Parker Pyne Investigates. Agatha Christie

wishes to see you,’ announced his secretary. ‘She has no appointment.’

      ‘You may send her in, Miss Lemon.’ A moment later he was shaking hands with his visitor. ‘Good-morning,’ he said. ‘Do sit down.’

      The girl sat down and looked at Mr Parker Pyne. She was a pretty girl and quite young. Her hair was dark and wavy with a row of curls at the nape of the neck. She was beautifully turned out from the white knitted cap on her head to the cobweb stockings and dainty shoes. Clearly she was nervous.

      ‘You are Mr Parker Pyne?’ she asked.

      ‘I am.’

      ‘The one who–advertises?’

      ‘The one who advertises.’

      ‘You say that if people aren’t–aren’t happy–to–to come to you.’ ‘Yes.’

      She took the plunge. ‘Well, I’m frightfully unhappy. So I thought I’d come along and just–and just see.’

      Mr Parker Pyne waited. He felt there was more to come.

      ‘I–I’m in frightful trouble.’ She clenched her hands nervously.

      ‘So I see,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Do you think you could tell me about it?’

      That, it seemed, was what the girl was by no means sure of. She stared at Mr Parker Pyne with a desperate intentness. Suddenly she spoke with a rush.

      ‘Yes, I will tell you. I’ve made up my mind now. I’ve been nearly crazy with worry. I didn’t know what to do or whom to go to. And then I saw your advertisement. I thought it was probably just a ramp, but it stayed in my mind. It sounded so comforting, somehow. And then I thought–well, it would do no harm to come and see. I could always make an excuse and get away again if I didn’t–well, it didn’t–’

      ‘Quite so; quite so,’ said Mr Pyne.

      ‘You see,’ said the girl, ‘it means, well, trusting somebody.’

      ‘And you feel you can trust me?’ he said, smiling.

      ‘It’s odd,’ said the girl with unconsciousness rudeness, ‘but I do. Without knowing anything about you! I’m sure I can trust you.’

      ‘I can assure you,’ said Mr Pyne, ‘that your trust will not be misplaced.’

      ‘Then,’ said the girl, ‘I’ll tell you about it. My name is Daphne St John.’

      ‘Yes, Miss St John.’

      ‘Mrs. I’m–I’m married.’

      ‘Pshaw!’ muttered Mr Pyne, annoyed with himself as he noted the platinum circlet on the third finger of her left hand. ‘Stupid of me.’

      ‘If I weren’t married,’ said the girl, ‘I shouldn’t mind so much. I mean, it wouldn’t matter so much. It’s the thought of Gerald–well, here–here’s what all the trouble’s about!’

      She dived into her bag, took something out and flung it down on the desk where, gleaming and flashing, it rolled over to Mr Parker Pyne.

      It was a platinum ring with a large solitaire diamond.

      Mr Pyne picked it up, took it to the window, tested it on the pane, applied a jeweller’s lens to his eye and examined it closely.

      ‘An exceedingly fine diamond,’ he remarked, coming back to the table; ‘worth, I should say, about two thousand pounds at least.’

      ‘Yes. And it’s stolen! I stole it! And I don’t know what to do.’

      ‘Dear me!’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘This is very interesting.’

      His client broke down and sobbed into an inadequate handkerchief.

      ‘Now, now,’ said Mr Pyne. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

      The girl dried her eyes and sniffed. ‘Is it?’ she said. ‘Oh, is it?’

      ‘Of course it is. Now, just tell me the whole story.’

      ‘Well, it began by my being hard up. You see, I’m frightfully extravagant. And Gerald gets so annoyed about it. Gerald’s my husband. He’s a lot older than I am, and he’s got very–well, very austere ideas. He thinks running into debt is dreadful. So I didn’t tell him. And I went over to Le Touquet with some friends and I thought perhaps I might be lucky at chemmy and get straight again. I did win at first. And then I lost, and then I thought I must go on. And I went on. And–and–’

      ‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘You need not go into details. You were in a worse plight than ever. That is right, is it not?’

      Daphne St John nodded. ‘And by then, you see, I simply couldn’t tell Gerald. Because he hates gambling. Oh, I was in an awful mess. Well, we went down to stay with the Dortheimers near Cobham. He’s frightfully rich, of course. His wife, Naomi, was at school with me. She’s pretty and a dear. While we were there, the setting of this ring got loose. On the morning we were leaving, she asked me to take it up to town and drop it at her jeweller’s in Bond Street.’ She paused.

      ‘And now we come to the difficult part,’ said Mr Pyne helpfully. ‘Go on, Mrs St John.’

      ‘You won’t ever tell, will you?’ demanded the girl pleadingly.

      ‘My clients’ confidences are sacred. And anyway, Mrs St John, you have told me so much already that I could probably finish the story for myself.’

      ‘That’s true. All right. But I hate saying it–it sounds so awful. I went to Bond Street. There’s another shop there–Viro’s. They–copy jewellery. Suddenly I lost my head. I took the ring in and said I wanted an exact copy; I said I was going abroad and didn’t want to take real jewellery with me. They seemed to think it quite natural.

      ‘Well, I got the paste replica–it was so good you couldn’t have told it from the original–and I sent it off by registered post to Lady Dortheimer. I had a box with the jeweller’s name on it, so that was all right, and I made a professional-looking parcel. And then I–I–pawned the real one.’ She hid her face in her hands. ‘How could I? How could I? I was a low, mean, common thief.’

      Mr Parker Pyne coughed. ‘I do not think you have quite finished,’ he said.

      ‘No, I haven’t. This, you understand, was about six weeks ago. I paid off all my debts and got square again, but, of course, I was miserable all the time. And then an old cousin of mine died and I came into some money. The first thing I did was to redeem the wretched ring. Well, that’s all right; here it is. But, something terribly difficult has happened.’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘We’ve had a quarrel with the Dortheimers. It’s over some shares that Sir Reuben persuaded Gerald to buy. He was terribly let in over them and he told Sir Reuben what he thought of him–and oh, it’s all dreadful! And now, you see, I can’t get the ring back.’

      ‘Couldn’t you send it to Lady Dortheimer anonymously?’

      ‘That gives the whole thing away. She’ll examine her own ring, find it’s a fake and guess at once what I’ve done.’

      ‘You say she’s a friend of yours. What about telling her the whole truth–throwing yourself on her mercy?’

      Mrs St John shook her head. ‘We’re not such friends as that. Where money or jewellery is concerned, Naomi’s as hard as nails. Perhaps she couldn’t prosecute me if I gave the ring back, but she could tell everyone what I’ve done and I’d be ruined. Gerald would know and he would never forgive me. Oh, how awful everything is!’ She began to cry again. ‘I’ve thought and I’ve thought, and I can’t see what to do! Oh, Mr Pyne, can’t you do anything?’

      ‘Several things,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.

      ‘You can? Really?’

      ‘Certainly.