The Golden Ball and Other Stories Read online

  "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, businesslike 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.

  108 Agatha Christie

  "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 cdlbre, 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 notecase in his right-hand pocket,

  there!"

  "The man is mad," grumbled the other. "You can look

  THE RAJAH'S EMERALD

  109

  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

  up and held it out 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

  110

  Agatha Christie

  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 eye 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 Edwa
rd 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

  THE RAJAH'S EMERALD I I 1

  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 while 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,,night like to come."

  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.

  Swan Song

  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 RitzIotel. The suite in question had been reserved for

  Mme. Pa'ula 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 manner.

  "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. At that minute a door at the other side

  of the room opened, and a trim French gift 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

  112

  SWAN SONG 1 13

  New York, but that it is imbdcile to send them to her in

  London. In London, she says, red roses are the only things

  possible, and straightaway she opens the door and precipitates

  the yellow roses into the passage, where they descend

  upon a monsieur, trs comme ilfaut, 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 from. 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

  halfway 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

  114

  Agatha Christie

  louder and louder, then softened again till it died away in nothingness.

  "Ah!" said Paula Nazorkoff in naive 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 fail 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 ther
e, 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 AMa."

  "AMa! 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 Cavaradossi?" demanded Nazorkoff.

  SWAN SONG 115

  "The American tenor, Hensdale."

  The other nodded.

  "He is a nice little boy; he sings prettily."

  "And Barrre 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." Again Cowan shuffled papers.

  "Now here is quite a different proposition," he said, "from Lady Rustonbury. She wants you to go down and

  sing."

  "Rustonbury?"

  The prima donna's brow contracted as if in the effort to recollect something.

  "I have read the name lately, very lately. It is a town--or a village, isn't it?"

  "That's right, pretty little place in Hertfordshire. As for Lord Rustonbury's place, Rustonbury Castle, it's a real

  dandy old feudal seat, ghosts and family pictures, and secret