The Soul of the Croupier - a Harley Quin Short Story
Author: Agatha Christie
Date: 1927-01-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Crime
Description: Whilst holidaying in Monte Carlo Mr Satterthwaite watches as a young American man falls in love with a mystifying Countess. Soon after a bit of gambling at which he was not successful, he bumps into Harley Quin and they invite their new friends for an intimate dinner that reveals dark secrets about one of the guests… The short story was previously published in the print anthology 'The Mysterious Mr. Quin'.
Publisher: Harper Collins
Rights: All rights reserved

Contents

The Soul of the Croupier

About the Author

The Agatha Christie Collection

Copyright

About the Publisher

THE SOUL OF THE CROUPIER

Mr. Satterthwaite was enjoying the sunshine on the terrace at Monte Carlo.

Every year regularly on the second Sunday in January, Mr. Satterthwaite left England for the Riviera. He was far more punctual than any swallow. In the month of April he returned to England, May and June he spent in London, and had never been known to miss Ascot. He left town after the Eton and Harrow match, paying a few country house visits before repairing to Deauville or Le Touquet. Shooting parties occupied most of September and October, and he usually spent a couple of months in town to wind up the year. He knew everybody and it may safely be said that everybody knew him.

This morning he was frowning. The blue of the sea was admirable, the gardens were, as always, a delight, but the people disappointed him—he thought them an ill-dressed, shoddy crowd. Some, of course, were gamblers, doomed souls who could not keep away. Those Mr. Satterthwaite tolerated. They were a necessary background. But he missed the usual leaven of the élite—his own people.

“It’s the exchange,” said Mr. Satterthwaite gloomily. “All sorts of people come here now who could never have afforded it before. And then, of course, I’m getting old . . . All the young people—the people coming on—they go to these Swiss places.”

But there were others that he missed, the well-dressed Barons and Counts of foreign diplomacy, the Grand Dukes and the Royal Princes. The only Royal Prince he had seen so far was working a lift in one of the less well-known hotels. He missed, too, the beautiful and expensive ladies. There was still a few of them, but not nearly as many as there used to be.

Mr. Satterthwaite was an earnest student of the drama called Life, but he liked his material to be highly coloured. He felt discouragement sweep over him. Values were changing—and he—was too old to change.

It was at that moment that he observed the Countess Czarnova coming towards him.

Mr. Satterthwaite had seen the Countess at Monte Carlo for many seasons now. The first time he had seen her she had been in the company of a Grand Duke. On the next occasion she was with an Austrian Baron. In successive years her friends had been of Hebraic extraction, sallow men with hooked noses, wearing rather flamboyant jewellery. For the last year or two she was much seen with very young men, almost boys.

She was walking with a very young man now. Mr. Satterthwaite happened to know him, and he was sorry. Franklin Rudge was a young American, a typical product of one of the Middle West States, eager to register impression, crude, but loveable, a curious mixture of native shrewdness and idealism. He was in Monte Carlo with a party of other young Americans of both sexes, all much of the same type. It was their first glimpse of the Old World and they were outspoken in criticism and in appreciation.

On the whole they disliked the English people in the hotel, and the English people disliked them. Mr. Satterthwaite, who prided himself on being a cosmopolitan, rather liked them. Their directness and vigour appealed to him, though their occasional solecisms made him shudder.

It occurred to him that the Countess Czarnova was a most unsuitable friend for young Franklin Rudge.

He took off his hat politely as they came abreast of him, and the Countess gave him a charming bow and smile.

She was a very tall woman, superbly made. Her hair was black, so were her eyes, and her eyelashes and eyebrows were more superbly black than any Nature had ever fashioned.

Mr. Satterthwaite, who knew far more of feminine secrets than it is good for any man to know, rendered immediate homage to the art with which she was made up. Her complexion appeared to be flawless, of a uniform creamy white.

The very faint bistre shadows under her eyes were most effective. Her mouth was neither crimson nor scarlet, but a subdued wine colour. She was dressed in a very daring creation of black and white and carried a parasol of the shade of pinky red which is most helpful to the complexion.

Franklin Rudge was looking happy and important.

“There goes a young fool,” said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. “But I suppose it’s no business of mine and anyway he wouldn’t listen to me. Well, well, I’ve bought experience myself in my time.”

