The Golden Ball and Other Stories Read online

length of time. Grace and the Sopworth girls were already

  displaying blue chins and chattering teeth. They raced up

  the beach, and James pursued his solitary way back to Mon

  Desir. As he towelled himself vigorously and slipped his

  shirt over his head, he was pleased with himself. He had,

  102

  Agatha Christie

  he felt, displayed a dynamic personality.

  And then suddenly he stood still, frozen with terror. Girlish voices sounded from outside, and voices quite different

  from those of Grace and her friends. A moment later

  he had realized the truth; the rightful owners of Mon Desir

  were arriving. It is possible that if James had been fully

  dressed, he would have waited their advent in a dignified

  manner and attempted an explanation. As it was, he acted

  on panic. The windows of Mort Desir were modestly screened

  by dark green curtains. James flung himself on the door and

  held the knob in a desperate clutch. Hands tried ineffectually

  to turn it from outside.

  "It's locked after all," said a girl's voice. "I thought Pug said it was open."

  "No, Woggle said so."

  "Woggle is the limit," said the other girl. "How perfectly foul; we shall have to go back for the key."

  James heard their footsteps retreating. He drew a long, deep breath. In desperate haste he huddled on the rest of

  his garments. Two minutes later saw him strolling negligently

  down the beach with an almost aggressive air of

  innocence. Grace and the Sopworth girls joined him on the

  beach a quarter of an hour later. The rest of the morning

  passed agreeably in stone throwing, writing in the sand and

  light badinage. Then Claud glanced at his watch.

  "Lunchtime," he observed. "We'd better be strolling back."

  "Fro terribly hungry," said Alice Sopworth.

  All the other girls said that they were terribly hungry too.

  "Are you coming, James?" asked Grace.

  Doubtless James was unduly touchy. He chose to take offence at her tone.

  "Not if my clothes are not good enough for you," he said bitterly. "Perhaps, as you are so particular, I'd better not

  come."

  That was Grace's cue for murmured protestations, but the seaside air had affected Grace unfavoumbly. She merely

  replied: "Very well. Just as you like; see you this afternoon

  then."

  James was left dumbfounded.

  THE RAJAH'S EMERALD 103

  "Well!" he said, staring after the retreating group. "Well,

  of all the--"

  He strolled moodily into the town. There are two caf

  in Kimpton-on-Sea; they are both hot, noisy and over.

  crowded. It was the affair of the bathing huts once more James had to wait his turn. He had to wait longer than hi

  mm, an unscrupulous matron who had just arrived fore

  stalling him when a vacant seat did present itself. At le

  he was seated at a small table. Close to his left ear tim

  raggedly bobbed maidens were making a determined ha

  of Italian opera. Fortunately James was not musical. ]

  studied the bill of fare dispassionately, his hands thrust dc

  into his pockets. He thought to himself:

  "Whatever I ask for, it's sure to be 'off.' That's the k

  of fellow I am."

  His right hand, groping in the recesses of his poc

  touched an unfamiliar object. It tlt like a pebble, a 1:

  round pebble.

  "What on earth did I want to put a stone in my po

  for?" thought James.

  His fingers closed round it. A waitress drifted up to

  "Fried plaice and chipped potatoes, please," said J,

  "Fried plaice is 'off,'" murmured the waitress, he

  fixed dreamily on the ceiling.

  'When I'll have curried beef," said James.

  "Curried beef is 'off.'"

  "Is there anything on this beastly menu that isn't'

  demanded James.

  The waitress looked pained and placed a pale-gr¢

  finger against haricot mutton. James resigned himsel

  inevitable and ordered haricot mutton. His mind stil ing with resentment against the ways of cafes, he d

  hand out of his pocket, the stone still in it. Unclo

  fingers, he looked absent-mindedly at the object in l-Then

  with a shock all lesser matters passed from h

  and he stared with all his eyes. The thing he held

  a pebble, it was--he could hardly doubt it--an

  an enormous green emerald. James stared at it horny

  No, it couldn't be an emerald; it must be colom

  There couldn't be an emerald of that size, unless

  words danced before $ames's eyes, "The Rajah

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  Agatha Christie

  he felt, displayed a dynamic personality.

