Happy? Happy? Had anyone ever been so unhappy? It was like an answer to prayer.
Hastily she scribbled on a loose sheet of paper she happened to have in her bag:
Please help me. Will you meet me outside the hotel in ten minutes?
She enclosed it in an envelope and directed the waiter to take it to the gentleman at the table by the window. Ten minutes later, enveloped in a fur coat, for the night was chilly, Mrs Peters went out of the hotel and strolled slowly along the road to the ruins. Mr Parker Pyne was waiting for her.
‘It’s just the mercy of heaven you’re here,’ said Mrs Peters breathlessly. ‘But how did you guess the terrible trouble I’m in. That’s what I want to know.’
‘The human countenance, my dear madam,’ said Mr Parker Pyne gently. ‘I knew at once that something had happened, but what it is I am waiting for you to tell me.’
Out it came in a flood. She handed him the letter, which he read by the light of his pocket torch.
‘H’m,’ he said. ‘A remarkable document. A most remarkable document. It has certain points–’
But Mrs Peters was in no mood to listen to a discussion of the finer points of the letter. What was she to do about Willard? Her own dear, delicate Willard.
Mr Parker Pyne was soothing. He painted an attractive picture of Greek bandit life. They would be especially careful of their captive, since he represented a potential gold mine. Gradually he calmed her down.
‘But what am I to do?’ wailed Mrs Peters.
‘Wait until tomorrow,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘That is, unless you prefer to go straight to the police.’
Mrs Peters interrupted him with a shriek of terror. Her darling Willard would be murdered out of hand!
‘You think I’ll get Willard back safe and sound?’
‘There is no doubt of that,’ said Mr Parker Pyne soothingly. ‘The only question is whether you can get him back without paying ten thousand pounds.’
‘All I want is my boy.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Parker Pyne soothingly. ‘Who brought the letter, by the way?’
‘A man the landlord didn’t know. A stranger.’
‘Ah! There are possibilities there. The man who brings the letter tomorrow might be followed. What are you telling the people at the hotel about your son’s absence?’
‘I haven’t thought.’
‘I wonder, now.’ Mr Parker Pyne reflected. ‘I think you might quite naturally express alarm and concern at his absence. A search party could be sent out.’
‘You don’t think these fiends–?’ She choked.
‘No, no. So long as there is no word of the kidnapping or the ransom, they cannot turn nasty. After all, you can’t be expected to take your son’s disappearance with no fuss at all.’
‘Can I leave it all to you?’
‘That is my business,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.
They started back towards the hotel again but almost ran into a burly figure.
‘Who was that?’ asked Mr Parker Pyne sharply.
‘I think it was Mr Thompson.’
‘Oh!’ said Mr Parker Pyne thoughtfully.
‘Thompson, was it? Thompson–hm.’
II
Mrs Peters felt as she went to bed that Mr Parker Pyne’s idea about the letter was a good one. Whoever brought it must be in touch with the bandits. She felt consoled, and fell asleep much sooner than she could ever have believed possible.
When she was dressing on the following morning she suddenly noticed something lying on the floor by the window. She picked it up–and her heart missed a beat. The same dirty, cheap envelope; the same hated characters. She tore it open.
Good-morning lady. Have you made reflections? Your son is well and unharmed–so far. But we must have the money. It may not be easy for you to get this sum, but it has been told us that you have with you a necklace of diamonds. Very fine stones. We will be satisfied with that, instead. Listen, this is what you must do. You, or anyone you choose to send must take this necklace and bring it to the Stadium. From there go up to where there is a tree by a big rock. Eyes will watch and see that only one person comes. Then your son will be exchanged for necklace. The time must be tomorrow six o’clock in the morning just after sunrise. If you put police on us afterwards we shoot your son as your car drives to station.
This is our last word, lady. If no necklace tomorrow morning your son’s ears sent you. Next day he die.
With salutations, lady,
Demetrius
Mrs Peters hurried to find Mr Parker Pyne. He read the letter attentively.
