Midsummer Mysteries Read online

  ‘It is agreed, then? No, no, do not argue. The poor boy! He came to me, the tears in his eyes. “I will save you,” I said. “I will go to this man, this ogre, this monster! Leave it to Vera.” Now it is settled, I go.’

  With as little ceremony as she had come, she swept from the room, leaving an overpowering perfume of an exotic nature behind her.

  ‘What a woman!’ I exclaimed. ‘And what furs!’

  ‘Ah, yes, they were genuine enough. Could a spurious countess have real furs? My little joke, Hastings … No, she is truly Russian, I fancy. Well, well, so Master Bernard went bleating to her.’

  ‘The cigarette case is his. I wonder if the glove is also—’

  With a smile Poirot drew from his pocket a second glove and placed it by the first. There was no doubt of their being a pair.

  ‘Where did you get the second one, Poirot?’

  ‘It was thrown down with a stick on the table in the hall in Bury Street. Truly, a very careless young man, Monsieur Parker. Well, well, mon ami, we must be thorough. Just for the form of the thing, I will make a little visit to Park Lane.’

  Needless to say, I accompanied my friend. Johnston was out, but we saw his private secretary. It transpired that Johnston had only recently arrived from South Africa. He had never been in England before.

  ‘He is interested in precious stones, is he not?’ hazarded Poirot.

  ‘Gold mining is nearer the mark,’ laughed the secretary.

  Poirot came away from the interview thoughtful. Late that evening, to my utter surprise, I found him earnestly studying a Russian grammar.

  ‘Good heavens, Poirot!’ I cried. ‘Are you learning Russian in order to converse with the Countess in her own language?’

  ‘She certainly would not listen to my English, my friend!’

  ‘But surely, Poirot, well-born Russians invariably speak French?’

  ‘You are a mine of information, Hastings! I will cease puzzling over the intricacies of the Russian alphabet.’

  He threw the book from him with a dramatic gesture. I was not entirely satisfied. There was a twinkle in his eye which I knew of old. It was an invariable sign that Hercule Poirot was pleased with himself.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said sapiently, ‘you doubt her being really a Russian. You are going to test her?’

  ‘Ah, no, no, she is Russian all right.’

  ‘Well, then—’

  ‘If you really want to distinguish yourself over this case, Hastings, I recommend First Steps in Russian as an invaluable aid.’

  Then he laughed and would say no more. I picked up the book from the floor and dipped into it curiously, but could make neither head nor tail of Poirot’s remarks.

  The following morning brought us no news of any kind, but that did not seem to worry my little friend. At breakfast, he announced his intention of calling upon Mr Hardman early in the day. We found the elderly social butterfly at home, and seemingly a little calmer than on the previous day.

  ‘Well, Monsieur Poirot, any news?’ he demanded eagerly.

  Poirot handed him a slip of paper.

  ‘That is the person who took the jewels, monsieur. Shall I put matters in the hands of the police? Or would you prefer me to recover the jewels without bringing the police into the matter?’

  Mr Hardman was staring at the paper. At last he found his voice.

  ‘Most astonishing. I should infinitely prefer to have no scandal in the matter. I give you carte blanche, Monsieur Poirot. I am sure you will be discreet.’

  Our next procedure was to hail a taxi, which Poirot ordered to drive to the Carlton. There he inquired for Countess Rossakoff. In a few minutes we were ushered up into the lady’s suite. She came to meet us with outstretched hands, arrayed in a marvellous negligée of barbaric design.

  ‘Monsieur Poirot!’ she cried. ‘You have succeeded? You have cleared that poor infant?’

  ‘Madame la Comtesse, your friend Mr Parker is perfectly safe from arrest.’

  ‘Ah, but you are the clever little man! Superb! And so quickly too.’

  ‘On the other hand, I have promised Mr Hardman that the jewels shall be returned to him today.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Therefore, madame, I should be extremely obliged if you would place them in my hands without delay. I am sorry to hurry you, but I am keeping a taxi—in case it should be necessary for me to go on to Scotland Yard; and we Belgians, madame, we practise the thrift.’

