Parker Pyne Investigates. Agatha Christie

Those, I imagine, are his sentiments.’

      Mrs Packington nodded with vigour. ‘Humbug–all humbug! He takes her on the river–I’m fond of going on the river myself, but five or six years ago he said it interfered with his golf. But he can give up golf for her. I like the theatre–George has always said he’s too tired to go out at night. Now he takes her out to dance–dance! And comes back at three in the morning. I–I–’

      ‘And doubtless he deplores the fact that women are so jealous, so unreasonably jealous when there is absolutely no cause for jealousy?’

      Again Mrs Packington nodded. ‘That’s it.’ She asked sharply: ‘How do you know all this?’

      ‘Statistics,’ Mr Parker Pyne said simply.

      ‘I’m so miserable,’ said Mrs Packington. ‘I’ve always been a good wife to George. I worked my fingers to the bone in our early days. I helped him to get on. I’ve never looked at any other man. His things are always mended, he gets good meals, and the house is well and economically run. And now that we’ve got on in the world and could enjoy ourselves and go about a bit and do all the things I’ve looked forward to doing some day–well, this!’ She swallowed hard.

      Mr Parker Pyne nodded gravely. ‘I assure you I understand your case perfectly.’

      ‘And–can you do anything?’ She asked it almost in a whisper.

      ‘Certainly, my dear lady. There is a cure. Oh yes, there is a cure.’

      ‘What is it?’ She waited, round-eyed and expectant.

      Mr Parker Pyne spoke quietly and firmly. ‘You will place yourself in my hands, and the fee will be two hundred guineas.’

      ‘Two hundred guineas!’

      ‘Exactly. You can afford to pay such a fee, Mrs Packington. You would pay that sum for an operation. Happiness is just as important as bodily health.’

      ‘I pay you afterwards, I suppose?’

      ‘On the contrary,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘You pay me in advance.’

      Mrs Packington rose. ‘I’m afraid I don’t see my way–’

      ‘To buying a pig in a poke?’ said Mr Parker Pyne cheerfully. ‘Well, perhaps you’re right. It’s a lot of money to risk. You’ve got to trust me, you see. You’ve got to pay the money and take a chance. Those are my terms.’

      ‘Two hundred guineas!’

      ‘Exactly. Two hundred guineas. It’s a lot of money. Good-morning, Mrs Packington. Let me know if you change your mind.’ He shook hands with her, smiling in an unperturbed fashion.

      When she had gone he pressed a buzzer on his desk. A forbidding-looking young woman with spectacles answered it.

      ‘A file, please, Miss Lemon. And you might tell Claude that I am likely to want him shortly.’

      ‘A new client?’

      ‘A new client. At the moment she has jibbed, but she will come back. Probably this afternoon about four. Enter her.’

      ‘Schedule A?’

      ‘Schedule A, of course. Interesting how everyone thinks his own case unique. Well, well, warn Claude. Not too exotic, tell him. No scent and he’d better get his hair cut short.’

      It was a quarter-past four when Mrs Packington once more entered Mr Parker Pyne’s office. She drew out a cheque book, made out a cheque and passed it to him. A receipt was given.

      ‘And now?’ Mrs Packington looked at him hopefully.

      ‘And now,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, smiling, ‘you will return home. By the first post tomorrow you will receive certain instructions which I shall be glad if you will carry out.’

      Mrs Packington went home in a state of pleasant anticipation. Mr Packington came home in a defensive mood, ready to argue his position if the scene at the breakfast table was reopened. He was relieved, however, to find that his wife did not seem to be in a combative mood. She was unusually thoughtful.

      George listened to the radio and wondered whether that dear child Nancy would allow him to give her a fur coat. She was very proud, he knew. He didn’t want to offend her. Still, she had complained of the cold. That tweed coat of hers was a cheap affair; it didn’t keep the cold out. He could put it so that she wouldn’t mind, perhaps…

      They must have another evening out soon. It was a pleasure to take a girl like that to a smart restaurant. He could see several young fellows were envying him. She was uncommonly pretty. And she liked him. To her, as she had told him, he didn’t seem a bit old.

      He looked up and caught his wife’s eye. He felt suddenly guilty, which annoyed him. What a narrow-minded, suspicious woman Maria was! She grudged him any little bit of happiness.

      He switched off the radio and went to bed.

      Mrs Packington received two unexpected letters the following morning. One was a printed form confirming an appointment at a noted beauty specialist’s. The second was an appointment with a dressmaker. The third was from Mr Parker Pyne, requesting the pleasure of her company at lunch at the Ritz that day.

      Mr Packington mentioned that he might not be home to dinner that evening as he had to see a man on business. Mrs Packington merely nodded absently, and Mr Packington left the house congratulating himself on having escaped the storm.

      The beauty specialist was impressive. Such neglect! Madame, but why? This should have been taken in hand years ago. However, it was not too late.

      Things were done to her face; it was pressed and kneaded and steamed. It had mud applied to it. It had creams applied to it. It was dusted with powder. There were various finishing touches.

      At last she was given a mirror. ‘I believe I do look younger,’ she thought to herself.

      The dressmaking seance was equally exciting. She emerged feeling smart, modish, up-to-date.

      At half-past one, Mrs Packington kept her appointment at the Ritz. Mr Parker Pyne, faultlessly dressed and carrying with him his atmosphere of soothing reassurance, was waiting for her.

      ‘Charming,’ he said, an experienced eye sweeping her from head to foot. ‘I have ventured to order you a White Lady.’

      Mrs Packington, who had not contracted the cocktail habit, made no demur. As she sipped the exciting fluid gingerly, she listened to her benevolent instructor.

      ‘Your husband, Mrs Packington,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, ‘must be made to Sit Up. You understand–to Sit Up. To assist in that, I am going to introduce to you a young friend of mine. You will lunch with him today.’

      At that moment a young man came along, looking from side to side. He espied Mr Parker Pyne and came gracefully towards them.

      ‘Mr Claude Luttrell, Mrs Packington.’

      Mr Claude Luttrell was perhaps just short of thirty. He was graceful, debonair, perfectly dressed, extremely handsome.

      ‘Delighted to meet you,’ he murmured.

      Three minutes later Mrs Packington was facing her new mentor at a small table for two.

      She was shy at first, but Mr Luttrell soon put her at her ease. He knew Paris well and had spent a good deal of time on the Riviera. He asked Mrs Packington if she were fond of dancing. Mrs Packington said she was, but that she seldom got any dancing nowadays as Mr Packington didn’t care to go out in the evenings.

      ‘But he couldn’t be so unkind as to keep you at home,’ said Claude Luttrell, smiling and displaying a dazzling row of teeth. ‘Women will not tolerate male jealousy in these days.’

      Mrs Packington nearly said that jealousy didn’t enter into the question. But the words remained unspoken. After all, it was an agreeable idea.

      Claude Luttrell spoke