‘Is this true,’ he asked, ‘about a diamond necklace?’
‘Absolutely. A hundred thousand dollars my husband paid for it.’
‘Our well-informed thieves,’ murmured Mr Parker Pyne.
‘What’s that you say?’
‘I was just considering certain aspects of the affair.’
‘My word, Mr Pyne, we haven’t got time for aspects. I’ve got to get my boy back.’
‘But you are a woman of spirit, Mrs Peters. Do you enjoy being bullied and cheated out of ten thousand dollars? Do you enjoy giving up your diamonds meekly to a set of ruffians?’
‘Well, of course, if you put it like that!’ The woman of spirit in Mrs Peters wrestled with the mother. ‘How I’d like to get even with them–the cowardly brutes! The very minute I get my boy back, Mr Pyne, I shall set the whole police of the neighbourhood on them, and, if necessary, I shall hire an armoured car to take Willard and myself to the railway station!’ Mrs Peters was flushed and vindictive.
‘Ye–es,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘You see, my dear madam, I’m afraid they will be prepared for that move on your part. They know that once Willard is restored to you nothing will keep you from setting the whole neighbourhood on the alert. Which leads one to suppose that they have prepared for that move.’
‘Well, what do you want to do?’
Mr Parker Pyne smiled. ‘I want to try a little plan of my own.’ He looked around the dining-room. It was empty and the doors at both ends were closed. ‘Mrs Peters, there is a man I know in Athens–a jeweller. He specializes in good artificial diamonds–first-class stuff.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I’ll get him by telephone. He can get here this afternoon, bringing a good selection of stones with him.’
‘You mean?’
‘He’ll extract the real diamonds and replace them with paste replicas.’
‘Why, if that isn’t the cutest thing I’ve ever heard of!’ Mrs Peters gazed at him with admiration.
‘Sh! Not so loud. Will you do something for me?’
‘Surely.’
‘See that nobody comes within earshot of the telephone.’
Mrs Peters nodded.
The telephone was in the manager’s office. He vacated it obligingly, after having helped Mr Parker Pyne to obtain the number. When he emerged, he found Mrs Peters outside.
‘I’m just waiting for Mr Parker Pyne,’ she said. ‘We’re going for a walk.’
‘Oh, yes, madam.’
Mr Thompson was also in the hall. He came towards them and engaged the manager in conversation.
Were there any villas to be let in Delphi? No? But surely there was one above the hotel?
‘That belongs to a Greek gentleman, monsieur. He does not let it.’
‘And are there no other villas?’
‘There is one belonging to an American lady. That is the other side of the village. It is shut up now. And there is one belonging to an English gentleman, an artist–that is on the cliff edge looking down to Itéa.’
Mrs Peters broke in. Nature had given her a loud voice and she purposely made it louder. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘I’d just adore to have a villa here! So unspoilt and natural. I’m simply crazy about the place, aren’t you, Mr Thompson? But of course you must be if you want a villa. Is it your first visit here? You don’t say so.’
She ran on determinedly till Mr Parker Pyne emerged from the office. He gave her jus
t the faintest smile of approval.
Mr Thompson walked slowly down the steps and out into the road where he joined the highbrow mother and daughter, who seemed to be feeling the wind cold on their exposed arms.
All went well. The jeweller arrived just before dinner with a car full of other tourists. Mrs Peters took her necklace to his room. He grunted approval. Then he spoke in French.
‘Madame peut être tranquille. Je réussirai.’ He extracted some tools from his little bag and began work.
At eleven o’clock Mr Parker Pyne tapped on Mrs Peters’ door. ‘Here you are!’
He handed her a little chamois bag. She glanced inside.
‘My diamonds!’
‘Hush! Here is the necklace with the paste replacing the diamonds. Pretty good, don’t you think?’
‘Simply wonderful.’
‘Aristopoulous is a clever fellow.’
‘You don’t think they’ll suspect?’
‘How should they? They know you have the necklace with you. You hand it over. How can they suspect the trick?’
