4_50 From Paddington - Agatha Christie [48]
“Thank you,” said Lucy, feeling a little surprised.
“I feel that your talents are wasted here—definitely wasted.”
“Do you? I don’t.”
At any rate, he can’t ask me to marry him, thought Lucy. He’s got a wife already.
“I suggest that having very kindly seen us through this lamentable crisis, you call upon me in London. If you will ring up and make an appointment, I will leave instructions with my secretary. The truth is that we could use someone of your outstanding ability in the firm. We could discuss fully in what field your talents would be most ably employed. I can offer you, Miss Eyelesbarrow, a very good salary indeed with brilliant prospects. I think you will be agreeably surprised.”
His smile was magnanimous.
Lucy said demurely:
“Thank you, Mr. Crackenthorpe, I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t wait too long. These opportunities should not be missed by a young woman anxious to make her way in the world.”
Again his teeth flashed.
“Good night, Miss Eyelesbarrow, sleep well.”
“Well,” said Lucy to herself, “well…this is all very interesting….”
On her way up to bed, Lucy encountered Cedric on the stairs.
“Look here, Lucy, there’s something I want to say to you.”
“Do you want me to marry you and come to Ibiza and look after you?”
Cedric looked very much taken aback, and slightly alarmed.
“I never thought of such a thing.”
“Sorry. My mistake.”
“I just wanted to know if you’ve a timetable in the house?”
“Is that all? There’s one on the hall table.”
“You know,” said Cedric, reprovingly, “you shouldn’t go about thinking everyone wants to marry you. You’re quite a good-looking girl but not as good-looking as all that. There’s a name for that sort of thing—it grows on you and you get worse. Actually, you’re the last girl in the world I should care to marry. The last girl.”
“Indeed?” said Lucy. “You needn’t rub it in. Perhaps you’d prefer me as a stepmother?”
“What’s that?” Cedric stared at her stupefied.
“You heard me,” said Lucy, and went into her room and shut the door.
Fourteen
I
Dermot Craddock was fraternizing with Armand Dessin of the Paris Prefecture. The two men had met on one or two occasions and got on well together. Since Craddock spoke French fluently, most of their conversation was conducted in that language.
“It is an idea only,” Dessin warned him, “I have a picture here of the corps de ballet—that is she, the fourth from the left—it says anything to you, yes?”
Inspector Craddock said that actually it didn’t. A strangled young woman is not easy to recognize, and in this picture all the young women concerned were heavily made up and were wearing extravagant bird headdresses.
“It could be,” he said. “I can’t go further than that. Who was she? What do you know about her?”
“Almost less than nothing,” said the other cheerfully. “She was not important, you see. And the Ballet Maritski—it is not important, either. It plays in suburban theatres and goes on tour—it has no real names, no stars, no famous ballerinas. But I will take you to see Madame Joilet who runs it.”
Madame Joilet was a brisk business-like Frenchwoman with a shrewd eye, a small moustache, and a good deal of adipose tissue.
“Me, I do not like the police!” She scowled at them, without camouflaging her dislike of the visit. “Always, if they can, they make me embarrassments.”
“No, no, Madame, you must not say that,” said Dessin, who was a tall thin melancholy-looking man. “When have I ever caused you embarrassments?”
“Over that little fool who drank the carbolic acid,” said Madame Joilet promptly. “And all because she has fallen in love with the chef d’orchestre—who does not care for women and has other tastes. Over that you made the big brouhaha! Which is not good for my beautiful ballet.”
“On the contrary, big box office business,” said Dessin. “And that was three years ago. You should not bear malice. Now about this girl, Anna Stravinska.”
“Well, what about her?” said Madame cautiously.
“Is she Russian?” asked Inspector Craddock.