But he still felt rather worried, because there was a very attractive little American girl in the party, and he was sure that she would not like Franklin Rudge’s friendship with the Countess at all.

He was just about to retrace his steps in the opposite direction when he caught sight of the girl in question coming up one of the paths towards him. She wore a well-cut tailor-made “suit” with a white muslin shirt waist, she had on good, sensible walking shoes, and carried a guidebook. There are some Americans who pass through Paris and emerge clothed as the Queen of Sheba, but Elizabeth Martin was not one of them. She was “doing Europe” in a stern, conscientious spirit. She had high ideas of culture and art and she was anxious to get as much as possible for her limited store of money.

It is doubtful if Mr. Satterthwaite thought of her as either cultured or artistic. To him she merely appeared very young.

“Good morning, Mr. Satterthwaite,” said Elizabeth. “Have you seen Franklin—Mr. Rudge—anywhere about?”

“I saw him just a few minutes ago.”

“With his friend the Countess, I suppose,” said the girl sharply.

“Er—with the Countess, yes,” admitted Mr. Satterthwaite.

“That Countess of his doesn’t cut any ice with me,” said the girl in a rather high, shrill voice. “Franklin’s just crazy about her. Why I can’t think.”

“She’s got a very charming manner, I believe,” said Mr. Satterthwaite cautiously.

“Do you know her?”

“Slightly.”

“I’m right down worried about Franklin,” said Miss Martin. “That boy’s got a lot of sense as a rule. You’d never think he’d fall for this sort of siren stuff. And he won’t hear a thing, he gets madder than a hornet if anyone tries to say a word to him. Tell me, anyway—is she a real Countess?”

“I shouldn’t like to say,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “She may be.”

“That’s the real Ha-Ha English manner,” said Elizabeth with signs of displeasure. “All I can say is that in Sargon Springs—that’s our home town, Mr. Satterthwaite—that Countess would look a mighty queer bird.”

Mr. Satterthwaite thought it possible. He forebore to point out that they were not in Sargon Springs but in the principality of Monaco, where the Countess happened to synchronize with her environment a great deal better than Miss Martin did.

He made no answer and Elizabeth went on towards the Casino. Mr. Satterthwaite sat on a seat in the sun, and was presently joined by Franklin Rudge.

Rudge was full of enthusiasm.

“I’m enjoying myself,” he announced with naïve enthusiasm. “Yes, sir! This is what I call seeing life—rather a different kind of life from what we have in the States.”

The elder man turned a thoughtful face to him.

“Life is lived very much the same everywhere,” he said rather wearily. “It wears different clothes—that’s all.”

Franklin Rudge stared.

“I don’t get you.”

“No,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “That’s because you’ve got a long way to travel yet. But I apologize. No elderly man should permit himself to get into the habit of preaching.”

“Oh! that’s all right.” Rudge laughed, displaying the beautiful teeth of all his countrymen. “I don’t say, mind you, that I’m not disappointed in the Casino. I thought the gambling would be different—something much more feverish. It seems just rather dull and sordid to me.”

“Gambling is life and death to the gambler, but it has no great spectacular value,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “It is more exciting to read about than to see.”

The young man nodded his agreement.

“You’re by way of being rather a big bug socially, aren’t you?” he asked with a diffident candour that made it impossible to take offence. “I mean, you know all the Duchesses and Earls and Countesses and things.”

“A good many of them,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “And also the Jews and the Portuguese and the Greeks and the Argentines.”

“Eh?” said Mr. Rudge.

“I was just explaining,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “that I move in English society.”

Franklin Rudge meditated for a moment or two.

“You know the Countess Czarnova, don’t you?” he said at length.

“Slightly,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, making the same answer he had made to Elizabeth.

“Now there’s a woman whom it’s been very interesting to meet. One’s inclined to think that the aristocracy of Europe is played out and effete. That may be true of the men, but the women are different. Isn’t it a pleasure to meet an exquisite creature like the Countess? Witty, charming, intelligent, generations of civilization behind her, an aristocrat to her fingertips!”

“Is she?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.

“Well, isn’t she? You know what her family are?”

“No,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “I’m afraid I know very little about her.”

