Listerdale Mystery - Agatha Christie [25]
‘Good,’ said George to himself. ‘The mystery of the bathroom will be investigated tomorrow morning.’
He got into bed and slipped his hand under the pillow to assure himself that the precious packet was still there. In another minute, he was scattering the bedclothes in a panic. The packet was gone!
It was a sadly chastened George who sat consuming eggs and bacon the following morning. He had failed Elizabeth. He had allowed the precious packet she had entrusted to his charge to be taken from him, and the ‘Mystery of the Bathroom’ was miserably inadequate. Yes, undoubtedly George had made a mutt of himself.
After breakfast he strolled upstairs again. A chambermaid was standing in the passage looking perplexed.
‘Anything wrong, my dear?’ said George kindly.
‘It’s the gentleman here, sir. He asked to be called at half-past eight, and I can’t get any answer and the door’s locked.’
‘You don’t say so,’ said George.
An uneasy feeling rose in his own breast. He hurried into his room. Whatever plans he was forming were instantly brushed aside by a most unexpected sight. There on the dressing-table was the little packet which had been stolen from him the night before!
George picked it up and examined it. Yes, it was undoubtedly the same. But the seals had been broken. After a minute’s hesitation, he unwrapped it. If other people had seen its contents there was no reason why he should not see them also. Besides, it was possible that the contents had been abstracted. The unwound paper revealed a small cardboard box, such as jewellers use. George opened it. Inside, nestling on a bed of cotton wool, was a plain gold wedding ring.
He picked it up and examined it. There was no inscription inside–nothing whatever to make it out from any other wedding ring. George dropped his head into his hands with a groan.
‘Lunacy,’ he murmured. ‘That’s what it is. Stark staring lunacy. There’s no sense anywhere.’
Suddenly he remembered the chambermaid’s statement, and at the same time he observed that there was a broad parapet outside the window. It was not a feat he would ordinarily have attempted, but he was so aflame with curiosity and anger that he was in the mood to make light of difficulties. He sprang upon the window sill. A few seconds later he was peering in at the window of the room occupied by the black-bearded man. The window was open and the room was empty. A little further along was a fire escape. It was clear how the quarry had taken his departure.
George jumped in through the window. The missing man’s effects were still scattered about. There might be some clue amongst them to shed light on George’s perplexities. He began to hunt about, starting with the contents of a battered kit-bag.
It was a sound that arrested his search–a very slight sound, but a sound indubitably in the room. George’s glance leapt to the big wardrobe. He sprang up and wrenched open the door. As he did so, a man jumped out from it and went rolling over the floor locked in George’s embrace. He was no mean antagonist. All George’s special tricks availed very little. They fell apart at length in sheer exhaustion, and for the first time George saw who his adversary was. It was the little man with the ginger moustache.
‘Who the devil are you?’ demanded George.
For answer the other drew out a card and handed it to him. George read it aloud.
‘Detective-Inspector Jarrold, Scotland Yard.’
‘That’s right, sir. And you’d do well to tell me all you know about this business.’
‘I would, would I?’ said George thoughtfully. ‘Do you know, Inspector, I believe you’re right. Shall we adjourn