Parker Pyne Investigates. Agatha Christie

that’s all right.’ Daphne rose with a happy laugh.

      ‘Curious you asked me that,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Of course Claude, poor fellow, hasn’t many brains. He might easily have got muddled. So, to make sure, I had an expert look at this thing this morning.’

      Mrs St John sat down again rather suddenly. ‘Oh! And he said?’

      ‘That it was an extraordinarily good imitation,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, beaming. ‘First-class work. So that sets your mind at rest, doesn’t it?’

      Mrs St John started to say something, then stopped. She was staring at Mr Parker Pyne.

      The latter resumed his seat behind the desk and looked at her benevolently. ‘The cat who pulled the chestnuts out of the fire,’ he said dreamily. ‘Not a pleasant role. Not a role I should care to have any of my staff undertake. Excuse me. Did you say anything?’

      ‘I–no, nothing.’

      ‘Good. I want to tell you a little story, Mrs St John. It concerns a young lady. A fair-haired young lady, I think. She is not married. Her name is not St John. Her Christian name is not Daphne. On the contrary, her name is Ernestine Richards, and until recently she was secretary to Lady Dortheimer.

      ‘Well, one day the setting of Lady Dortheimer’s diamond ring became loose and Miss Richards brought it up to town to have it fixed. Quite like your story here, is it not? The same idea occurred to Miss Richards that occurred to you. She had the ring copied. But she was a far-sighted young lady. She saw a day coming when Lady Dortheimer would discover the substitution. When that happened, she would remember who had taken the ring to town and Miss Richards would be instantly suspected.

      ‘So what happened? First, I fancy, Miss Richards invested in a La Merveilleuse transformation–Number Seven side parting, I think’–his eyes rested innocently on his client’s wavy locks–‘shade dark brown. Then she called on me. She showed me the ring, allowed me to satisfy myself that it was genuine, thereby disarming suspicion on my part. That done, and a plan of substitution arranged, the young lady took the ring to the jeweller, who, in due course, returned it to Lady Dortheimer.

      ‘Yesterday evening the other ring, the false ring, was hurriedly handed over at the last minute at Waterloo Station. Quite rightly, Miss Richards did not not consider that Mr Luttrell was likely to be an authority on diamonds. But just to satisfy myself that everything was above board I arranged for a friend of mine, a diamond merchant, to be on the train. He looked at the ring and pronounced at once, ‘This is not a real diamond; it is an excellent paste replica.’

      ‘You see the point, of course, Mrs St John? When Lady Dortheimer discovered her loss, what would she remember? The charming young dancer who slipped the ring off her finger when the lights went out! She would make enquiries and find out that the dancers originally engaged were bribed not to come. If matters were traced back to my office, my story of a Mrs St John would seem feeble in the extreme. Lady Dortheimer never knew a Mrs St John. The story would sound a flimsy fabrication.

      ‘Now you see, don’t you, that I could not allow that? And so my friend Claude replaced on Lady Dortheimer’s finger the same ring that he took off.’ Mr Parker Pyne’s smile was less benevolent now.

      ‘You see why I could not take a fee? I guarantee to give happiness. Clearly I have not made you happy. I will say just one thing more. You are young; possibly this is your first attempt at anything of the kind. Now I, on the contrary, am comparatively advanced in years, and I have had a long experience in the compilation of statistics. From that experience I can assure you that in eighty-seven per cent of cases dishonesty does not pay. Eighty-seven per cent. Think of it!’

      With a brusque movement the pseudo Mrs St John rose. ‘You oily old brute!’ she said. ‘Leading me on! Making me pay expenses! And all the time–’ She choked, and rushed towards the door.

      ‘Your ring,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, holding it out to her.

      She snatched it from him, looked at it and flung it out of the open window.

      A door banged and she was gone.

      Mr Parker Pyne was looking out of the window with some interest. ‘As I thought,’ he said. ‘Considerable surprise has been created. The gentleman selling Dismal Desmonds does not know what to make of it.’

      The Case of the Discontented Husband

      I

      Undoubtedly one of Mr Parker Pyne’s greatest assets was his sympathetic manner. It was a manner that invited confidence. He was well acquainted with the kind of paralysis that descended on clients as soon as they got inside his office. It was Mr Pyne’s task to pave the way for the necessary disclosures.

      On this particular morning he sat facing a new client, a Mr Reginald Wade. Mr Wade, he deduced at once, was the inarticulate type. The type that finds it hard to put into words anything connected with the emotions.

      He was a tall, broadly-built man with mild, pleasant blue eyes and a well-tanned complexion. He sat pulling absent-mindedly at a little moustache while he looked at Mr Parker Pyne with all the pathos of a dumb animal.

      ‘Saw your advertisement, you know,’ he jerked. ‘Thought I might as well come along. Rum sort of show, but you never know, what?’

      Mr Parker Pyne interpreted these cryptic remarks correctly. ‘When things go badly, one is willing to take a chance,’ he suggested.

      ‘That’s it. That’s it, exactly. I’m willing to take a chance–any chance. Things are in a bad way with me, Mr Pyne. I don’t know what to do about it. Difficult, you know; damned difficult.’

      ‘That,’ said Mr Pyne, ‘is where I come in. I do know what to do! I am a specialist in every kind of human trouble.’

      ‘Oh, I say–bit of a tall order, that!’

      ‘Not really. Human troubles are easily classified into a few main heads. There is ill health. There is boredom. There are wives who are in trouble over their husbands. There are husbands’–he paused–‘who are in trouble over their wives.’

      ‘Matter of fact, you’ve hit it. You’ve hit it absolutely.’

      ‘Tell me about it,’ said Mr Pyne.

      ‘There’s nothing much to tell. My wife wants me to give her a divorce so that she can marry another chap.’

      ‘Very common indeed in these days. Now you, I gather, don’t see eye to eye with her in this business?’

      ‘I’m fond of her,’ said Mr Wade simply. ‘You see–well, I’m fond of her.’

      A simple and somewhat tame statement, but if Mr Wade had said, ‘I adore her. I worship the ground she walks on. I would cut myself into little pieces for her,’ he could not have been more explicit to Mr Parker Pyne.

      ‘All the same, you know,’ went on Mr Wade, ‘what can I do? I mean, a fellow’s so helpless. If she prefers this other fellow–well, one’s got to play the game; stand aside and all that.’

      ‘The proposal is that she should divorce you?’

      ‘Of course. I couldn’t let her be dragged through the divorce court.’

      Mr Pyne looked at him thoughtfully. ‘But you come to me? Why?’

      The other laughed in a shamefaced manner. ‘I don’t know. You see, I’m not a clever chap. I can’t think of things. I thought you might–well, suggest something. I’ve got six months, you see. She agreed to that. If at the end of six months she is still of the same mind–well, then, I get out. I thought you might give me a hint or two. At present everything I do annoys her.

      ‘You see, Mr Pyne, what it comes to is this: I’m not a clever chap! I like knocking balls about. I like a round of golf and a good set of tennis. I’m no good at music and art and such things. My wife’s clever. She likes pictures and the opera and concerts, and naturally