The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

it would be absurd and ridiculous t a,sit

r/or well known that the English came

prices were cheap and reasonable? l:tY:'."

Mr. Parker Pyne said that thatwas h'reIt

all the same what sums did they clx mentor? hqY'uitl,I A price incredible! Perfectly--but WHAT PRICE ExACT

The driver consented at last tcreplr figures. 'lx¥? ,/' Fresh from the exactions of hotels -xr n and Egypt, the figure did not stagge, Pyne unduly. ,s in . A bargain was struck, Mr. prke,,v, ,em N

cases were loaded on the taxi in a so "e hazard manner, and they started , s mm Fie

round the island, trying cheaer.°nzam";n

route but with the final ob'ectivenf IF "*

J .. ¥

But they never reached tha tn,,t.. hoof plutocracy, for after they had pssecixo: I"Fo/ e narrow streets of Pollensa and 'ere J['i curved line of the seashore, they came, ,ed Pino d'Oro--a small hotel standing o7o e .rne:'.:"

PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY 81

the sea looking out over a view that in the misty haze of a fine morning had the exquisite vagueness of a Japanese print. At once Mr. Parker Pyne knew that this, and this only, was what he was looking for. He stopped the taxi, passed through the painted gate with the hope that he would find a resting place.

The elderly couple to whom the hotel belonged knew no English or French. Nevertheless the matter was concluded satisfactorily. Mr. Parker Pyne was allotted a room overlooking the sea, the

suitcases were unloaded, the driver congratulated his-passenger upon avoiding the monstrous exi-gencies

of "these new hotels," received his fare and departed with a cheerful Spanish salutation.

Mr. Parker Pyne glanced at his watch and per-ceiving that it was, even now, but a quarter to ten, he went out onto the small terrace now bathed in a dazzling morning light and ordered, for the sec-ond time that morning, coffee and rolls.

There were four tables there, his own, one from which breakfast was being cleared away and two occupied ones. At the one nearest him sat a family of father and mother and two elderly daughters--Germans. Beyond them, at the corner of the ter-race, sat what were clearly an English mother and Son.

The woman was about fifty-five. She had gray hair of a pretty tone--was sensibly but not fash-ionably dressed in a tweed coat and skirt--and had that comfortable self-possession which marks an Englishwoman used to much traveling abroad.

The young man who sat opposite her might

have been twenty-five and he too was typical of his 82

Agatha Christie

class and age. He was neither good-looking nor plain, tall nor short. He was clearly on the best of terms with lis mother--they made little jokes together--and he was assiduous in passing her things.

As they talked, her eye met that of Mr. Parker Pyne. It passed over him with well-bred noncha-lance, but he knew that he had been assimilated and labeled.

He had been recognized as English and doubt-less, in due course, some pleasant noncommittal remark would be addressed to him.

Mr. Parker Pyne had no particular objection. His own courttrymen and women abroad were in-clined to bore him slightly, but he was quite will-ing

to pass the time of day in an amiable manner. In a small hotel it caused constraint if one did not

do so. This particular woman, he felt sure, had ex-cellent "hotel manners," as he put it.

The English boy rose from his seat, made some laughing remark and passed into the hotel. The woman took her letters and bag and settled herself in a chair facing the sea. She unfolded a copy of the Continental Daily Mail. Her back was to Mr. Parker Pyne.

As he dra0k the last drop of his coffee, Mr. Parker Pyne glanced in her direction, and in-stantly he stiffened. He was alarmed--alarmed for the peaceful continuance of his holiday! That back was horribly expressive. In his time he had classified many such backs. Its rigidity--the tenseness of its poise--without seeing her face he knew well enough that the eyes were bright with unshed tearsthat the woman was keeping herself

PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY 83

in hand by a rigid effort.

Moving warily, like a much-hunted animal, Mr. Parker Pyne retreated into the hotel. Not half an hour before he had been invited to sign his name in the book lying on the desk. There it was--a neat signature--C. Parker Pyne, London.

A few lines above Mr. Parker Pyne noticed the entries: Mrs. R. Chester, Mr. Basil Chester--Holm Park, Devon.

Seizing a pen, Mr. Parker Pyne wrote rapidly over his signature. It now read (with difficulty) Christopher Pyne.

If Mrs. R. Chester was unhappy in Pollensa Bay, it was not going to be made easy for her to consult Mr. Parker Pyne.

Already it had been a source of abiding wonder to that gentleman that so many people he had come across abroad should know his name and have noted his advertisements. In England many

thousands of people read the Times every day and could have answered quite truthfully that they had