Have You Got Everything You Want?: A Parker Pyne Story
Author: Agatha Christie
Date: 1933-04-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Classics; Crime
Description: Elsie Jeffries, married for eighteen months to successful businessman Edward Jeffries, meets Parker Pyne by chance on the Simplon-Orient Express. She has seen Pyne’s 'Are You Happy?' advertisements and feels he may be able to help her. She tells Pyne she has seen a fragment of a letter left on Edward’s blotting pad, which points to some sort of plot against her, to be carried out while she is on the train to Stamboul... She's worried and asks if there's something Mr. Pyne can do. Librarian's note: this entry relates to the short story, "Have You Got Everything You Want." Collections and the ot
Publisher: Witness Impulse
Rights: All rights reserved

Contents

Have You Got Everything You Want?

About the Author

The Agatha Christie Collection

Copyright

About the Publisher

HAVE YOU GOT EVERYTHING YOU WANT?

Par ici, madame.”

A tall woman in a mink coat followed her heavily encumbered porter along the platform of the Gare de Lyon.

She wore a dark-brown knitted hat pulled down over one eye and ear. The other side revealed a charming tip-tilted profile and little golden curls clustering over a shell-like ear. Typically an American, she was altogether a very charming-looking creature and more than one man turned to look at her as she walked past the high carriages of the waiting train.

Large plates were stuck in holders on the sides of the carriages.

PARIS-ATHENES. PARIS-BUCHAREST. PARIS-STAMBOUL.

At the last named the porter came to an abrupt halt. He undid the strap which held the suitcases together and they slipped heavily to the ground. “Voici, madame.”

The wagon-lit conductor was standing beside the steps. He came forward, remarking, “Bonsoir, madame,” with an empressement perhaps due to the richness and perfection of the mink coat.

The woman handed him her sleeping car ticket of flimsy paper.

“Number Six,” he said. “This way.”

He sprang nimbly into the train, the woman following him. As she hurried down the corridor after him, she nearly collided with a portly gentleman who was emerging from the compartment next to hers. She had a momentary glimpse of a large bland face with benevolent eyes.

“Voici, madame.”

The conductor displayed the compartment. He threw up the window and signalled to the porter. The lesser employee took in the baggage and put it up on the racks. The woman sat down.

Beside her on the seat she had placed a small scarlet case and her handbag. The carriage was hot, but it did not seem to occur to her to take off her coat. She stared out of the window with unseeing eyes. People were hurrying up and down the platform. There were sellers of newspapers, of pillows, of chocolate, of fruit, of mineral waters. They held up their wares to her, but her eyes looked blankly through them. The Gare de Lyon had faded from her sight. On her face were sadness and anxiety.

“If madame will give me her passport?”

The words made no impression on her. The conductor, standing in the doorway, repeated them. Elsie Jeffries roused herself with a start.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your passport, madame.”

She opened her bag, took out the passport and gave it to him.

“That will be all right, madame, I will attend to everything.” A slight significant pause. “I shall be going with madame as far as Stamboul.”

Elsie drew out a fifty-franc note and handed it to him. He accepted it in a businesslike manner, and inquired when she would like her bed made up and whether she was taking dinner.

These matters settled, he withdrew and almost immediately the restaurant man came rushing down the corridor ringing his little bell frantically, and bawling out, “Premier service. Premier service.”

Elsie rose, divested herself of the heavy fur coat, took a brief glance at herself in the little mirror, and picking up her handbag and jewel case stepped out into the corridor. She had gone only a few steps when the restaurant man came rushing along on his return journey. To avoid him, Elsie stepped back for a moment into the doorway of the adjoining compartment, which was now empty. As the man passed and she prepared to continue her journey to the dining car, her glance fell idly on the label of a suitcase which was lying on the seat.

It was a stout pigskin case, somewhat worn. On the label were the words: “J. Parker Pyne, passenger to Stamboul.” The suitcase itself bore the initials “P.P.”

A startled expression came over the girl’s face. She hesitated a moment in the corridor, then going back to her own compartment she picked up a copy of The Times which she had laid down on the table with some magazines and books.

She ran her eye down the advertisement columns on the front page, but what she was looking for was not there. A slight frown on her face, she made her way to the restaurant car.

The attendant allotted her a seat at a small table already tenanted by one person—the man with whom she had nearly collided in the corridor. In fact, the owner of the pigskin suitcase.

Elsie looked at him without appearing to do so. He seemed very bland, very benevolent, and in some way impossible to explain, delightfully reassuring. He behaved in reserved British fashion, and it was not until the fruit was on the table that he spoke.