‘Well, I think it’s wonderful,’ Mrs Peters reiterated, handing the necklace back to him. ‘Will you take it to them? Or is that asking too much of you?’
‘Certainly I will take it. Just give me the letter, so that I have the directions clear. Thank you. Now, good-night and bon courage. Your boy will be with you tomorrow for breakfast.’
‘Oh, if only that’s true!’
‘Now, don’t worry. Leave everything in my hands.’
Mrs Peters did not spend a good night. When she slept, she had terrible dreams. Dreams where armed bandits in armoured cars fired off a fusillade at Willard, who was running down the mountain in his pyjamas.
She was thankful to wake. At last came the first glimmer of dawn. Mrs Peters got up and dressed. She sat–waiting.
At seven o’clock there came a tap on the door. Her throat was so dry she could hardly speak.
‘Come in,’ she said.
The door opened and Mr Thompson entered. She stared at him. Words failed her. She had a sinister presentiment of disaster. And yet his voice when he spoke was completely natural and matter-of-fact. It was a rich, bland voice.
‘Good-morning, Mrs Peters,’ he said.
‘How dare you sir! How dare you–’
‘You must excuse my unconventional visit at so early an hour,’ said Mr Thompson. ‘But you see, I have a matter of business to transact.’
Mrs Peter leaned forward with accusing eyes. ‘So it was you who kidnapped my boy! It wasn’t bandits at all!’
‘It certainly wasn’t bandits. Most unconvincingly done, that part of it, I thought. Inartistic, to say the least of it.’
Mrs Peters was a woman of a single idea. ‘Where’s my boy?’ she demanded, with the eyes of an angry tigress.
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Mr Thompson, ‘he’s just outside the door.’
‘Willard!’
The door was flung open. Willard, sallow and spectacled and distinctly unshaven, was clasped to his mother’s heart. Mr Thompson stood looking benignly on.
‘All the same,’ said Mrs Peters, suddenly recovering herself and turning on him, ‘I’ll have the law on you for this. Yes, I will.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong, Mother,’ said Willard. ‘This gentleman rescued me.’
‘Where were you?’
‘In a house on the cliff point. Just a mile from here.’
‘And allow me, Mrs Peters,’ said Mr Thompson, ‘to restore your property.’
He handed her a small packet loosely wrapped in tissue paper. The paper fell away and revealed the diamond necklace.
‘You need not treasure that other little bag of stones, Mrs Peters,’ said Mr Thompson, smiling. ‘The real stones are still in the necklace. The chamois bag contains some excellent imitation stones. As your friend said, Aristopoulous is quite a genius.’
‘I just don’t understand a word of all this,’ said Mrs Peters faintly.
‘You must look at the case from my point of view,’ said Mr Thompson. ‘My attention was caught by the use of a certain name. I took the liberty of following you and your fat friend out of doors and I listened–I admit it frankly–to your exceedingly interesting conversation. I found it remarkably suggestive, so much so that I took the manager into my confidence. He took a note of the number to which your plausible friend telephoned and he also arranged that a waiter should listen to your conversation in the dining-room this morning.
‘The whole scheme worked very clearly. You were being made the victim of a couple of clever jewel thieves. They know all about your diamond necklace; they follow you here; they kidnap your son, and write the rather comic “bandit” letter, and they arrange that you shall confide in the chief instigator of the plot.
‘After that, all is simple. The good gentleman hands you a bag of imitation diamonds and–clears out with his pal. This morning, when your son did not appear, you would be frantic. The absence of your friend would lead you to believe that he had been kidnapped too. I gather that they had arranged for someone to go to the villa tomorrow. That person would have discovered your son, and by the time you and he had put your heads together you might have got an inkling of the plot. But by that time the villains would have got an excellent start.’
‘And now?’
‘Oh, now they are safely under lock and key. I arranged for that.’
‘The villain,’ said Mrs Peters, wrathfully remembering her own trustful confidences. ‘The oily, plausible villain.’
‘Not at all a nice fellow,’ agreed Mr Thompson.
