ArthOr advanced towards her with boyish affection. She shrank back from him, her eyes dilating. Then
suddenly, with the shriek of a doomed soul, she fell
backwards through the open door.
"Lady Carmichael is dead."
"What is it?" Arthur asked. "What caused it?"
"Shok," he was told. "The shock of seeing Arthur
Carmichael, the real Arthur Carmichael, restored to
life!"
"The chgmpn deceiver of our time."
---NEW YORK TIMES
Berkley books by Agatha Christie
APPOINTMENT WITH DEATH
THE BIG FOUR
THE BOOMERANG CLUE CARDS ON THE TABLE
DEAD MAN'S MIRROR
DEATH IN THE AIR
DOUBLE SIN AND OTHER STORIES
ELEPHANTS CAN REMEMBER
THE GOLDEN BALL AND OTHER STORIES
THE HOLLOW
THE LABORS OF HERCULES
THE MAN IN THE BROWN SUIT
MISS MARPLE: THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES
MR. PARKER PYNE. DETECTIVE
THE MOVING FINGER
THE MURDER AT HAZELMOOR
THE MURDER AT THE VICARAGE i!,
MURDER IN MESOPOTAMIA
MURDER IN RETROSPECT
MURDER IN THREE ACTS
THE MURDER ON THE LINKS
THE MYSTERIOUS MR. QUIN
N OR M?
PARTNERS IN CRIME
THE PATRIOTIC MURDERS
POIROT LOSES A CLIENT
THE REGATTA MYSTERY AND OTHER STORIES
SAD CYPRESS
THE SECRET OF CHIMNEYS
THERE IS A TIDE ...
THEY CAME TO BAGHDAD
THIRTEEN AT DINNER
THREE BLIND MICE AND OTHER STORIES
THE TUESDAY CLUB MURDERS
THE UNDER DOG AND OTHER STORIES
THE WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION AND OTHER STORIES
AGATHA
CHR TIE
THE GOLDEN BALL
and Other Stories
II
BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK
This Berkley book contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.
It has been completely reset in a typeface
designed for easy reading and was printed
from new film.
THE GOLDEN BALL AND OTHER STORIES
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with
G. P. Putnam's Sons
PRINTING HISTORY
Dodd, Mead edition published 1971
Dell edition / September 1972
Berkley edition / February 1984
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1924, 1926, 1933, 1934 by Christie Copyrights Trust.
Copyright © 1971 by Christie Copyrights Trusts.
Book design by Virginia M. Smith.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: G. P. Putnam's Sons,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
ISBN: 0425099229
A BERKLEY BOOK ®TM 757,375
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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The name "Berkley" and the "B" logo
are trademarks belonging to Berkley Publishing Corporation.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
20
19 18 17 16 15
Conn
The Liste/xlale Mystery
The Girl in the Train
The Manhood of Edward Robinson
Jane in Search of a Job
A Fruitful Sunday
The Golden Ball
The Rajah's Emerald
Swan Song
The Hound of Death
The Gipsy
The Lamp
The Strange Case of Sir Arthur Carmichael
The Call of Wings
Magnolia Blossom
Next to a Dog
1
19
38
53
74
84
95
112
127
145
155
164
184
199
216
The Listerdale Mystery
Mrs. St. Vincent was adding up figures. Once or twice she sighed, and her hand stole to her aching forehead. She had
always disliked arithmetic. It was unfortunate that nowadays
her life should seem to be composed entirely of one particular
kind of sum, the ceaseless adding together of small
necessary items of expenditure making a total that never
failed to surprise and alarm her.
Surely it couldn't come to that.t She went back over the figures. She had made a trifling error in the pence, but
otherwise the figures were correct.
Mrs. St. Vincent sighed again. Her headache by now was very bad indeed. She looked up as the door opened and
her daughter Barbara came into the room. Barbara St. Vincent
was a very pretty girl; she had her mother's delicate
features, and the same proud turn of the head, but her eyes
were dark instead of blue, and she had a different mouth,
a sulky red mouth not without attraction.
"Oh, Mother!" she cried. "Still juggling with those horrid old accounts? Throw them all into the fire."
"We must know where we are," said Mrs. St. Vincent uncertainly.
The girl shrugged her shoulders.
"We're always in the same boat," she said dryly. "Damned
hard up. Down to the last penny as usual."
Mrs. St. Vincent sighed.
"I wish---" she began, and then stopped.
