated your performance in The Avenging Angel last night. I fancy we have a mutual friend in Miss Nancy Taylor, late of Chicago. An article regarding her is to be published shortly. If you would care to discuss same, I could call upon you at any time convenient to yourself.

  Yours respectfully,

  Jake Levitt
>
  Danahan looked slightly bewildered.

  ‘I don’t quite get it. Who is this Nancy Taylor?’

  ‘A girl who would be better dead, Danny.’ There was bitterness in her voice and a weariness that revealed her 34 years. ‘A girl who was dead until this carrion crow brought her to life again.’

  ‘Oh! Then . . .’

  ‘Me, Danny. Just me.’

  ‘This means blackmail, of course?’

  She nodded. ‘Of course, and by a man who knows the art thoroughly.’

  Danahan frowned, considering the matter. Olga, her cheek pillowed on a long, slender hand, watched him with unfathomable eyes.

  ‘What about bluff? Deny everything. He can’t be sure that he hasn’t been misled by a chance resemblance.’

  Olga shook her head.

  ‘Levitt makes his living by blackmailing women. He’s sure enough.’

  ‘The police?’ hinted Danahan doubtfully.

  Her faint, derisive smile was answer enough. Beneath her self-control, though he did not guess it, was the impatience of the keen brain watching a slower brain laboriously cover the ground it had already traversed in a flash.

  ‘You don’t – er – think it might be wise for you to – er – say something yourself to Sir Richard? That would partly spike his guns.’

  The actress’s engagement to Sir Richard Everard, MP, had been announced a few weeks previously.

  ‘I told Richard everything when he asked me to marry him.’

  ‘My word, that was clever of you!’ said Danahan admiringly.

  Olga smiled a little.

  ‘It wasn’t cleverness, Danny dear. You wouldn’t understand. All the same, if this man Levitt does what he threatens, my number is up, and incidentally Richard’s Parliamentary career goes smash, too. No, as far as I can see, there are only two things to do.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘To pay – and that of course is endless! Or to disappear, start again.’

  The weariness was again very apparent in her voice.

  ‘It isn’t even as though I’d done anything I regretted. I was a half-starved little gutter waif, Danny, striving to keep straight. I shot a man, a beast of a man who deserved to be shot. The circumstances under which I killed him were such that no jury on earth would have convicted me. I know that now, but at the time I was only a frightened kid – and – I ran.’

  Danahan nodded.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said doubtfully, ‘there’s nothing against this man Levitt we could get hold of?’

  Olga shook her head.

  ‘Very unlikely. He’s too much of a coward to go in for evil-doing.’ The sound of her own words seemed to strike her. ‘A coward! I wonder if we couldn’t work on that in some way.’

  ‘If Sir Richard were to see him and frighten him,’ suggested Danahan.

  ‘Richard is too fine an instrument. You can’t handle that sort of man with gloves on.’

  ‘Well, let me see him.’

  ‘Forgive me, Danny, but I don’t think you’re subtle enough. Something between gloves and bare fists is needed. Let us say mittens! That means a woman! Yes, I rather fancy a woman might do the trick. A woman with a certain amount of finesse, but who knows the baser side of life from bitter experience. Olga Stormer, for instance! Don’t talk to me, I’ve got a plan coming.’

  She leant forward, burying her face in her hands. She lifted it suddenly.

  ‘What’s the name of that girl who wants to understudy me? Margaret Ryan, isn’t it? The girl with the hair like mine?’

  ‘Her hair’s all right,’ admitted Danahan grudgingly, his eyes resting on the bronze-gold coil surrounding Olga’s head. ‘It’s just like yours, as you say. But she’s no good any other way. I was going to sack her next week.’

  ‘If all goes well, you’ll probably have to let her understudy “Cora”.’ She smothered his protests with a wave of her hand. ‘Danny, answer me one question honestly. Do you think I can act? Really act, I mean. Or am I just an attractive woman who trails round in pretty dresses?’

  ‘Act? My God! Olga, there’s been nobody like you since Duse!’

  ‘Then if Levitt is really a coward, as I suspect, the thing will come off. No, I’m not going to tell you about it. I want you to get hold of the Ryan girl. Tell her I’m interested in her and want her to dine here tomorrow night. She’ll come fast enough.’

  ‘I should say she would!’