“She was a Radzynski,” explained Franklin Rudge. “One of the oldest families in Hungary. She’s had the most extraordinary life. You know that great rope of pearls she wears?”

Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.

“That was given her by the King of Bosnia. She smuggled some secret papers out of the kingdom for him.”

“I heard,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “that the pearls had been given her by the King of Bosnia.”

The fact was indeed a matter of common gossip, it being reported that the lady had been a chère amie of His Majesty’s in days gone by.

“Now I’ll tell you something more.”

Mr. Satterthwaite listened, and the more he listened the more he admired the fertile imagination of the Countess Czarnova. No vulgar “siren stuff” (as Elizabeth Martin had put it) for her. The young man was shrewd enough in that way, clean living and idealistic. No, the Countess moved austerely through a labyrinth of diplomatic intrigues. She had enemies, detractors—naturally! It was a glimpse, so the young American was made to feel, into the life of the old regime with the Countess as the central figure, aloof, aristocratic, the friend of counsellors and princes, a figure to inspire romantic devotion.

“And she’s had any amount to contend against,” ended the young man warmly. “It’s an extraordinary thing but she’s never found a woman who would be a real friend to her. Women have been against her all her life.”

“Probably,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

“Don’t you call it a scandalous thing?” demanded Rudge hotly.

“N—no,” said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully. “I don’t know that I do. Women have got their own standards, you know. It’s no good our mixing ourselves up in their affairs. They must run their own show.”

“I don’t agree with you,” said Rudge earnestly. “It’s one of the worst things in the world today, the unkindness of woman to woman. You know Elizabeth Martin? Now she agrees with me in theory absolutely. We’ve often discussed it together. She’s only a kid, but her ideas are all right. But the moment it comes to a practical test—why, she’s as bad as any of them. Got a real down on the Countess without knowing a darned thing about her, and won’t listen when I try to tell her things. It’s all wrong, Mr. Satterthwaite. I believe in democracy—and—what’s that but brotherhood between men and sisterhood between women?”

He paused earnestly. Mr. Satterthwaite tried to think of any circumstances in which a sisterly feeling might arise between the Countess and Elizabeth Martin and failed.

“Now the Countess, on the other hand,” went on Rudge, “admires Elizabeth immensely, and thinks her charming in every way. Now what does that show?”

“It shows,” said Mr. Satterthwaite dryly, “that the Countess has lived a considerable time longer than Miss Martin has.”

Franklin Rudge went off unexpectedly at a tangent.

“Do you know how old she is? She told me. Rather sporting of her. I should have guessed her to be twenty-nine, but she told me of her own accord that she was thirty-five. She doesn’t look it, does she?” Mr. Satterthwaite, whose private estimate of the lady’s age was between forty-five and forty-nine, merely raised his eyebrows.

“I should caution you against believing all you are told at Monte Carlo,” he murmured.

He had enough experience to know the futility of arguing with the lad. Franklin Rudge was at a pitch of white-hot chivalry when he would have disbelieved any statement that was not backed with authoritative proof.

“Here is the Countess,” said the boy, rising.

She came up to them with the languid grace that so became her. Presently they all three sat down together. She was very charming to Mr. Satterthwaite, but in rather an aloof manner. She deferred to him prettily, asking his opinion, and treating him as an authority on the Riviera.

The whole thing was cleverly managed. Very few minutes had elapsed before Franklin Rudge found himself gracefully but unmistakably dismissed, and the Countess and Mr. Satterthwaite were left tête-à-tête.

She put down her parasol and began drawing patterns with it in the dust.

“You are interested in the nice American boy, Mr. Satterthwaite, are you not?”

Her voice was low with a caressing note in it.

“He’s a nice young fellow,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, noncommittally.

“I find him sympathetic, yes,” said the Countess reflectively. “I have told him much of my life.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

“Details such as I have told to few others,” she continued dreamily. “I have had an extraordinary life, Mr. Satterthwaite. Few would credit the amazing things that have happened to me.”

Mr. Satterthwaite was shrewd enough to penetrate her meaning. After all, the stories that she had told to Franklin Rudge might be the truth. It was extremely unlikely, and in the last degree improbable, but it was possible . . . No one could definitely say: “That is not so—”

He did not reply, and the Countess continued to look out dreamily across the bay.