  The Countess had lighted a cigarette. For some seconds she sat perfectly still, blowing smoke rings, and gazing steadily at Poirot. Then she burst into a laugh, and rose. She went across to the bureau, opened a drawer, and took out a black silk handbag. She tossed it lightly to Poirot. Her tone, when she spoke, was perfectly light and unmoved.

  ‘We Russians, on the contrary, practise prodigality,’ she said. ‘And to do that, unfortunately, one must have money. You need not look inside. They are all there.’

  Poirot arose.

  ‘I congratulate you, madame, on your quick intelligence and your promptitude.’

  ‘Ah! But since you were keeping your taxi waiting, what else could I do?’

  ‘You are too amiable, madame. You are remaining long in London?’

  ‘I am afraid no—owing to you.’

  ‘Accept my apologies.’

  ‘We shall meet again elsewhere, perhaps.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘And I—do not!’ exclaimed the Countess with a laugh. ‘It is a great compliment that I pay you there—there are very few men in the world whom I fear. Goodbye, Monsieur Poirot.’

  ‘Goodbye, Madame la Comtesse. Ah—pardon me, I forgot! Allow me to return you your cigarette case.’

  And with a bow he handed to her the little black moiré case we had found in the safe. She accepted it without any change of expression—just a lifted eyebrow and a murmured: ‘I see!’

  ‘What a woman!’ cried Poirot enthusiastically as we descended the stairs. ‘Mon Dieu, quelle femme! Not a word of argument—of protestation, of bluff! One quick glance, and she had sized up the position correctly. I tell you, Hastings, a woman who can accept defeat like that—with a careless smile—will go far! She is dangerous, she has the nerves of steel; she—’ He tripped heavily.

  ‘If you can manage to moderate your transports and look where you’re going, it might be as well,’ I suggested. ‘When did you first suspect the Countess?’

  ‘Mon ami, it was the glove and the cigarette case—the double clue, shall we say—that worried me. Bernard Parker might easily have dropped one or the other—but hardly both. Ah, no, that would have been too careless! In the same way, if someone else had placed them there to incriminate Parker, one would have been sufficient—the cigarette case or the glove again not both. So I was forced to the conclusion that one of the two things did not belong to Parker. I imagined at first that the case was his, and that the glove was not. But when I discovered the fellow to the glove, I saw that it was the other way about. Whose, then, was the cigarette case? Clearly, it could not belong to Lady Runcorn. The initials were wrong. Mr Johnston? Only if he were here under a false name. I interviewed his secretary, and it was apparent at once that everything was clear and above board. There was no reticence about Mr Johnston’s past. The Countess, then? She was supposed to have brought jewels with her from Russia; she had only to take the stones from their settings, and it was extremely doubtful if they could ever be identified. What could be easier for her than to pick up one of Parker’s gloves from the hall that day and thrust it into the safe? But, bien sûr, she did not intend to drop her own cigarette case.’

  ‘But if the case was hers, why did it have “B.P.” on it? The Countess’s initials are V.R.’

  Poirot smiled gently upon me.

  ‘Exactly, mon ami; but in the Russian alphabet, B is V and P is R.’

  ‘Well, you couldn’t expect me to guess that. I don’t know Russian.’

  ‘Neither do I, Hastings. That is why I bought my lit
tle book—and urged it on your attention.’

  He sighed.

  ‘A remarkable woman. I have a feeling, my friend—a very decided feeling—I shall meet her again. Where, I wonder?’

  Death on the Nile

  Lady Grayle was nervous. From the moment of coming on board the S.S. Fayoum she complained of everything. She did not like her cabin. She could bear the morning sun, but not the afternoon sun. Pamela Grayle, her niece, obligingly gave up her cabin on the other side. Lady Grayle accepted it grudgingly.

  She snapped at Miss MacNaughton, her nurse, for having given her the wrong scarf and for having packed her little pillow instead of leaving it out. She snapped at her husband, Sir George, for having just bought her the wrong string of beads. It was lapis she wanted, not carnelian. George was a fool!

  Sir George said anxiously, ‘Sorry, me dear, sorry. I’ll go back and change ’em. Plenty of time.’

  She did not snap at Basil West, her husband’s private secretary, because nobody ever snapped at Basil. His smile disarmed you before you began.

  But the worst of it fell assuredly to the dragoman—an imposing and richly dressed personage whom nothing could disturb.

