Parker Pyne Investigates - Agatha Christie [4]
‘Rather a queer thing for you to go out dancing–at your time of life. Musn’t make a fool of yourself, my dear.’
Mrs Packington smiled. She was feeling much too kindly to the universe in general to make the obvious reply. ‘A change is always nice,’ she said amiably.
‘You’ve got to be careful, you know. A lot of these lounge-lizard fellows going about. Middle-aged women sometimes make awful fools of themselves. I’m just warning you, my dear. I don’t like to see you doing anything unsuitable.’
‘I find the exercise very beneficial,’ said Mrs Packington.
‘Um–yes.’
‘I expect you do, too,’ said Mrs Packington kindly. ‘The great thing is to be happy, isn’t it? I remember your saying so one morning at breakfast, about ten days ago.’
Her husband looked at her sharply, but her expression was devoid of sarcasm. She yawned.
‘I must go to bed. By the way, George, I’ve been dreadfully extravagant lately. Some terrible bills will be coming in. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Bills?’ said Mr Packington.
‘Yes. For clothes. And massage. And hair treatment. Wickedly extravagant I’ve been–but I know you don’t mind.’
She passed up the stairs. Mr Packington remained with his mouth open. Maria had been amazingly nice about this evening’s business; she hadn’t seemed to care at all. But it was a pity she had suddenly taken to spending Money. Maria–that model of economy!
Women! George Packington shook his head. The scrapes that girl’s brothers had been getting into lately. Well, he’d been glad to help. All the same–and dash it all, things weren’t going too well in the city.
Sighing, Mr Packington in his turn slowly climbed the stairs.
Sometimes words that fail to make their effect at the time are remembered later. Not till the following morning did certain words uttered by Mr Packington really penetrate his wife’s consciousness.
Lounge lizards; middle-aged women; awful fools of themselves.
Mrs Packington was courageous at heart. She sat down and faced facts. A gigolo. She had read all about gigolos in the papers. Had read, too, of the follies of middle-aged women.
Was Claude a gigolo? She supposed he was. But then, gigolos were paid for and Claude always paid for her. Yes, but it was Mr Parker Pyne who paid, not Claude–or, rather, it was really her own two hundred guineas.
Was she a middle-aged fool? Did Claude Luttrell laugh at her behind her back? Her face flushed at the thought.
Well, what of it? Claude was a gigolo. She was a middle-aged fool. She supposed she should have given him something. A gold cigarette case. That sort of thing.
A queer impulse drove her out there and then to Asprey’s. The cigarette case was chosen and paid for. She was to meet Claude at Claridge’s for lunch.
As they were sipping coffee she produced it from her bag. ‘A little present,’ she murmured.
He looked up, frowned. ‘For me?’
‘Yes. I–I hope you like it.’
His hand closed over it and he slid it violently across the table. ‘Why did you give me that? I won’t take it. Take it back. Take it back, I say.’ He was angry. His dark eyes flashed.
She murmured, ‘I’m sorry,’ and put it away in her bag again.
There was constraint between them that day.
The following morning he rang her up. ‘I must see you. Can I come to your house this afternoon?’
She told him to come at three o’clock.
He arrived very white, very tense. They greeted each other. The constraint was more evident.
Suddenly he sprang up and stood facing her. ‘What do you think I am? That is what I’ve come to ask you. We’ve been friends, haven’t we? Yes, friends. But all the same, you think I’m–well, a gigolo. A creature who lives on women. A lounge lizard. You do, don’t you?’
‘No, no.’
He swept aside her protest. His face had gone very white. ‘You do think that! Well, it’s true. That’s what I’ve come to say. It’s true! I had my orders to take you about, to amuse you, to make love to you, to make you forget your husband. That was my job. A despicable one, eh?’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked.
‘Because I’m through with it. I can’t carry on with it. Not with you. You