And suddenly Mr. Satterthwaite had a strange and new impression of her. He saw her no longer as a harpy, but as a desperate creature at bay, fighting tooth and nail. He stole a sideways glance at her. The parasol was down, he could see the little haggard lines at the corners of her eyes. In one temple a pulse was beating.

It flowed through him again and again—that increasing certitude. She was a creature desperate and driven. She would be merciless to him or to anyone who stood between her and Franklin Rudge. But he still felt he hadn’t got the hang of the situation. Clearly she had plenty of money. She was always beautifully dressed, and her jewels were marvellous. There could be no real urgency of that kind. Was it love? Women of her age did, he well knew, fall in love with boys. It might be that. There was, he felt sure, something out of the common about the situation.

Her tête-à-tête with him was, he recognized, a throwing down of the gauntlet. She had singled him out as her chief enemy. He felt sure that she hoped to goad him into speaking slightingly of her to Franklin Rudge. Mr. Satterthwaite smiled to himself. He was too old a bird for that. He knew when it was wise to hold one’s tongue.

He watched her that night in the Cercle Privé, as she tried her fortunes at roulette.

Again and again she staked, only to see her stake swept away. She bore her losses well, with the stoical sang froid of the old habitué. She staked en plein once or twice, put the maximum on red, won a little on the middle dozen and then lost it again, finally she backed manque six times and lost every time. Then with a little graceful shrug of the shoulders she turned away.

She was looking unusually striking in a dress of gold tissue with an underlying note of green. The famous Bosnian pearls were looped round her neck and long pearl earrings hung from her ears.

Mr. Satterthwaite heard two men near him appraise her.

“The Czarnova,” said one, “she wears well, does she not? The Crown jewels of Bosnia look fine on her.”

The other, a small Jewish-looking man, stared curiously after her.

“So those are the pearls of Bosnia, are they?” he asked. “En vérité. That is odd.”

He chuckled softly to himself.

Mr. Satterthwaite missed hearing more, for at the moment he turned his head and was overjoyed to recognize an old friend.

“My dear Mr. Quin.” He shook him warmly by the hand. “The last place I should ever have dreamed of seeing you.”

Mr. Quin smiled, his dark attractive face lighting up.

“It should not surprise you,” he said. “It is Carnival time. I am often here in Carnival time.”

“Really? Well, this is a great pleasure. Are you anxious to remain in the rooms? I find them rather warm.”

“It will be pleasanter outside,” agreed the other. “We will walk in the gardens.”

The air outside was sharp, but not chill. Both men drew deep breaths.

“That is better,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

“Much better,” agreed Mr. Quin. “And we can talk freely. I am sure that there is much that you want to tell me.”

“There is indeed.”

Speaking eagerly, Mr. Satterthwaite unfolded his perplexities. As usual he took pride in his power of conveying atmosphere. The Countess, young Franklin, uncompromising Elizabeth—he sketched them all in with a deft touch.

“You have changed since I first knew you,” said Mr. Quin, smiling, when the recital was over.

“In what way?”

“You were content then to look on at the drama that life offered. Now—you want to take part—to act.”

“It is true,” confessed Mr. Satterthwaite. “But in this case I do not know what to do. It is all very perplexing. Perhaps—” He hesitated. “Perhaps you will help me?”

“With pleasure,” said Mr. Quin. “We will see what we can do.”

Mr. Satterthwaite had an odd sense of comfort and reliance.

The following day he introduced Franklin Rudge and Elizabeth Martin to his friend Mr. Harley Quin. He was pleased to see that they got on together. The Countess was not mentioned, but at lunch time he heard news that aroused his attention.

“Mirabelle is arriving in Monte this evening,” he confided excitedly to Mr. Quin.

“The Parisian stage favourite?”

“Yes. I daresay you know—it’s common property—she is the King of Bosnia’s latest craze. He has showered jewels on her, I believe. They say she is the most exacting and extravagant woman in Paris.”

“It should be interesting to see her and the Countess Czarnova meet tonight.”

“Exactly what I thought.”

