Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 90, May 1951
- Автор: Кристи Агата, Куин (Квин) Эллери
- Год: 1951
- Язык: английский
- Год: Mercury Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 90, May 1951». Краткое содержание книги:
“Excuse me,” she said, in English which had only the faintest trace of a foreign accent, “but have you, by good fortune, a match?”
Mr. Cronk leaped forward, produced his lighter, lit it in trembling haste, and held it out. The Countess leaned forward with her cigarette and, steadying herself with a touch of her soft fingers on his hand, obtained her light.
“Thank you so very much,” she said.
Mr. Cronk put the lighter back into his pocket, achieved an awkward bow, and was turning away when she gave him a friendly smile and said:
“Will you not stop and talk to me?”
And Mr. Cronk found himself sitting at her table, and heard a voice which he hardly dared believe was his own inviting her to drink a liqueur with him, and calmly giving the order to the waiter.
His apprehension lest he might not know how to talk to a foreign noblewoman soon proved groundless, for the Countess, belying her aloof appearance, did most of the talking. It appeared that she was lonely, having found nobody in the hotel whom she considered worth talking to until Fate had willed that Mr. Cronk should collide with her.
Mr. Cronk preened himself in the semi-darkness. He had thought already that his expensive dinner-jacket had given him an unwonted air of smartness. Now he knew it.
“How strange!” said the Countess suddenly, with a laugh. “Here we are, old friends, and we do not know one another’s names. You are Mr. — Mr.—?”
“Cr— Carpenter!” said Mr. Cronk, remembering only just in time.
“Then that is another strange thing. I seem to know your face. Yet I have never met a Mr. Carpenter. Have we, perhaps, passed one another in some crowd, or at some party? Deauville, Biarritz, Cannes — have you been there lately?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Mr. Cronk, and added with daring gallantry, “and I am sure that if I had seen you I should not have forgotten it.”
“Perhaps,” suggested the Countess, knitting her brow, “I have seen your photograph. Has it been lately in the papers?”
She spoke with the assured air of one well used to seeing her friends’ photographs in the papers. Mr. Cronk, glancing warily about to make sure that nobody else was within earshot, resolved to give her his confidence. It would be safe with her.
“Well,” he admitted, “as a matter of fact, it has.”
“Carpenter? Carpenter?” The Countess searched her memory. “I read your English papers every day, but I do not remember...”
“Well, as a matter of fact my name’s not Carpenter. It’s — er — Cronk.”
“Cronk?” The Countess sat up straight. “But surely... yes... now I remember! You are the so clever detective who...”
“Please, please!” Mr. Cronk restrained her. “Don’t raise your voice. Nobody must know. There’s a special reason. You will keep it to yourself, won’t you?”
The Countess drew herself up.
“What is it that I should tell?” she asked loftily. “Besides, I am leaving tomorrow.”
“Leaving?” asked Mr. Cronk.
“Alas, yes. We meet only to part, my friend. Life is like that. But, who knows, we may meet again.”
She rose and pulled her wrap about her. Mr. Cronk felt that he ought to kiss her hand, but did not trust himself so far as to try. He bowed, much less awkwardly than before, and watched her with admiration as she swept along the terrace.
Arrived in her room, the Countess rang for her maid. Then, without waiting for the girl to arrive, she took off her frock and her stockings, put on the towel wrap and the rope-soled shoes she used for bathing, and began to put her finery carefully away.
A quick double-knock sounded on the door.
“Entrez!” called the Countess.
The maid appeared in the doorway.
“Madame?” she enquired respectfully, for the benefit of anybody who might be within earshot.
Then she closed the door, and her manner changed. She sauntered across to the dressing-table, selected a cigarette from the Countess’s gold case, and lit it. Then she sat on the bed.
“Any luck?” she asked.
The Countess, on her knees before a chest of drawers, glanced up.
“It is Cronk, and he is up to some game.”
“Why? Did he suspect you?”
“Not he. You should have seen him. He got the thrill of his life.”
“Well, what did he tell you?”
“That he has a special reason for not wanting it known who he is.”
“Is that all?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
“All right, my dear, all right. I only wondered if you’d been able to make him talk a bit more.”
“I couldn’t, without asking questions; and that might have put him wise to me.”
The maid looked thoughtful.
“Are you sure he wasn’t wise to you? He’s deep, you know.”
“If he had been, would he have given me his name?”
“He might. You never know.”
“Anyhow, to be on the safe side, I told him I was leaving tomorrow. I hope that won’t be awkward for you. But seeing you sent Charlie home just in case...”
“No — quite right. All my arrangements are finished. Thank you, Louise. You’ve managed very well.”
The Countess was now sitting up to the dressing table, where her hands were busy with the lustrous blue-black hair.
“Well,” she said in a sudden tone of discon tent, “I hope next time you’ll let me have a proper maid. It’s bad enough turning myself out like a millionairess — and this wig’s the last straw.”
She twitched the smooth dark hair off as she spoke, revealing a mop of fair curls beneath.
“Don’t he absurd, my dear,” returned the maid with firmness. “The fewer people that know anything, the better. Besides, you’ve nothing to do all day but turn yourself out. It’s I who have the really hard work. The only rest I get is when I’m up here supposed to be looking after you.”
The Countess laughed shortly.
“Why not?” she said. “You get your reward. Your share’s twice mine.”
“And quite right too, considering I planned the whole thing.”
“There’s nothing much in that,” objected the Countess, now in a thoroughly pettish humor. “It’s only going to be an ordinary hold-up.”
“Yes. But who found out that Mrs. Harrison was coming for the dance? And who knew that where Mrs. Harrison goes, half a dozen other rich American women will follow?”
“Oh, all right! I’m sorry. I suppose I’m tired or something.”
“Don’t mention it, my dear. Now, if we’re off tomorrow, you’d better pack. And put that wig on. We mustn’t take risks. Somebody might break in — you never know. You may have encouraged Cronk too far, for instance. If he tried his luck and found you here instead of his Countess, the game would be up.”
“He won’t,” said the Countess.
“You never know. So put it on.” Meekly, the Countess obeyed. But Mr. Cronk did not “try his luck.” He was asleep, and dreaming (like the individual in the song) that he dwelt in marble halls, with vassals and serfs at his side.
Next day, the table in the window was empty, and Mr. Cronk, for the first time, felt lonely.
He looked about him at a concourse of perfect strangers absorbing their large continental luncheon. Yesterday, all he had wanted was to sit in a corner and watch them. Now, he was unhappy because not a soul among them was interested in himself.
And then suddenly, among the concourse, he found one person who was taking a very great interest in him.
This was one of the prettiest of the girls he had seen dancing in the hotel in the evenings. She was fair, and (as all such girls seemed to be nowadays) she was tall and very slim. He had noticed her before, chiefly because she had a most individual voice which, whenever she raised it above a low conversational tone, had an astonishing carrying power. It was very clear in tone and conveyed an extraordinary sense of enjoyment in whatever she happened to be doing.