Parker Pyne Investigates - Agatha Christie [25]
‘Yes, sir.’ Roberts’ eyes were shining with excitement. ‘Excuse me, sir, but am I allowed to–er–know anything of what it is I am carrying?’
Mr Parker Pyne smiled beneficently. ‘You are carrying a cryptogram which reveals the secret hiding-place of the crown jewels of Russia,’ he said solemnly. ‘You can understand, naturally, that Bolshevist agents will be alert to intercept you. If it is necessary for you to talk about yourself, I should recommend that you say you have come into money and are enjoying a little holiday abroad.’
IV
Mr Roberts sipped a cup of coffee and looked out over the Lake of Geneva. He was happy but at the same time he was disappointed.
He was happy because, for the first time in his life, he was in a foreign country. Moreover, he was staying in the kind of hotel he would never stay in again, and not for one moment had he had to worry about money! He had a room with private bathroom, delicious meals and attentive service. All these things Mr Roberts had enjoyed very much indeed.
He was disappointed because so far nothing that could be described as adventure had come his way. No disguised Bolshevists or mysterious Russians had crossed his path. A pleasant chat on the train with a French commercial traveller who spoke excellent English was the only human intercourse that had come his way. He had secreted the papers in his sponge bag as he had been told to do and had delivered them according to instructions. There had been no dangers to overcome, no hair’s breadth escapes. Mr Roberts was disappointed.
It was at that moment that a tall, bearded man murmured ‘Pardon,’ and sat down on the other side of the little table. ‘You will excuse me,’ he said, ‘but I think you know a friend of mine. “P.P.” are the initials.’
Mr Roberts was pleasantly thrilled. Here, at last, was a mysterious Russian. ‘Qu-quite right.’
‘Then I think we understand each other,’ said the stranger.
Mr Roberts looked at him searchingly. This was far more like the real thing. The stranger was a man of about fifty, of distinguished though foreign appearance. He wore an eye-glass, and a small coloured ribbon in his button-hole.
‘You have accomplished your mission in the most satisfactory manner,’ said the stranger. ‘Are you prepared to undertake a further one?’
‘Certainly. Oh, yes.’
‘Good. You will book a sleeper on the Geneva-Paris train for tomorrow night. You will ask for Berth Number Nine.’
‘Supposing it is not free?’
‘It will be free. That will have been seen to.’
‘Berth Number Nine,’ repeated Roberts. ‘Yes, I’ve got that.’
‘During the course of your journey someone will say to you, “Pardon, Monsieur, but I think you were recently at Grasse?” To that you will reply “Yes, last month.” The person will then say, “Are you interested in scent?” And you will reply, “Yes, I am a manufacturer of synthetic Oil of Jasmine.” After that you will place yourself entirely at the disposal of the person who has spoken to you. By the way, are you armed?’
‘No,’ said Mr Roberts in a flutter. ‘No; I never thought–that is–’
‘That can soon be remedied,’ said the bearded man. He glanced around. No one was near them. Something hard and shining was pressed into Mr Roberts’ hand. ‘A small weapon but efficacious,’ said the stranger, smiling.
Mr Roberts, who had never fired a revolver in his life, slipped it gingerly into a pocket. He had an uneasy feeling that it might go off at any minute.
They went over the passwords again. Then Roberts’ new friend rose.
‘I wish you good luck,’ he said. ‘May you come through safely. You are a brave man, Mr Roberts.’
‘Am I?’ thought Roberts, when the other had departed. ‘I’m sure I don’t want to get killed. That would never do.’
A pleasant thrill shot down his spine, slightly