Parker Pyne Investigates. Agatha Christie

got a little money besides my pension. I’ve a nice cottage near Cobham. I can’t afford to hunt or shoot or fish. I’m not married. My neighbours are all pleasant folk, but they’ve no ideas beyond this island.’

      ‘The long and short of the matter is that you find life tame,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.

      ‘Damned tame.’

      ‘You would like excitement, possibly danger?’ asked Mr Pyne.

      The soldier shrugged. ‘There’s no such thing in this tinpot country.’

      ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr Pyne seriously. ‘There you are wrong. There is plenty of danger, plenty of excitement, here in London if you know where to go for it. You have seen only the surface of our English life, calm, pleasant. But there is another side. If you wish it, I can show you that other side.’

      Major Wilbraham regarded him thoughtfully. There was something reassuring about Mr Pyne. He was large, not to say fat; he had a bald head of noble proportions, strong glasses and little twinkling eyes. And he had an aura–an aura of dependability.

      ‘I should warn you, however,’ continued Mr Pyne, ‘that there is an element of risk.’

      The soldier’s eye brightened. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. Then, abruptly: ‘And–your fees?’

      ‘My fee,’ said Mr Pyne, ‘is fifty pounds, payable in advance. If in a month’s time you are still in the same state of boredom, I will refund your money.’

      Wilbraham considered. ‘Fair enough,’ he said at last. ‘I agree. I’ll give you a cheque now.’

      The transaction was completed. Mr Parker Pyne pressed a buzzer on his desk.

      ‘It is now one o’clock,’ he said. ‘I am going to ask you to take a young lady out to lunch.’ The door opened. ‘Ah, Madeleine, my dear, let me introduce Major Wilbraham, who is going to take you out to lunch.’

      Wilbraham blinked slightly, which was hardly to be wondered at. The girl who entered the room was dark, languorous, with wonderful eyes and long black lashes, a perfect complexion and a voluptuous scarlet mouth. Her exquisite clothes set off the swaying grace of her figure. From head to foot she was perfect.

      ‘Er–delighted,’ said Major Wilbraham.

      ‘Miss de Sara,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.

      ‘How very kind of you,’ murmured Madeleine de Sara.

      ‘I have your address here,’ announced Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Tomorrow morning you will receive my further instructions.’

      Major Wilbraham and the lovely Madeleine departed.

      It was three o’clock when Madeleine returned.

      Mr Parker Pyne looked up. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

      Madeleine shook her head. ‘Scared of me,’ she said. ‘Thinks I’m a vamp.’

      ‘I thought as much,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘You carried out my instructions?’

      ‘Yes. We discussed the occupants of the other tables freely. The type he likes is fair-haired, blue-eyed, slightly anaemic, not too tall.’

      ‘That should be easy,’ said Mr Pyne. ‘Get me Schedule B and let me see what we have in stock at present.’ He ran his finger down a list, finally stopping at a name. ‘Freda Clegg. Yes, I think Freda Clegg will do excellently. I had better see Mrs Oliver about it.’

      II

      The next day Major Wilbraham received a note, which read:

      On Monday morning next at eleven o’clock go to Eaglemont, Friars Lane, Hampstead, and ask for Mr Jones. You will represent yourself as coming from the Guava Shipping Company.

      Obediently on the following Monday (which happened to be Bank Holiday), Major Wilbraham set out for Eaglemont, Friars Lane. He set out, I say, but he never got there. For before he got there, something happened.

      All the world and his wife seemed to be on their way to Hampstead. Major Wilbraham got entangled in crowds, suffocated in the tube and found it hard to discover the whereabouts of Friars Lane.

      Friars Lane was a cul-de-sac, a neglected road full of ruts, with houses on either side standing back from the road. They were largish houses which had seen better days and had been allowed to fall into disrepair.

      Wilbraham walked along peering at the half-erased names on the gate-posts, when suddenly he heard something that made him stiffen to attention. It was a kind of gurgling, half-choked cry.

      It came again and this time it was faintly recognizable as the word ‘Help!’ It came from inside the wall of the house he was passing.

      Without a moment’s hesitation, Major Wilbraham pushed open the rickety gate and sprinted noiselessly up the weed-covered drive. There in the shrubbery was a girl struggling in the grasp of two enormous Negroes. She was putting up a brave fight, twisting and turning and kicking. One Negro held his hand over her mouth in spite of her furious efforts to get her head free.

      Intent on their struggle with the girl, neither of the blacks had noticed Wilbraham’s approach. The first they knew of it was when a violent punch on the jaw sent the man who was covering the girl’s mouth reeling backwards. Taken by surprise, the other man relinquished his hold of the girl and turned. Wilbraham was ready for him. Once again his fist shot out, and the Negro reeled backwards and fell. Wilbraham turned on the other man, who was closing in behind him.

      But the two men had had enough. The second one rolled over, sat up; then, rising, he made a dash for the gate. His companion followed suit. Wilbraham started after them, but changed his mind and turned towards the girl, who was leaning against a tree, panting.

      ‘Oh, thank you!’ she gasped. ‘It was terrible.’

      Major Wilbraham saw for the first time who it was he had rescued so opportunely. She was a girl of about twenty-one or two, fair-haired and blue-eyed, pretty in a rather colourless way.

      ‘If you hadn’t come!’ she gasped.

      ‘There, there,’ said Wilbraham soothingly. ‘It’s all right now. I think, though, that we’d better get away from here. It’s possible those fellows might come back.’

      A faint smile came to the girl’s lips. ‘I don’t think they will–not after the way you hit them. Oh, it was splendid of you!’

      Major Wilbraham blushed under the warmth of her glance of admiration. ‘Nothin’ at all,’ he said indistinctly. ‘All in day’s work. Lady being annoyed. Look here, if you take my arm, can you walk? It’s been a nasty shock, I know.’

      ‘I’m all right now,’ said the girl. However, she took the proffered arm. She was still rather shaky. She glanced behind her at the house as they emerged through the gate. ‘I can’t understand it,’ she murmured. ‘That’s clearly an empty house.’

      ‘It’s empty, right enough,’ agreed the major, looking up at the shuttered windows and general air of decay.

      ‘And yet it is Whitefriars.’ She pointed to a half-obliterated name on the gate. ‘And Whitefriars was the place I was to go.’

      ‘Don’t worry about anything now,’ said Wilbraham. ‘In a minute or two we’ll be able to get a taxi. Then we’ll drive somewhere and have a cup of coffee.’

      At the end of the lane they came out into a more frequented street, and by good fortune a taxi had just set down a fare at one of the houses. Wilbraham hailed it, gave an address to the driver and they got in.

      ‘Don’t try to talk,’ he admonished his companion. ‘Just lie back. You’ve had a nasty experience.’

      She smiled at him gratefully.

      ‘By the way–er–my name is Wilbraham.’

      ‘Mine is Clegg–Freda Clegg.’