Parker Pyne Investigates
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‘Yes, yes! But about last night–was it all right? Did it happen?’
Mr Parker Pyne looked at her in surprise. ‘My dear young lady, naturally it is all right. I took it for granted that you understood that.’
‘What a relief! I was afraid–’
Mr Parker Pyne shook his head reproachfully. ‘Failure is a word not tolerated in this establishment. If I do not think I can succeed I refuse to undertake a case. If I do take a case, its success is practically a foregone conclusion.’
‘She’s really got her ring back and suspects nothing?’
‘Nothing whatever. The operation was most delicately conducted.’
Daphne St John sighed. ‘You don’t know the load off my mind. What were you saying about expenses?’
‘Sixty-five pounds, seventeen shillings.’
Mrs St John opened her bag and counted out the money. Mr Parker Pyne thanked her and wrote out a receipt.
‘But your fee?’ murmured Daphne. ‘This is only for expenses.’
‘In this case there is no fee.’
‘Oh, Mr Pyne! I couldn’t, really!’
‘My dear young lady, I insist. I will not touch a penny. It would be against my principles. Here is your receipt. And now–’
With the smile of a happy conjuror bringing off a successful trick, he drew a small box from his pocket and pushed it across the table. Daphne opened it. Inside, to all appearances, lay the identical diamond ring.
‘Brute!’ said Mrs St John, making a face at it. ‘How I hate you! I’ve a good mind to throw you out of the window.’
‘I shouldn’t do that,’ said Mr Pyne. ‘It might surprise people.’
‘You’re quite sure it isn’t the real one?’ said Daphne.
‘No, no! The one you showed me the other day is safely on Lady Dortheimer’s finger.’
‘Then, 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 she gets bored with me. This other fellow –nasty, long-haired chap–he knows all about these things. He can talk about them. I can’t. In a way, I can understand a clever, beautiful woman getting fed up with an ass like me.’
Mr Parker Pyne groaned. ‘You have been married–how long?…Nine years? And I suppose you have adopted that attitude from the start. Wrong, my dear sir; disastrously wrong! Never adopt an apologetic attitude with a woman. She will take you at your own valuation–and you deserve it. You should have gloried in your athletic prowess. You should have spoken of art and music as “all that nonsense my wife likes”. You should have condoled with her on not being able to play games better. The humble spirit, my dear sir, is a wash-out in matrimony! No woman can be expected to stand up against it. No wonder your wife has been unable to last the course.’
Mr Wade was looking at him in bewilderment. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what do you think I ought to do?’
‘That certainly is the question. Whatever you should have done nine years ago, it is too late now. New tactics must be adopted. Have you ever had any affairs with other women?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘I should have said, perhaps, any light flirtations?’
‘I never bothered about women much.’
‘A mistake. You must start now.’
Mr Wade looked alarmed. ‘Oh, look here, I couldn’t really. I mean–’
‘You will be put to no trouble in the matter. One of my staff will be supplied for the purpose. She will tell you what is required of you, and any attentions you pay her she will, of course, understand to be merely a matter of business.’
Mr Wade looked relieved. ‘That’s better. But do you really think–I mean, it seems to me that Iris will be keener to get rid of me than ever.’
‘You do not understand human nature, Mr Wade. Still less do you understand feminine human nature. At the present moment you are, from a feminine point of view, merely a waste product. Nobody wants you. What use has a woman for something that no one wants? None whatever. But take another angle. Suppose your wife discovers that you are looking forward to regaining your freedom as much as she is?’
‘Then she ought to be pleased.’
‘She ought to be, perhaps, but she will not be! Moreover, she will see that you have attracted a fascinating young woman–a young woman who could pick and choose. Immediately your stock goes up. Your wife knows that all her friends will say it was you who tired of her and wished to marry a more attractive woman. That will annoy her.’
‘You think so?’
‘I am sure of it. You will no longer be “poor dear old Reggie”. You will be “that sly dog Reggie”. All the difference in the world! Without relinquishing the other man, she will doubtless try to win you back. You will not be won. You will be sensible and repeat to her all her arguments. “Much better to part.” “Temperamentally unsuited.” You realize that while what she said was true–that you had never understood her–it is also true that she had never understood you. But we need not go into this now; you will be given full instructions when the time comes.’
Mr Wade seemed doubtful still. ‘You really think that this plan of yours will do the trick?’ he asked dubiously.
‘I will not say I am absolutely sure of it,’ said Mr Parker Pyne cautiously. ‘There is a bare possibility that your wife may be so overwhelmingly in love with this other man that nothing you could say or do will affect her, but I consider that unlikely. She has probably been driven into this affair through boredom–boredom with the atmosphere of uncritical devotion and absolute fidelity with which you have most unwisely surrounded her. If you follow my instructions, the chances are, I should say, ninety-seven per cent in your favour.’
‘Good enough,’ said Mr Wade. ‘I’ll do it. By the way–er–how much?’
‘My fee is two hundred guineas, payable in advance.’
Mr Wade drew out a cheque book.
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