Parker Pyne Investigates - Agatha Christie [69]
‘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 just 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,