"I must find something to do," said Barbara in hard tones. "And find it quickly. After all, I have taken that shorthand
and typing course. So have about one million other girls
from all I can see! 'What experience?' 'None, but--' 'Oh!
2 Agatha Christie
Thank you, good morning. We'll let you know.' But they
never do! I must find some other kind of a job---any job." "Not yet, dear," pleaded her mother. "Wait a little longer."
Barbara went to the window and stood looking out with
unseeing eyes that took no note of the dingy line of houses
opposite.
"Sometimes," she said slowly, "I'm sorry Cousin Amy took me with her to Egypt last winter. Oh! I know I had
fun--about the only fun I've ever had or am likely to have
in my life. I did enjoy myself--enjoyed myself thoroughly.
But it was very unsettling. I mean--coming back to this."
She swept a hand round the room. Mrs. St. Vincent followed it with her eyes and winced. The room was typical
of cheap furnished lodgings. A dusty aspidistra, showily
ornamental furniture, a gaudy wallpaper faded in patches.
There were signs that the personality of the tenants had
struggled with that of the landlady; one or two pieces of
good china, much cracked and mended, so that their saleable
value was nil, a piece of embroidery thrown over the back
of the sofa, a water colour sketch of a young girl in the
fashion of twenty years ago, near enough still to Mrs. St.
Vincent not to be mistaken.
"It wouldn't matter," continued Barbara, "if we'd never known anything else. But to think of Ansteys--"
She broke o
ff, not trusting herself to speak of that dearly loved home which had belonged to the St. Vincent family
for centuries and which was now in the hands of strangers.
"If only Father--hadn't speculated--and borrowed--"
"My dear," said Mrs. St. Vincent. "Your father was never, in any sense of the word, a businessman."
She said it with a graceful kind of finality, and Barbara came over and gave her an aimless sort of kiss as she
murmured, "Poor old Mums. I won't say anything."
Mrs. St. Vincent took up her pen again and bent over her desk. Barbara went back to the window. Presently the
girl said:
"Mother. I heard from--from Jim Masterton this morning. He wants to c6me and see me."
Mrs. St. Vincent laid down her pen and looked up sharply. "Here?" she exclaimed.
THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY
"Well, we can't ask him to dinner at the Ritz very wel sneered Barbara.
Her mother looked unhappy. Again she looked round I
room with innate distaste.
"You're fight," said Barbara. "It's a disgusting pla
Genteel poverty! Sounds all right--a whitewashed cott2
in the country, shabby chintzes of good design, bowls
roses, crown Derby tea service that you wash up yours{
That's what it's like in books. In real life, with a son starti
on the bottom rung of office life, it means London. Frov
landladies, dirty children on the stairs, haddocks for bre:
fasts that aren't quite--quite and so on."
"If only---" began Mrs. St. Vincent. "But, really, l
beginning to be afraid we can't afford even this room mi
longer."
"That means a bed-sitting-room--horror!--for you a
me," said Barbara. "And a cupboard under the tiles:
Rupert. And when Jim comes to call, I'll receive him
that dreadful room downstairs with tabbies all round 1
walls knitting, and stating at us, and coughing that dread
kind of gulping cough they have!"
There was a pause.
"Barbara," said Mrs. St. Vincent at last. "Do you-mean--would
you--.9''
She stopped, flushing a little.
"You needn't be delicate, Mother," said Barbara. "
body is nowadays. Marry 3im, I suppose you mean? I we
like a shot if he asked me. But I'm so awfully afraid
won't."
"Oh! Barbara, dear."
"Well, it's one thing seeing me out there with Cot
Amy, moving (as they say in novelettes) in the best socie
He did take a fancy to me. Now he'll come here and
me in this! And he's a funny creature, you know, fastidi
and old-fashioned. I--I rather like him for that. It remi
me of Ansteys and the village--everything a hundred ye
behind the times, but so--so--oh! I don't know--so t
grant. Like lavender!"
She laughed, half-ashamed of her eagerness. Mrs.
Vincent spoke with a kind of earnest simplicity.
4
Agatha Christie
"I should like you to marry Jim Mastcrton," she said.
"He is--one of us. He is very well off, also, but that I don't mind about so much."
"I do," said Barbara. "I'm sick of being hard up."
"But, Barbara, it isn't---"
"Only for that? No. I do really. I--oh! Mother, can't you see I do?"
Mrs. St. Vincent looked very unhappy.
"I wish he could see you in your proper setting, darling," she said wistfully.