  And then suddenly he stood still, frozen with terror. Girlish voices sounded from outside, and voices quite different

  from those of Grace and her friends. A moment later

  he had realized the truth; the rightful owners of Mort Desir

  were arriving. It is possible that if James had been fully

  dressed, he would have waited their advent in a dignified

  manner and attempted an explanation. As it was, he acted

  on panic. The windows of Mort Desk were modestly screened

  by dark green curtains. James flung himself on the door and

  held the knob in a desperate clutch. Hands tried ineffectually

  to turn it from outside.

  "It's locked after all," said a girl's voice. "I thought Pug said it was open."

  "No, Woggle said so."

  "Woggle is the limit," said the other girl. "How perfectly foul; we shall have to go back for the key."

  James heard their footsteps retreating. He drew a long, deep breath. In desperate haste he huddled on the rest of

  his garments. Two minutes later saw him strolling negligently

  down the beach with an almost aggressive air of

  innocence. Grace and the Sopworth girls joined him on the

  beach a quarter of an hour later. The rest of the morning

  passed agreeably in stone throwing, writing in the sand and

  light badinage. Then Claud glanced at his watch.

  "Lunchtime," he observed. "We'd better be strolling back."

  "Fro terribly hungry," said Alice Sopworth.

  All the other girls said that they were terribly hungry too.

  "Are you coming, James?" asked Grace. '

  Doubtless James was unduly touchy. He chose to take offence at her tone.

  "Not if my clothes are not good enough for you," he said bitterly. "Perhaps, as you are so particular, I'd better not

  come."

  That was Graee's cue for murmured protestations, but the seaside air had affected Grace unfavourably. She merely

  replied: "Very well. Just as you like; see you this afternoon

  then."

  James was left dumbfounded.

  W'dE RmAn'S EMERALD 103

  "Well!" he said, staring after the retreating group. "Well, of all the---"

  He strolled moodily into the town. There are two cafes in Kimpton-on-Sea; they are both hot, noisy and overcrowded.

  It was the affair of the bathing huts once more.

  James had to wait his turn. He had to wait longer than his

  turn, an unscrupulous matron who had just arrived forestalling

  him when a vacant seat did present itself. At last

  he was seated at a small table. Close to his left ear three

  raggedly bobbed maidens were making a determined has

  of Italian opera
. Fortunately James was not musical. H

  studied the bill of fare dispassionately, his hands thrust dee

  into his pockets. He thought to himself:

  "Whatever I ask for, it's sure to be 'off.' That's the kit of fellow I am."

  His right hand, groping in the recesses of his pock touched an unfamiliar object. It tlt like a pebble, a las

  round pebble.

  "What on earth did I want to put a stone in my poc for?" thought James.

  His fingers closed round it. A waitress drifted up to h "Fried plaice and chipped potatoes, please," said Jar

  "Fried plaice is 'off,'" murmured the waitress, her, fixed dreamily on the ceiling.

  "Then I'll have curried beef," said James.

  "Curried beef is 'off.'"

  "Is there anything on this beastly menu that isn't ' demanded James.

  The waitress looked pained and placed a pale-grey finger against haricot mutton. James resigned himself

  inevitable and ordered haricot mutton. His mind still

  ing with resentment against the ways of cafes, he dr

  hand out of his pocket, the stone still in it. Unclosl

  fingers, he looked absent-mindedly at the object in hi:

  Then with a shock all lesser matters passed from hi'

  and he stared with all his eyes. The thing he held '

  a pebble, it was--he could hardly doubt it--an e

  an enormous green emerald. James stared at it horror-:

  No, it couldn't be an emerald; it must be colourc

  There couldn't be an emerald of that size, unless-words

  danced before James's eyes, "The Rajah

  104 Agatha Christie

  putna--famous emerald the size of a pigeon's egg." Was it--could it be--that emerald at which he was looking now?

  The waitress returned with the haricot mutton, and James

  closed his fingers spasmodically. Hot and cold shivers chased

  themselves up and down his spine. He had the sense of

  being caught in a terrible dilemma. If this was the emerald--but

  was it? Could it be? He unclosed his fingers and peeped

  anxiously. James was no expert on precious stones, but the

  depth and the glow of the jewel convinced him this was the

  real thing. He put both elbows on the table and leaned

  forward staring with unseeing eyes at the haricot mutton

  slowly congealing on the dish in front of him. He had got

  to think this out. If this was the Rajah's emerald, what was

  he going to do about it? The world "police" flashed into his

  mind. If you found anything of value, you took it to the

  police station. Upon this axiom had James been brought up.

