The Case of the City Clerk Page 2
He stepped from the compartment (unlocked now, he noted) out into the corridor and looked up and down it. Empty! His eyes fastened on the door next to the girl’s. She had said that Vassilievitch was in the next compartment. Gingerly Roberts tried the handle. The door was bolted on the inside.
What should he do? Demand admittance? But the man would refuse—and after all, the girl might not be there! And if she were, would she thank him for making a public business of the matter? He had gathered that secrecy was essential in the game they were playing.
A perturbed little man wandered slowly along the corridor. He paused at the end compartment. The door was open, and the conductor lay there sleeping. And above him, on a hook, hung his brown uniform coat and peaked cap.
In a flash Roberts had decided on his course of action. In another minute he had donned the coat and cap, and was hurrying back along the corridor. He stopped at the door next to that of the girl, summoned all his resolution and knocked peremptorily.
When the summons was not answered, he knocked again.
“Monsieur,” he said in his best accent.
The door opened a little way and a head peered out—the head of a foreigner, clean-shaven except for a black moustache. It was an angry, malevolent face.
“Qu’est-ce-qu’il y a?” he snapped.
“Votre passeport, monsieur.” Roberts stepped back and beckoned.
The other hesitated, then stepped out into the corridor. Roberts had counted on his doing that. If he had the girl inside, he naturally would not want the conductor to come in. Like a flash, Roberts acted. With all his force he shoved the foreigner aside—the man was unprepared and the swaying of the train helped—bolted into the carriage himself, shut the door and locked it.
Lying across the end of the berth was the girl, a gag across her mouth and her wrists tied together. He freed her quickly and she fell against him with a sigh.
“I feel so weak and ill,” she murmured. “It was chloroform, I think. Did he—did he get them?”
“No.” Roberts tapped his pocket. “What are we going to do now?” he asked.
The girl sat up. Her wits were returning. She took in his costume.
“How clever of you. Fancy thinking of that! He said that he would kill me if I did not tell him where the jewels were. I have been so afraid—and then you came.” Suddenly she laughed. “But we have outwitted him! He will not dare to do anything. He cannot even try to get back into his own compartment.
“We must stay here till morning. Probably he will leave the train at Dijon; we are due to stop there in about half an hour. He will telegraph to Paris and they will pick up our trail there. In the meantime, you had better throw that coat and cap out of the window. They might get you into trouble.”
Roberts obeyed.
“We must not sleep,” the girl decided. “We must stay on guard till morning.”
It was a strange, exciting vigil. At six o’clock in the morning, Roberts opened the door carefully and looked out. No one was about. The girl slipped quickly into her own compartment. Roberts followed her in. The place had clearly been ransacked. He regained his own carriage through the washroom. His fellow traveller was still snoring.
They reached Paris at seven o’clock. The conductor was declaiming at the loss of his coat and cap. He had not yet discovered the loss of a passenger.
Then began a most entertaining chase. The girl and Roberts took taxi after taxi across Paris. They entered hotels and restaurants by one door and left them by another. At last the girl gave a sign.
“I feel sure we are not followed now,” she said. “We have shaken them off.”
They breakfasted and drove to Le Bourget. Three hours later they were at Croydon. Roberts had never flown before.
At Croydon a tall gentleman with a far-off resemblance to Mr. Roberts’ mentor at Geneva was waiting for them. He greeted the girl with especial respect.
“The car is here, madam,” he said.
“This gentleman will accompany us, Paul,” said the girl. And to Roberts: “Count Paul Stepanyi.”
The car was a vast limousine. They drove for about an hour, then they entered the grounds of a country house and pulled up at the door of an imposing mansion. Mr. Roberts was taken to a room furnished as a study. There he handed over the precious pair of stockings. He was left alone for a while. Presently Count Stepanyi returned.
“Mr. Roberts,” he said, “our thanks and gratitude are due to you. You have proved yourself a brave and resourceful man.” He held out a red morocco case. “Permit me to confer upon you the Order of St. Stanislaus—tenth class with laurels.”
As in a dream Roberts opened the case and looked at the jewelled order. The old gentleman was still speaking.
“The Grand Duchess Olga would like to thank you herself before you depart.”
He was led to a big drawing room. There, very beautiful in a flowing robe, stood his travelling companion.