"Oh, well!" said Barbara. "Why worry? We might as well try and be cheerful about things. Sorry I've had such
a grouch. Cheer up, 'darling."
She bent over her mother, kissed her forehead lightly, and went out. Mrs. St. Vincent, relinquishing all attempts
at finance, sat down on the uncomfortable sofa. Her thoughts
ran round in circles like squirrels in a cage.
"One may say what one likes, appearances do put a man off. Not later--not if they were really engaged. He'd know
then what a sweet, dear girl she is. But it's so easy for
young people to take the tone of their surroundings. Rupert,
now, he's quite different from what he used to be. Not that
I want my children to be stuck-up. That's not it a bit. But
I should hate it if Rupert got engaged to that dreadful girl
really. But she's not our kind. It's all so difficult. Poor little
Babs. If I could do anything--anything. But where's the
money to come from? We've sold everything to give Rupert
his start. We really can't even afford this."
To distract herself Mrs. St. Vincent picked up the Morning Post and glanced down the advertisements on the front
page. Most of them she knew by heart. People who wanted
capital, people who had capital and were anxious to dispose
of it on note of hand alone, people who wanted to buy teeth
(she always wondered why), people who wanted to sell furs
and gowns and who had optimistic ideas on the subject of price.
Suddenly she stiffened to attention. Again and again she read the printed words.
"To gentlepeople only. Small house in Westminster, exquisitely furnished, offered to those who would really care
THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY 5
for it. Rent purely nominal. No agents."
A very ordinary advertisement. She had read many the same or--well, nearly the same. Nominal rent, that was
where the trap lay.
Yet, since she was restless and anxious to escape from her thoughts, she put on her hat straightaway and took a
convenient bus to the address given in the advertisement.
It pr6ved to be that of a firm of house agents. Not a new bustling firma rather decrepit, old-fashioned place. Rather
timidly she produced the advertisement, which she had torn
out, and asked for particulars.
The white-haired old gentleman who was attending to her stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"Perfectly. Yes, perfectly, madam. That house, the house mentioned in the advertisement, is No. 7 Cheviot Place.
You would like an order?"
"I should like to know the rent first?" said Mrs. St. Vincent.
"Ah! The rent. The exact figure is not settled, but I can assure you that it is purely nominal."
"Ideas of what is purely nominal can vary," said Mrs. St. Vincent.
The old gentleman permitted himself to chuckle a little. "Yes, that's an old trick--an old trick. But you can take
my word for it, it isn't so in this case. Two or three guineas
a week, perhaps, not more."
Mrs. St. Vincent decided to have the order. Not, of course, that there was any real likelihood of her being able
to afford the place. But, after all, she might just see it.
There must be some grave disadvantage attaching to it, to
be offered at such a price.
But her heart gave a little throb as she looked up at the outside of 7 Cheviot Place. A gem of a house. Queen Anne,
and in perfect condition! A butler answered the door. He
had grey hair and little side whiskers, and the meditative
calm of an archbishop. A kindly archbishop, Mrs. St. Vincent
thought.
He accepted the order with a benevolent air.
"Certainly, madam, I will show you over. The house is ready for occupation."
He went before her, opening doors, announcing rooms.
6 Agatha Christie
"The drawing room, the white study, a powder closet
through here, madam."
It was perfect--a dream. The f
urniture all of the period,
each piece with signs of wear, but polished with loving
care. The loose rugs were of beautiful dim old colours. In
each room were bowls of fresh flowers. The back of the
house looked over the Green Park. The whole place radiated
an old-world charm.
The tears came into Mrs. St. Vincent's eyes, and she
fought them back with difficulty. So had Ansteys looked--Ansteys..,
She wondered whether the butler had noticed her emotion.
If so, he was too much the perfectly trained servant
to show it. She liked these old servants, one felt safe with
them, at ease. They were .like friends.
"It is a beautiful house," she said softly. "Very beautiful.
I am glad to have seen it."
"Is it for yourself alone, madam?"
"For myself and my son and daughter. But I'm
afraid--"
She broke off. she wanted it so dreadfully--so dreadfully.
She felt instinctively that the butler understood. He did
not look at her, as he said in a detached, impersonal way:
"I happen to be aware, madam, that the owner requires
above all suitable tenants. The rent is of no importance to
him. He wants the house to be tenanted by someone who
will really care for and appreciate it."
"I should appreciate it," said Mrs. St. Vincent in a low
voice.
She turned to go.
"Thank you for showing me over," she said courteously.