Mirabelle was a tall, thin creature with a wonderful head of dyed fair hair. Her complexion was a pale mauve with orange lips. She was amazingly chic. She was dressed in something that looked like a glorified bird of paradise, and she wore chains of jewels hanging down her bare back. A heavy bracelet set with immense diamonds clasped her left ankle.

She created a sensation when she appeared in the Casino.

“Your friend the Countess will have a difficulty in outdoing this,” murmured Mr. Quin in Mr. Satterthwaite’s ear.

The latter nodded. He was curious to see how the Countess comported herself.

She came late, and a low murmur ran round as she walked unconcernedly to one of the centre roulette tables.

She was dressed in white—a mere straight slip of marocain such as a débutante might have worn and her gleaming white neck and arms were unadorned. She wore not a single jewel.

“It is clever, that,” said Mr. Satterthwaite with instant approval. “She disdains rivalry and turns the tables on her adversary.”

He himself walked over and stood by the table. From time to time he amused himself by placing a stake. Sometimes he won, more often he lost.

There was a terrific run on the last dozen. The numbers 31 and 34 turned up again and again. Stakes flocked to the bottom of the cloth.

With a smile Mr. Satterthwaite made his last stake for the evening, and placed the maximum on Number 5.

The Countess in her turn leant forward and placed the maximum on Number 6.

“Faites vos jeux,” called the croupier hoarsely. “Rien ne va plus. Plus rien.”

The ball span, humming merrily. Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself: “This means something different to each of us. Agonies of hope and despair, boredom, idle amusement, life and death.”

Click!

The croupier bent forward to see.

“Numéro cinque, rouge, impair et manque.”

Mr. Satterthwaite had won!

The croupier, having raked in the other stakes, pushed forward Mr. Satterthwaite’s winnings. He put out his hand to take them. The Countess did the same. The croupier looked from one to the other of them.

“A madame,” he said brusquely.

The Countess picked up the money. Mr. Satterthwaite drew back. He remained a gentleman. The Countess looked him full in the face and he returned her glance. One or two of the people round pointed out to the croupier that he had made a mistake, but the man shook his head impatiently. He had decided. That was the end. He raised his raucous cry:

“Faites vos jeux, Messieurs et Mesdames.”

Mr. Satterthwaite rejoined Mr. Quin. Beneath his impeccable demeanour, he was feeling extremely indignant. Mr. Quin listened sympathetically.

“Too bad,” he said, “but these things happen.”

“We are to meet your friend Franklin Rudge later. I am giving a little supper party.”

The three met at midnight, and Mr. Quin explained his plan.

“It is what is called a ‘Hedges and Highways’ party,” he explained. “We choose our meeting place, then each one goes out and is bound in honour to invite the first person he meets.”

Franklin Rudge was amused by the idea.

“Say, what happens if they won’t accept?”

“You must use your utmost powers of persuasion.”

“Good. And where’s the meeting place?”

“A somewhat Bohemian café—where one can take strange guests. It is called Le Caveau.”

He explained its whereabouts, and the three parted. Mr. Satterthwaite was so fortunate as to run straight into Elizabeth Martin and he claimed her joyfully. They reached Le Caveau and descended into a kind of cellar where they found a table spread for supper and lit by old-fashioned candles in candlesticks.

“We are the first,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “Ah! here comes Franklin—”

He stopped abruptly. With Franklin was the Countess. It was an awkward moment. Elizabeth displayed less graciousness than she might have done. The Countess, as a woman of the world, retained the honours.

Last of all came Mr. Quin. With him was a small, dark man, neatly dressed, whose face seemed familiar to Mr. Satterthwaite. A moment later he recognized him. It was the croupier who earlier in the evening had made such a lamentable mistake.

“Let me introduce you to the company, M. Pierre Vaucher,” said Mr. Quin.

The little man seemed confused. Mr. Quin performed the necessary introductions easily and lightly. Supper was brought—an excellent supper. Wine came—very excellent wine. Some of the frigidity went out of the atmosphere. The Countess was very silent, so was Elizabeth. Franklin Rudge became talkative. He told various stories—not humorous stories, but serious ones. And quietly and assiduously Mr. Quin passed round the wine.

“I’ll tell you—and this is a true story—about a man who made good,” said Franklin Rudge impressively.

For one coming from a Prohibition country he had shown no lack of appreciation of champagne.