  ‘The other thing I want is some good strong knockout drops, something that will put anyone out of action for an hour or two, but leave them none the worse the next day.’

  Danahan grinned.

  ‘I can’t guarantee our friend won’t have a headache, but there will be no permanent damage done.’

  ‘Good! Run away now, Danny, and leave the rest to me.’ She raised her voice: ‘Miss Jones!’

  The spectacled young woman appeared with her usual alacrity.

  ‘Take down this, please.’

  Walking slowly up and down, Olga dictated the day’s correspondence. But one answer she wrote with her own hand.

  Jake Levitt, in his dingy room, grinned as he tore open the expected envelope.

  Dear Sir,

  I cannot recall the lady of whom you speak, but I meet so many people that my memory is necessarily uncertain. I am always pleased to help any fellow actress, and shall be at home if you will call this evening at nine o’clock.

  Yours faithfully,

  Olga Stormer

  Levitt nodded appreciatively. Clever note! She admitted nothing. Nevertheless she was willing to treat. The gold-mine was developing.

  At nine o’clock precisely Levitt stood outside the door of the actress’s flat and pressed the bell. No one answered the summons, and he was about to press it again when he realized that the door was not latched. He pushed the door open and entered the hall. To his right was an open door leading into a brilliantly lighted room, a room decorated in scarlet and black. Levitt walked in. On the table under the lamp lay a sheet of paper on which were written the words:

  Please wait until I return. – O. Stormer.

  Levitt sat down and waited. In spite of himself a feeling of uneasiness was stealing over him. The flat was so very quiet. There was something eerie about the silence.

  Nothing wrong, of course, how could there be? But the room was so deadly quiet; and yet, quiet as it was, he had the preposterous, uncomfortable notion that he wasn’t alone in it. Absurd! He wiped the perspiration from his brow. And still the impression grew stronger. He wasn’t alone! With a muttered oath he sprang up and began to pace up and down. In a minute the woman would return and then – He stopped dead with a muffled cry. From beneath the black velvet hangings that draped the window a hand protruded! He stooped and touched it. Cold – horribly cold – a dead hand.

  With a cry he flung back the curtains. A woman was lying there, one arm flung wide, the other doubled under her as she lay face downwards, her golden-bronze hair lying in dishevelled masses on her neck.

  Olga Stormer! Tremblingly his fingers sought the icy coldness of that wrist and felt for the pulse. As he thought, there was none. She was dead. She had escaped him, then, by taking the simplest way out.

  Suddenly his eyes were arrested by two ends of red cord finishing in fantastic tassels, and half hidden by the masses of her hair. He touched them gingerly; the head sagged as he did so, and he caught a glimpse of a horrible purple face. He sprang back with a cry, his head whirling. There was something here he did not understand. His brief glimpse of the face, disfigured as it was, had shown him one thing. This was murder, not suicide. The woman had been strangled and – she was not Olga Stormer!

  Ah! What was that? A sound behind him. He wheeled round and looked straight into the terrified eyes of a maid-servant crouching against the wall. Her face was as white as the cap and apron she wore, but he did not understand the fascinated horror in her eyes until her half-breathed words enlightened him to the peril in which he stood.

  ‘Oh, my Gord! Y
ou’ve killed ’er!’

  Even then he did not quite realize. He replied:

  ‘No, no, she was dead when I found her.’

  ‘I saw yer do it! You pulled the cord and strangled her. I ’eard the gurgling cry she give.’

  The sweat broke out upon his brow in earnest. His mind went rapidly over his actions of the previous few minutes. She must have come in just as he had the two ends of cord in his hands; she had seen the sagging head and had taken his own cry as coming from the victim. He stared at her helplessly. There was no doubting what he saw in her face – terror and stupidity. She would tell the police she had seen the crime committed, and no cross-examination would shake her, he was sure of that. She would swear away his life with the unshakable conviction that she was speaking the truth.

  What a horrible, unforeseen chain of circumstances! Stop, was it unforeseen? Was there some devilry here? On an impulse he said, eyeing her narrowly:

  ‘That’s not your mistress, you know.’

  Her answer, given mechanically, threw a light upon the situation.

  ‘No, it’s ’er actress friend – if you can call ’em friends, seeing that they fought like cat and dog. They were at it tonight, ’ammer and tongs.’