  When Lady Grayle caught sight of a stranger in a basket chair and realized that he was a fellow passenger, the vials of her wrath were poured out like water.

  ‘They told me distinctly at the office that we were the only passengers! It was the end of the season and there was no one else going!’

  ‘That right, lady,’ said Mohammed calmly. ‘Just you and party and one gentleman, that’s all.’

  ‘But I was told that there would be only ourselves.’

  ‘That quite right, lady.’

  ‘It’s not all right! It was a lie! What is that man doing here?’

  ‘He come later, lady. After you take tickets. He only decide to come this morning.’

  ‘It’s an absolute swindle!’

  ‘That’s all right, lady; him very quiet gentleman, very nice, very quiet.’

  ‘You’re a fool! You know nothing about it. Miss MacNaughton, where are you? Oh, there you are. I’ve repeatedly asked you to stay near me. I might feel faint. Help me to my cabin and give me an aspirin, and don’t let Mohammed come near me. He keeps on saying “That’s right, lady,” till I feel I could scream.’

  Miss McNaughton proffered an arm without a word.

  She was a tall woman of about thirty-five, handsome in a quiet, dark way. She settled Lady Grayle in the cabin, propped her up with cushions, administered an aspirin and listened to the thin flow of complaint.

  Lady Grayle was forty-eight. She had suffered since she was sixteen from the complaint of having too much money. She had married that impoverished baronet, Sir George Grayle, ten years before.

  She was a big woman, not bad-looking as regarded features, but her face was fretful and lined, and the lavish make-up she applied only accentuated the blemishes of time and temper. Her hair had been in turn platinum-blonde and henna-red, and was looking tired in consequence. She was overdressed and wore too much jewellery.

  ‘Tell Sir George,’ she finished, while the silent Miss MacNaughton waited with an expressionless face—‘tell Sir George that he must get that man off the boat! I must have privacy. All I’ve gone through lately—’ She shut her eyes.

  ‘Yes, Lady Grayle,’ said Miss MacNaughton, and left the cabin.

  The offending last-minute passenger was still sitting in the deck-chair. He had his back to Luxor and was staring out across the Nile to where the distant hills showed golden above a line of dark green.

  Miss MacNaughton gave him a swift, appraising glance as she passed.

  She found Sir George in the lounge. He was holding a string of beads in his hand and looking at it doubtfully.

  ‘Tell me, Miss MacNaughton, do you think these will be all right?’

  Miss MacNaughton gave a swift glance at the lapis.

  ‘Very nice indeed,’ she said.

  ‘You think Lady Grayle will be pleased—eh?’

  ‘Oh no, I shouldn’t say that, Sir George. You see, nothing would please her. That’s the real truth of it. By the way, she sent me with a message to you. She wants you to get rid of this extra passenger.’

  Sir George’s jaw dropped. ‘How can I? What could I say to the fellow?’

  ‘Of course you can’t.’ Elsie MacNaughton’s voice was brisk and kindly. ‘Just say there was nothing to be done.’

  She added encouragingly, ‘It will be all right.’

  ‘You think it will, eh?’ His face was ludicrously pathetic.

  Elsie MacNaughton’s voice was still kinder as she said: ‘You really must not take these things to heart, Sir George. It’s just health, you know. Don’t take it seriously.’

  ‘You think she’s really bad, nurse?’

  A shadow crossed the nurse’s face. There was something odd in her voice as she answered: ‘Yes, I—I don’t quite like her condition. But please don’t worry, Sir George. You mustn’t. You really mustn’t.’ She gave him a friendly smile and went out.

  Pamela came in, very languid and cool in her white.

  ‘Hallo, Nunks.’

  ‘Hallo, Pam, my dear.’

  ‘What have you got there? Oh, nice!’

  ‘Well, I’m so glad you think so. Do you think your aunt will think so, too?’

  ‘She’s incapable of liking anything. I can’t think why you married the woman, Nunks.’

  Sir George was silent. A confused panorama of unsuccessful racing, pressing creditors and a handsome if domineering woman rose before his mental vision.

  ‘Poor old dear,’ said Pamela. ‘I suppose you had to do it. But she does give us both rather hell, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Since she’s been ill—’ began Sir George.