He told his story—perhaps at somewhat unnecessary length. It was, like many true stories, greatly inferior to fiction.

As he uttered the last word, Pierre Vaucher, opposite him, seemed to wake up. He also had done justice to the champagne. He leaned forward across the table.

“I, too, will tell you a story,” he said thickly. “But mine is the story of a man who did not make good. It is the story of a man who went, not up, but down the hill. And, like yours, it is a true story.”

“Pray tell it to us, monsieur,” said Mr. Satterthwaite courteously.

Pierre Vaucher leant back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.

“It is in Paris that the story begins. There was a man there, a working jeweller. He was young and lighthearted and industrious in his profession. They said there was a future before him. A good marriage was already arranged for him, the bride not too bad-looking, the dowry most satisfactory. And then, what do you think? One morning he sees a girl. Such a miserable little wisp of a girl, messieurs. Beautiful? Yes, perhaps, if she were not half starved. But anyway, for this young man, she has a magic that he cannot resist. She has been struggling to find work, she is virtuous—or at least that is what she tells him. I do not know if it is true.”

The Countess’s voice came suddenly out of the semidarkness.

“Why should it not be true? There are many like that.”

“Well, as I say, the young man believed her. And he married her—an act of folly! His family would have no more to say to him. He had outraged their feelings. He married—I will call her Jeanne—it was a good action. He told her so. He felt that she should be very grateful to him. He had sacrificed much for her sake.”

“A charming beginning for the poor girl,” observed the Countess sarcastically.

“He loved her, yes, but from the beginning she maddened him. She had moods—tantrums—she would be cold to him one day, passionate the next. At last he saw the truth. She had never loved him. She had married him so as to keep body and soul together. That truth hurt him, it hurt him horribly, but he tried his utmost to let nothing appear on the surface. And he still felt he deserved gratitude and obedience to his wishes. They quarrelled. She reproached him—Mon Dieu, what did she not reproach him with?

“You can see the next step, can you not? The thing that was bound to come. She left him. For two years he was alone, working in his little shop with no news of her. He had one friend—absinthe. The business did not prosper so well.

“And then one day he came into the shop to find her sitting there. She was beautifully dressed. She had rings on her hands. He stood considering her. His heart was beating—but beating! He was at a loss what to do. He would have liked to have beaten her, to have clasped her in his arms, to have thrown her down on the floor and trampled on her, to have thrown himself at her feet. He did none of those things. He took up his pincers and went on with his work. ‘Madame desires?’ he asked formally.

“That upset her. She did not look for that, see you. ‘Pierre,’ she said, ‘I have come back.’ He laid aside his pincers and looked at her. ‘You wish to be forgiven?’ he said. ‘You want me to take you back? You are sincerely repentant?’ ‘Do you want me back?’ she murmured. Oh! very softly she said it.

“He knew she was laying a trap for him. He longed to seize her in his arms, but he was too clever for that. He pretended indifference.

“ ‘I am a Christian man,’ he said. ‘I try to do what the Church directs.’ ‘Ah!’ he thought, ‘I will humble her, humble her to her knees.’

“But Jeanne, that is what I will call her, flung back her head and laughed. Evil laughter it was. ‘I mock myself at you, little Pierre,’ she said. ‘Look at these rich clothes, these rings and bracelets. I came to show myself to you. I thought I would make you take me in your arms and when you did so, then—then I would spit in your face and tell you how I hated you!’

“And on that she went out of the shop. Can you believe, messieurs, that a woman could be as evil as all that—to come back only to torment me?”

“No,” said the Countess. “I would not believe it, and any man who was not a fool would not believe it either. But all men are blind fools.”

Pierre Vaucher took no notice of her. He went on.

“And so that young man of whom I tell you sank lower and lower. He drank more absinthe. The little shop was sold over his head. He became of the dregs, of the gutter. Then came the war. Ah! it was good, the war. It took that man out of the gutter and taught him to be a brute beast no longer. It drilled him—and sobered him. He endured cold and pain and the fear of death—but he did not die and when the war ended, he was a man again.

