Parker Pyne Investigates

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’re different. You’re the kind of woman I could believe in, trust, adore. You think I’m just saying this; that it’s part of the game.’ He came closer to her. ‘I’m going to prove to you it isn’t. I’m going away–because of you. I’m going to make myself into a man instead of the loathsome creature I am because of you.’

He took her suddenly in his arms. His lips closed on hers. Then he released her and stood away.

‘Goodbye. I’ve been a rotter–always. But I swear it will be different now. Do you remember once saying you liked to read the advertisements in the Agony column? On this day every year you’ll find there a message from me saying that I remember and am making good. You’ll know, then, all you’ve meant to me. One thing more. I’ve taken nothing from you. I want you to take something from me.’ He drew a plain gold seal ring from his finger. ‘This was my mother’s. I’d like you to have it. Now goodbye.’

George Packington came home early. He found his wife gazing into the fire with a faraway look. She spoke kindly but absently to him.

‘Look here, Maria,’ he jerked out suddenly. ‘About that girl?’

‘Yes, dear?’

‘I–I never meant to upset you, you know. About her. Nothing in it.’

‘I know. I was foolish. See as much as you like of her if it makes you happy.’

These words, surely, should have cheered George Packington. Strangely enough, they annoyed him. How could you enjoy taking a girl about when your wife fairly urged you on? Dash it all, it wasn’t decent! All that feeling of being a gay dog, of being a strong man playing with fire, fizzled out and died an ignominious death. George Packington felt suddenly tired and a great deal poorer in pocket. The girl was a shrewd little piece.

‘We might go away together somewhere for a bit if you like, Maria?’ he suggested timidly.

‘Oh, never mind about me. I’m quite happy.’

‘But I’d like to take you away. We might go to the Riviera.’

Mrs Packington smiled at him from a distance.

Poor old George. She was fond of him. He was such a pathetic old dear. There was no secret splendour in his life as there was in hers. She smiled more tenderly still.

‘That would be lovely, my dear,’ she said.

Mr Parker Pyne was speaking to Miss Lemon. ‘Entertainment account?’

‘One hundred and two pounds, fourteen and sixpence,’ said Miss Lemon.

The door was pushed open and Claude Luttrell entered. He looked moody.

‘Morning, Claude,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Everything go off satisfactorily?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘The ring? What name did you put in it, by the way?’

‘Matilda,’ said Claude gloomily. ‘1899.’

‘Excellent. What wording for the advertisement?’

‘“Making good. Still remember. Claude.”’

‘Make a note of that, please, Miss Lemon. The Agony column. November third for–let me see, expenses a hundred and two pounds, fourteen and six. Yes, for ten years, I think. That leaves us a profit of ninety-two pounds, two and fourpence. Adequate. Quite adequate.’

Miss Lemon departed.

‘Look here,’ Claude burst out. ‘I don’t like this. It’s a rotten game.’