  Yes, but--how on earth had the emerald got into' his trouser pocket? That was doubtless the question the police

  would ask. It was an awkward question, and it was moreover

  a question to which he had at the moment no answer. How

  had the emerald got into his trouser pocket? He looked

  despairingly down at his legs, and as he did so, a misgiving

  shot through him. He looked more closely. One pair of old

  grey flannel trousers is very much like another pair of old

  grey flannel trousers, but all the same, James had an instinctive

  feeling that these were not his trousers after all.

  He sat back in his chair stunned with the force of the discovery.

  He saw now what had happened; in the hurry of

  getting out of the bathing hut, he had taken the wrong

  trousers. He had hung his own, he remembered, on an

  adjacent peg to the old pair hanging there. Yes, that explained

  matters so far; he had taken the wrong trousers. But

  all the same, what on earth was an emerald worth hundreds

  and thousands of pounds doing there? The more he thought

  about it, the more curious it seemed. He could, of course,

  explain to the police--

  It was awkward, no doubt about it, it was decidedly awkward. One would have to mention the fact that one had

  deliberately entered someone else's bathing hut. It was not,

  of course, a serious offence, but it started him off wrong.

  "Can I bring you anything else, sir?"

  THE RAJAH'S EMERALD 105

  It was the waitress again. She was looking pointedly at

  the untouched haricot mutton. James hastily dumped some

  of it on his plate and asked for his bill. Having obtained it,

  he paid and went out. As he stood undecidedly in the street,

  a poster opposite caught his eye. The adjacent town of

  Harchester possessed an evening paper, and it was the con

  tents bill of this paper that James was looking at. It an

  nounced a simple, sensational fact: "THE RAJAH'S EMERALD

  STOLEN." "My God," said James faintly, and leaned against

  a pillar. Pulling himself together, he fished out a penny and

  purchased a copy of the paper. He was not long in finding

  what he sought. Sensational items of local news were few

  and far between. Large headlines adorned the front page.

  "Sensational Burglary at Lord Edward Campion's. Theft of

  Famous Historical Emerald. Rajah of Maraputna's Terrible

  Loss." The facts were few and simple. Lord Edward Cam

  pion

  had entertained several friends the evening before.

  Wishing to show the stone to one of the ladies present, the

  Rajah had gone to fetch it and had found it missing. The

  police had been called in. So far no clue had been obtained.

  James let the paper fall to the ground. It was still not clear

  to him how the emerald had come to be reposing in the

  pocket of an old pair of flannel trousers in a bathing hut,

  but it was borne in upon him every minute that the police

  would certainly regard his own story as suspicious. What

  on earth was he to do? Here he was, standing in the principal

  street of Kimpton-on-Sea with stolen booty worth a king's

  ransom reposing idly in his pocket, while the entire police

  force of the district were busily searching for just that same

  booty. There were two courses open to him. Course number

  one, to go straight to the police station and tell his story--

  but it must be admitted that James funked that course badly.

  Course number two, somehow or other to get rid of the

  emerald. It occurred to him to do it up in a neat little parcel

  and post it back to the Rajah. Then he shook his head. He

  had read too many detective stories for that sort of thing.

  He knew how your super-sleuth could get busy with a mag

  nifying glass and every kind of patent device. Any detective

  worth his salt would get busy on James's parcel and would

  in half an hour or so have discovered the sender' s profession,

  age, habits, and personal appearance. After that it would

  106

  Agatha Christie

  be a mere matter of hours before he was tracked down.

  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 othe
rs. In pursuance of this idea, he directed

  his steps towards the aged mariner, whom he rightly regarded

  as being an inexhaustible source of Kimpton information.

  "Excuse me!" said James politely; "but I believe 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 De-sir stood a stranger--a well-dressed man of about forty

  THE RAJAH'S EMERALD 107

  years of age, his face keen and hawklike.

  "So I have caught you!" the stranger repeated. "Who--who are you?" stammered James.