“It was then, messieurs, that he came South. His lungs had been affected by the gas, they said he must find work in the South. I will not weary you with all the things he did. Suffice it to say that he ended up as a croupier, and there—there in the Casino one evening, he saw her again—the woman who had ruined his life. She did not recognize him, but he recognized her. She appeared to be rich and to lack for nothing—but messieurs, the eyes of a croupier are sharp. There came an evening when she placed her last stake in the world on the table. Ask me not how I know—I do know—one feels these things. Others might not believe. She still had rich clothes—why not pawn them, one would say? But to do that—pah! your credit is gone at once. Her jewels? Ah no! Was I not a jeweller in my time? Long ago the real jewels have gone. The pearls of a King are sold one by one, are replaced with false. And meantime one must eat and pay one’s hotel bill. Yes, and the rich men—well, they have seen one about for many years. Bah! they say—she is over fifty. A younger chicken for my money.”

A long shuddering sigh came out of the windows where the Countess leant back.

“Yes. It was a great moment, that. Two nights I have watched her. Lose, lose, and lose again. And now the end. She put all on one number. Beside her, an English milord stakes the maximum also—on the next number. The ball rolls . . . The moment has come, she has lost. . . .

“Her eyes meet mine. What do I do? I jeopardize my place in the Casino. I rob the English milord. “A Madame” I say, and pay over the money.”

“Ah!” There was a crash, as the Countess sprang to her feet and leant across the table, sweeping her glass on to the floor.

“Why?” she cried. “That’s what I want to know, why did you do it?”

There was a long pause, a pause that seemed interminable, and still those two facing each other across the table looked and looked . . . It was like a duel.

A mean little smile crept across Pierre Vaucher’s face. He raised his hands.

“Madame,” he said, “there is such a thing as pity. . . .”

“Ah!”

She sank down again.

“I see.”

She was calm, smiling, herself again.

“An interesting story, M. Vaucher, is it not? Permit me to give you a light for your cigarette.”

She deftly rolled up a spill, and lighted it at the candle and held it towards him. He leaned forward till the flame caught the tip of the cigarette he held between his lips.

Then she rose unexpectedly to her feet.

“And now I must leave you all. Please—I need no one to escort me.”

Before one could realize it she was gone. Mr. Satterthwaite would have hurried out after her, but he was arrested by a startled oath from the Frenchman.

“A thousand thunders!”

He was staring at the half-burned spill which the Countess had dropped on the table. He unrolled it.

“Mon Dieu!” he muttered. “A fifty thousand franc bank note. You understand? Her winnings tonight. All that she had in the world. And she lighted my cigarette with it! Because she was too proud to accept—pity. Ah! proud, she was always proud as the Devil. She is unique—wonderful.”

He sprang up from his seat and darted out. Mr. Satterthwaite and Mr. Quin had also risen. The waiter approached Franklin Rudge.

“La note, monsieur,” he observed unemotionally.

Mr. Quin rescued it from him quickly.

“I feel kind of lonesome, Elizabeth,” remarked Franklin Rudge. “These foreigners—they beat the band! I don’t understand them. What’s it all mean, anyhow?”

He looked across at her.

“Gee, it’s good to look at anything so hundred per cent American as you.” His voice took on the plaintive note of a small child. “These foreigners are so odd.”

They thanked Mr. Quin and went out into the night together. Mr. Quin picked up his change and smiled across at Mr. Satterthwaite, who was preening himself like a contented bird.

“Well,” said the latter. “That’s all gone off splendidly. Our pair of love birds will be all right now.”

“Which ones?” asked Mr. Quin.

“Oh!” said Mr. Satterthwaite, taken aback. “Oh! yes, well, I suppose you are right, allowing for the Latin point of view and all that—”

He looked dubious.

Mr. Quin smiled, and a stained glass panel behind him invested him for just a moment in a motley garment of coloured light.

About the Author

AGATHA CHRISTIE is the most widely published author of all time, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976.

www.AgathaChristie.com

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The Agatha Christie Collection

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star Over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set and Other Stories

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirot’s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Under Dog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGinty’s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Man’s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Hallowe’en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertram’s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Memoirs

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIE® THE MYSTERIOUS MR. QUIN™ are registered trademarks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere. All rights reserved.

“The Soul of the Croupier” was previously published as part of The Mysterious Mr. Quin short story collection, copyright © 1930 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition OCTOBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062302304

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