“They keep these places terribly hot,” he said.

“I know,” said Elsie. “I wish one could have the window open.”

He gave a rueful smile. “Impossible! Every person present except ourselves would protest.”

She gave an answering smile. Neither said any more.

Coffee was brought and the usual indecipherable bill. Having laid some notes upon it, Elsie suddenly took her courage in both hands.

“Excuse me,” she murmured. “I saw your name upon your suitcase—Parker Pyne. Are you—are you, by any chance—?”

She hesitated and he came quickly to her rescue.

“I believe I am. That is”—he quoted from the advertisement which Elsie had noticed more than once in The Times, and for which she had searched vainly just now: “ ‘Are you happy? If not, consult Mr. Parker Pyne.’ Yes, I’m that one, all right.”

“I see,” said Elsie. “How—how extraordinary!”

He shook his head. “Not really. Extraordinary from your point of view, but not from mine.” He smiled reassuringly, then leaned forward. Most of the other diners had left the car. “So you are unhappy?” he said.

“I—” began Elsie, and stopped.

“You would not have said ‘How extraordinary’ otherwise,” he pointed out.

Elsie was silent for a minute. She felt strangely soothed by the mere presence of Mr. Parker Pyne. “Ye—es,” she admitted at last. “I am—unhappy. At least, I am worried.”

He nodded sympathetically.

“You see,” she continued, “a very curious thing has happened—and I don’t know the least what to make of it.”

“Suppose you tell me about it,” suggested Mr. Pyne.

Elsie thought of the advertisement. She and Edward had often commented on it and laughed. She had never thought that she . . . perhaps she had better not . . . if Mr. Parker Pyne were a charlatan . . . but he looked—nice!

Elsie made her decision. Anything to get this worry off her mind.

“I’ll tell you. I’m going to Constantinople to join my husband. He does a lot of Oriental business, and this year he found it necessary to go there. He went a fortnight ago. He was to get things ready for me to join him. I’ve been very excited at the thought of it. You see, I’ve never been abroad before. We’ve been in England six months.”

“You and your husband are both American?”

“Yes.”

“And you have not, perhaps, been married very long?”

“We’ve been married a year and a half.”

“Happily?”

“Oh, yes! Edward’s a perfect angel.” She hesitated. “Not, perhaps, very much go to him. Just a little—well, I’d call it straightlaced. Lot of puritan ancestry and all that. But he’s a dear,” she added hastily.

Mr. Parker Pyne looked at her thoughtfully for a moment or two, then he said, “Go on.”

“It was about a week after Edward had started. I was writing a letter in his study, and I noticed that the blotting paper was all new and clean, except for a few lines of writing across it. I’d just been reading a detective story with a clue in the blotter and so, just for fun, I held it up to a mirror. It really was just fun, Mr. Pyne—I mean, he’s such a mild lamb one wouldn’t dream of anything of that kind.”

“Yes, yes; I quite understand.”

“The thing was quite easy to read. First there was the word ‘wife’ then ‘Simplon Express,’ and lower down, ‘just before Venice would be the best time,’ ” She stopped.

“Curious,” said Mr. Pyne. “Distinctly curious. It was your husband’s handwriting?”

“Oh, yes. But I’ve cudgelled my brains and I cannot see under what circumstances he would write a letter with just those words in it.”

“ ‘Just before Venice would be the best time,’ ” repeated Mr. Parker Pyne. “Distinctly curious.”

Mrs. Jeffries was leaning forward looking at him with a flattering hopefulness. “What shall I do?” she asked simply.

“I am afraid,” said Mr. Parker Pyne, “that we shall have to wait until before Venice.” He took up a folder from the table. “Here is the schedule time of our train. It arrives at Venice at two twenty-seven tomorrow afternoon.”

They looked at each other.

“Leave it to me,” said Parker Pyne.

It was five minutes past two. The Simplon Express was eleven minutes late. It had passed Mestre about a quarter of an hour before.

Mr. Parker Pyne was sitting with Mrs. Jeffries in her compartment. So far the journey had been pleasant and uneventful. But now the moment had arrived when, if anything was going to happen, it presumably would happen. Mr. Parker Pyne and Elsie faced each other. Her heart was beating fast, and her eyes sought him in a kind of anguished appeal for reassurance.

“Keep perfectly calm,” he said. “You are quite safe. I am here.”

Suddenly a scream broke out from the corridor.

“Oh, look—look! The train is on fire!”