‘It beats me how you got on to it,’ said Willard admiringly. ‘Pretty smart of you.’
The other shook his head deprecatingly. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘When you are travelling incognito and hear your own name being taken in vain–’
Mrs Peters stared at him. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded abruptly.
‘I am Mr Parker Pyne,’ explained that gentleman.
Problem at Pollensa Bay
I
The steamer from Barcelona to Majorca landed Mr Parker Pyne at Palma in the early hours of the morning–and straightaway he met with disillusionment. The hotels were full! The best that could be done for him was an airless cupboard overlooking an inner court in a hotel in the centre of the town–and with that Mr Parker Pyne was not prepared to put up. The proprietor of the hotel was indifferent to his disappointment.
‘What will you?’ he observed with a shrug.
Palma was popular now! The exchange was favourable! Everyone–the English, the Americans–they all came to Majorca in the winter. The whole place was crowded. It was doubtful if the English gentleman would be able to get in anywhere–except perhaps at Formentor where the prices were so ruinous that even foreigners blenched at them.
Mr Parker Pyne partook of some coffee and a roll and went out to view the cathedral, but found himself in no mood for appreciating the beauties of architecture.
He next had a conference with a friendly taxi driver in inadequate French interlarded with native Spanish, and they discussed the merits and possibilities of Soller, Alcudia, Pollensa and Formentor–where there were fine hotels but very expensive.
Mr Parker Pyne was goaded to inquire how expensive.
They asked, said the taxi driver, an amount that it would be absurd and ridiculous to pay–was it not well known that the English came here because prices were cheap and reasonable?
Mr Parker Pyne said that that was quite so, but all the same what sums did they charge at Formentor?
A price incredible!
Perfectly–but WHAT PRICE EXACTLY?
The driver consented at last to reply in terms of figures.
Fresh from the exactions of hotels in Jerusalem and Egypt, the figure did not stagger Mr Parker Pyne unduly.
A bargain was struck, Mr Parker Pyne’s suitcases were loaded on the taxi in a somewhat haphazard manner, and they started off to drive round the island, trying cheaper hostelries
en route but with the final objective of Formentor.
But they never reached that final abode of plutocracy, for after they had passed through the narrow streets of Pollensa and were following the curved line of the seashore, they came to the Hotel Pino d’Oro–a small hotel standing on the edge of the sea looking out over a view that in the misty haze of a fine morning had the exquisite vagueness of a Japanese print. At once Mr Parker Pyne knew that this, and this only, was what he was looking for. He stopped the taxi, passed through the painted gate with the hope that he would find a resting place.
The elderly couple to whom the hotel belonged knew no English or French. Nevertheless the matter was concluded satisfactorily. Mr Parker Pyne was allotted a room overlooking the sea, the suitcases were unloaded, the driver congratulated his passenger upon avoiding the monstrous exigencies of ‘these new hotels’, received his fare and departed with a cheerful Spanish salutation.
Mr Parker Pyne glanced at his watch and perceiving that it was, even now, but a quarter to ten, he went out onto the small terrace now bathed in a dazzling morning light and ordered, for the second time that morning, coffee and rolls.
There were four tables there, his own, one from which breakfast was being cleared away and two occupied ones. At the one nearest him sat a family of father and mother and two elderly daughters–Germans. Beyond them, at the corner of the terrace, sat what were clearly an English mother and son.
The woman was about fifty-five. She had grey hair of a pretty tone–was sensibly but not fashionably dressed in a tweed coat and skirt–and had that comfortable self-possession which marks an Englishwoman used to much travelling abroad.
The young man who sat opposite her might have been twenty-five and he too was typical of his class and age. He was neither good-looking nor plain, tall nor short. He was clearly on the best of terms with his mother–they made little jokes together–and he was assiduous in passing her things.
As they talked, her eye met that of Mr Parker Pyne. It passed over him with well-bred nonchalance, but he knew that he had been assimilated and labelled.
He had been recognized as English and doubtless, in due course, some pleasant non-committal remark would be addressed to him.