Miss Marple – Miss Marple and Mystery: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

carriage window.

      ‘My niece! You have her here. I want my niece.’

      George, a little breathless, was reclining in the corner, deep in the sporting column of the evening paper, one-thirty edition. He laid it aside with the air of a man recalling himself from far away.

      ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ he said politely.

      ‘My niece – what have you done with her?’

      Acting on the policy that attack is always better than defence, George leaped into action.

      ‘What the devil do you mean?’ he cried, with a very creditable imitation of his own uncle’s manner.

      The other paused a minute, taken aback by this sudden fierceness. He was a fat man, still panting a little as though he had run some way. His hair was cut en brosse, and he had a moustache of the Hohenzollern persuasion. His accents were decidedly guttural, and the stiffness of his carriage denoted that he was more at home in uniform than out of it. George had the true-born Briton’s prejudice against foreigners – and an especial distaste for German-looking foreigners.

      ‘What the devil do you mean, sir?’ he repeated angrily.

      ‘She came in here,’ said the other. ‘I saw her. What have you done with her?’

      George flung aside the paper and thrust his head and shoulders through the window.

      ‘So that’s it, is it?’ he roared. ‘Blackmail. But you’ve tried it on the wrong person. I read all about you in the Daily Mail this morning. Here, guard, guard!’

      Already attracted from afar by the altercation, that functionary came hurrying up.

      ‘Here, guard,’ said Mr Rowland, with that air of authority which the lower classes so adore. ‘This fellow is annoying me. I’ll give him in charge for attempted blackmail if necessary. Pretends I’ve got his niece hidden in here. There’s a regular gang of these foreigners trying this sort of thing on. It ought to be stopped. Take him away, will you? Here’s my card if you want it.’

      The guard looked from one to the other. His mind was soon made up. His training led him to despise foreigners, and to respect and admire well-dressed gentlemen who travelled first class.

      He laid his hand on the shoulder of the intruder.

      ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you come out of this.’

      At this crisis the stranger’s English failed him, and he plunged into passionate profanity in his native tongue.

      ‘That’s enough of that,’ said the guard. ‘Stand away, will you? She’s due out.’

      Flags were waved and whistles were blown. With an unwilling jerk the train drew out of the station.

      George remained at his observation post until they were clear of the platform. Then he drew in his head, and picking up the suit-case tossed it into the rack.

      ‘It’s quite all right. You can come out,’ he said reassuringly.

      The girl crawled out.

      ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘How can I thank you?’

      ‘That’s quite all right. It’s been a pleasure, I assure you,’ returned George nonchalantly.

      He smiled at her reassuringly. There was a slightly puzzled look in her eyes. She seemed to be missing something to which she was accustomed. At that moment, she caught sight of herself in the narrow glass opposite, and gave a heartfelt gasp.

      Whether the carriage cleaners do, or do not, sweep under the seats every day is doubtful. Appearances were against their doing so, but it may be that every particle of dirt and smoke finds its way there like a homing bird. George had hardly had time to take in the girl’s appearance, so sudden had been her arrival, and so brief the space of time before she crawled into hiding, but it was certainly a trim and well-dressed young woman who had disappeared under the seat. Now her little red hat was crushed and dented, and her face was disfigured with long streaks of dirt.

      ‘Oh!’ said the girl.

      She fumbled for her bag. George, with the tact of a true gentleman, looked fixedly out of the window and admired the streets of London south of the Thames.

      ‘How can I thank you?’ said the girl again.

      Taking this as a hint that conversation might now be resumed, George withdrew his gaze, and made another polite disclaimer, but this time with a good deal of added warmth in his manner.

      The girl was absolutely lovely! Never before, George told himself, had he seen such a lovely girl. The empressement of his manner became even more marked.

      ‘I think it was simply splendid of you,’ said the girl with enthusiasm.

      ‘Not at all. Easiest thing in the world. Only too pleased been of use,’ mumbled George.

      ‘Splendid,’ she reiterated emphatically.

      It is undoubtedly pleasant to have the loveliest girl you have even seen gazing into your eyes and telling you how splendid you are. George enjoyed it as much as anyone could.

      Then there came a rather difficult silence. It seemed to dawn upon the girl that further explanation might be expected. She flushed a little.

      ‘The awkward part of it is,’ she said nervously, ‘that I’m afraid I can’t explain.’

      She looked at him with a piteous air of uncertainty.

      ‘You can’t explain?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘How perfectly splendid!’ said Mr Rowland with enthusiasm.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘I said, How perfectly splendid. Just like one of those books that keep you up all night. The heroine always says “I can’t explain” in the first chapter. She explains in the last, of course, and there’s never any real reason why she shouldn’t have done so in the beginning – except that it would spoil the story. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to be mixed up in a real mystery – I didn’t know there were such things. I hope it’s got something to do with secret documents of immense importance, and the Balkan express. I dote upon the Balkan express.’

      The girl stared at him with wide, suspicious eyes.

      ‘What makes you say the Balkan express?’ she asked sharply.

      ‘I hope I haven’t been indiscreet,’ George hastened to put in. ‘Your uncle travelled by it, perhaps.’

      ‘My uncle –’ She paused, then began again. ‘My uncle –’

      ‘Quite so,’ said George sympathetically. ‘I’ve got an uncle myself. Nobody should be held responsible for their uncles. Nature’s little throwbacks – that’s how I look at it.’

      The girl began to laugh suddenly. When she spoke George was aware of the slight foreign inflection in her voice. At first he had taken her to be English.

      ‘What a refreshing and unusual person you are, Mr –’

      ‘Rowland. George to my friends.’

      ‘My name is Elizabeth –’

      She stopped abruptly.

      ‘I like the name of Elizabeth,’ said George, to cover her momentary confusion. ‘They don’t call you Bessie, or anything horrible like that, I hope?’

      She shook her head.

      ‘Well,’ said George, ‘now that we know each other, we’d better get down to business. If you’ll stand up, Elizabeth, I’ll brush down the back of your coat.’

      She stood up obediently, and George was as good as his word.

      ‘Thank you, Mr Rowland.’

      ‘George. George