  Pamela interrupted him.

  ‘She’s not ill! Not really. She can always do anything she wants to. Why, while you were up at Assouan she was as merry as a—a cricket. I bet you Miss MacNaughton knows she’s a fraud.’

  ‘I don’t know what we’d do without Miss MacNaughton,’ said Sir George with a sigh.

  ‘She’s an efficient creature,’ admitted Pamela. ‘I don’t exactly dote on her as you do, though, Nunks. Oh, you do! Don’t contradict. You think she’s wonderful. So she is, in a way. But she’s a dark horse. I never know what she’s thinking. Still, she manages the old cat quite well.’

  ‘Look here, Pam, you mustn’t speak of your aunt like that. Dash it all, she’s very good to you.’

  ‘Yes, she pays all our bills, doesn’t she? It’s a hell of a life, though.’

  Sir George passed on to a less painful subject. ‘What are we to do about this fellow who’s coming on the trip? Your aunt wants the boat to herself.’

  ‘Well, she can’t have it,’ said Pamela coolly. ‘The man’s quite presentable. His name’s Parker Pyne. I should think he was a civil servant out of the Records Department—if there is such a thing. Funny thing is, I seem to have heard the name somewhere. Basil!’ The secretary had just entered. ‘Where have I seen the name Parker Pyne?’

  ‘Front page of The Times Agony column,’ replied the young man promptly. ‘“Are you happy? If not, consult Mr Parker Pyne.”’

  ‘Never! How frightfully amusing! Let’s tell him all our troubles all the way to Cairo.’

  ‘I haven’t any,’ said Basil West simply. ‘We’re going to glide down the golden Nile, and see temples’—he looked quickly at Sir George, who had picked up a paper—‘together.’

  The last word was only just breathed, but Pamela caught it. Her eyes met his.

  ‘You’re right, Basil,’ she said lightly. ‘It’s good to be alive.’

  Sir George got up and went out. Pamela’s face clouded over.

  ‘What’s the matter, my sweet?’

  ‘My detested aunt by marriage—’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Basil quickly. ‘What does it matter what she gets into her head? Don’t contradict her. You see,’ he laughed, ‘i
t’s good camouflage.’

  The benevolent figure of Mr Parker Pyne entered the lounge. Behind him came the picturesque figure of Mohammed, prepared to say his piece.

  ‘Lady, gentlemans, we start now. In a few minutes we pass temples of Karnak right-hand side. I tell you story now about little boy who went to buy a roasted lamb for his father …’

  Mr Parker Pyne mopped his forehead. He had just returned from a visit to the Temple of Dendera. Riding on a donkey was, he felt, an exercise ill suited to his figure. He was proceeding to remove his collar when a note propped up on the dressing table caught his attention. He opened it. It ran as follows:

  Dear Sir,—I should be obliged if you should not visit the Temple of Abydos, but would remain on the boat, as I wish to consult you.

  Yours truly,

  Ariadne Grayle

  A smile creased Mr Parker Pyne’s large, bland face. He reached for a sheet of paper and unscrewed his fountain pen.

  Dear Lady Grayle (he wrote), I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am at present on holiday and am not doing any professional business.

  He signed his name and dispatched the letter by a steward. As he completed his change of toilet, another note was brought to him.

  Dear Mr Parker Pyne,—I appreciate the fact that you are on holiday, but I am prepared to pay a fee of a hundred pounds for a consultation.

  Yours truly,

  Ariadne Grayle

  Mr Parker Pyne’s eyebrows rose. He tapped his teeth thoughtfully with his fountain pen. He wanted to see Abydos, but a hundred pounds was a hundred pounds. And Egypt had been even more wickedly expensive than he had imagined.

  Dear Lady Grayle (he wrote),—I shall not visit the Temple of Abydos.

  Yours faithfully,

  J. Parker Pyne

  Mr Parker Pyne’s refusal to leave the boat was a source of great grief to Mohammed.

  ‘Very nice temple. All my gentlemans like see that temple. I get you carriage. I get you chair and sailors carry you.’

  Mr Parker Pyne refused all these tempting offers.

  The others set off.

  Mr Parker Pyne waited on deck. Presently the door of Lady Grayle’s cabin opened and the lady herself trailed out on deck.