She made an imperious gesture of the hand, and the other man left them.
“I owe you my life, Mr. Roberts,” said the grand duchess.
She held out her hand. Roberts kissed it. She leaned suddenly towards him.
“You are a brave man,” she said.
His lips met hers; a waft of rich Oriental perfume surrounded him.
For a moment he held that slender, beautiful form in his arms. . . .
He was still in a dream when somebody said to him: “The car will take you anywhere you wish.”
An hour later, the car came back for the Grand Duchess Olga. She got into it and so did the white-haired man. He had removed his beard for coolness. The car set down the Grand Duchess Olga at a house in Streatham. She entered it and an elderly woman looked up from a tea table.
“Ah, Maggie, dear, so there you are.”
In the Geneva-Paris express this girl was the Grand Duchess Olga; in Mr. Parker Pyne’s office she was Madeleine de Sara, and in the house at Streatham she was Maggie Sayers, fourth daughter of an honest, hardworking family.
How are the mighty fallen!
Mr. Parker Pyne was lunching with his friend. “Congratulations,” said the latter, “your man carried the thing through without a hitch. The Tormali gang must be wild to think the plans of that gun have gone to the League. Did you tell your man what he was carrying?”
“No. I thought it better to—er—embroider.”
“Very discreet of you.”
“It wasn’t exactly discretion. I wanted him to enjoy himself. I fancied he might find a gun a little tame. I wanted him to have some adventures.”
“Tame?” said Mr. Bonnington, staring at him. “Why, that lot would murder him as soon as look at him.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Parker Pyne mildly. “But I didn’t want him to be murdered.”
“Do you make a lot of money in your business, Parker?” asked Mr. Bonnington.
“Sometimes I lose it,” said Mr. Parker Pyne. “That is, if it is a deserving case.”
Three angry gentlemen were abusing one another in Paris.
“That confounded Hooper!” said one. “He let us down.”
“The plans were not taken by anyone from the office,” said the second. “But they went Wednesday, I am assured of that. And so I say you bungled it.”
“I didn’t,” said the third sulkily; “there was no Englishman on the train except a little clerk. He’d never heard of Peterfield or of the gun. I know. I tested him. Peterfield and the gun meant nothing to him.” He laughed. “He had a Bolshevist complex of some kind.”
Mr. Roberts was sitting in front of a gas fire. On his knee was a letter from Mr. Parker Pyne. It enclosed a cheque for fifty pounds “from certain people who are delighted with the way a certain commission was executed.”
On the arm of his chair was a library book. Mr. Roberts opened it at random. “She crouched against the door like a beautiful, hunted creature at bay.”
Well, he knew all about that.
He read another sentence: “He sn
iffed the air. The faint, sickly odour of chloroform came to his nostrils.”
That he knew all about too.
“He caught her in his arms and felt the responsive quiver of her scarlet lips.”
Mr. Roberts gave a sigh. It wasn’t a dream. It had all happened. The journey out had been dull enough, but the journey home! He had enjoyed it. But he was glad to be home again. He felt vaguely that life could not be lived indefinitely at such a pace. Even the Grand Duchess Olga—even that last kiss—partook already of the unreal quality of a dream.
Mary and the children would be home tomorrow. Mr. Roberts smiled happily.
She would say: “We’ve had such a nice holiday. I hated thinking of you all alone here, poor old boy.” And he’d say: “That’s all right, old girl. I had to go to Geneva for the firm on business—delicate bit of negotiations—and look what they’ve sent me.” And he’d show her the cheque for fifty pounds.
He thought of the Order of St. Stanislaus, tenth class with laurels. He’d hidden it, but supposing Mary found it! It would take a bit of explaining. . . .
Ah, that was it—he’d tell her he’d picked it up abroad. A curio.
He opened his book again and read happily. No longer was there a wistful expression on his face.
He, too, was of that glorious company to whom Things Happened.
About the Author
AGATHA CHRISTIE is the most widely published author of all time, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976.
www.AgathaChristie.com
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AGATHA CHRISTIE® PARKER PYNE INVESTIGATES™ are registered trademarks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere. All rights reserved.
“The Case of the City Clerk” was previously published as part of Parker Pyne Investigates short story collection, copyright © 1934 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition NOVEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062302571
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Agatha Christie, The Case of the City Clerk
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