With a bound Elsie and Mr. Parker Pyne were in the corridor. An agitated woman with a Slav countenance was pointing a dramatic finger. Out of one of the front compartments smoke was pouring in a cloud. Mr. Parker Pyne and Elsie ran along the corridor. Others joined them. The compartment in question was full of smoke. The first comers drew back, coughing. The conductor appeared.

“The compartment is empty!” he cried. “Do not alarm yourselves, messieurs et dames. Le feu, it will be controlled.”

A dozen excited questions and answers broke out. The train was running over the bridge that joins Venice to the mainland.

Suddenly Mr. Parker Pyne turned, forced his way through the little pack of people behind him and hurried down the corridor to Elsie’s compartment. The lady with the Slav face was seated in it, drawing deep breaths from the open window.

“Excuse me, madame,” said Parker Pyne. “But this is not your compartment.”

“I know. I know,” said the Slav lady. “Pardon. It is the shock, the emotion—my heart.” She sank back on the seat and indicated the open window. She drew in her breath in great gasps.

Mr. Parker Pyne stood in the doorway. His voice was fatherly and reassuring. “You must not be afraid,” he said. “I do not think for a moment the fire is serious.”

“Not? Ah, what a mercy! I feel restored.” She half rose. “I will return to my compartment.”

“Not just yet.” Mr. Parker Pyne’s hand pressed her gently back. “I will ask you to wait a moment, madame.”

“Monsieur, this is an outrage!”

“Madame, you will remain.”

His voice rang out coldly. The woman sat still looking at him. Elsie joined them.

“It seems it was a smoke bomb,” she said breathlessly. “Some ridiculous practical joke. The conductor is furious. He is asking everybody—” She broke off, staring at the second occupant of the carriage.

“Mrs. Jeffries,” said Mr. Parker Pyne, “what do you carry in your little scarlet case?”

“My jewellery.”

“Perhaps you would be so kind as to look and see that everything is there.”

There was immediately a torrent of words from the Slav lady. She broke into French, the better to do justice to her feelings.

In the meantime Elsie had picked up the jewel case. “Oh!” she cried. “It’s unlocked.”

“Et je porterai plainte à la Compagnie des Wagons-Lits,” finished the Slav lady.

“They’re gone!” cried Elsie. “Everything! My diamond bracelet. And the necklace Pop gave me. And the emerald and ruby rings. And some lovely diamond brooches. Thank goodness I was wearing my pearls. Oh, Mr. Pyne, what shall we do?”

“If you will fetch the conductor,” said Mr. Parker Pyne, “I will see that this woman does not leave this compartment till he comes.”

“Scélérat! Monstre!” shrieked the Slav lady. She went on to further insults. The train drew in to Venice.

The events of the next half hour may be briefly summarized. Mr. Parker Pyne dealt with several different officials in several different languages—and suffered defeat. The suspected lady consented to be searched—and emerged without a stain on her character. The jewels were not on her.

Between Venice and Trieste Mr. Parker Pyne and Elsie discussed the case.

“When was the last time you actually saw your jewels?”

“This morning. I put away some sapphire earrings I was wearing yesterday and took out a pair of plain pearl ones.”

“And all the jewellery was there intact?”

“Well, I didn’t go through it all, naturally. But it looked the same as usual. A ring or something like that might have been missing, but no more.”

Mr. Parker Pyne nodded. “Now, when the conductor made up the compartment this morning?”

“I had the case with me—in the restaurant car. I always take it with me. I’ve never left it except when I ran out just now.”

“Therefore,” said Mr. Parker Pyne, “that injured innocent, Madame Subayska, or whatever she calls herself, must have been the thief. But what the devil did she do with the things? She was only in here a minute and a half—just time to open the case with a duplicate key and take out the stuff—yes, but what next?”

“Could she have handed them to anyone else?”

“Hardly. I had turned back and was forcing my way along the corridor. If anyone had come out of this compartment I should have seen them.”

“Perhaps she threw them out of the window to someone.”

“An excellent suggestion; only, as it happens, we were passing over the sea at that moment. We were on the bridge.”

“Then she must have hidden them actually in the carriage.”

“Let’s hunt for them.”

With true transatlantic energy Elsie began to look about. Mr. Parker Pyne participated in the search in a somewhat absent fashion. Reproached for not trying, he excused himself.

“I’m thinking that I must send a rather important telegram at Trieste,” he explained.

Elsie received the explanation coldly. Mr. Parker Pyne had fallen heavily in her estimation.

“I’m afraid you’re annoyed with me, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said meekly.

“Well, you’ve not been very successful,” she retorted.

“But, my dear lady, you must remember I am not a detective. Theft and crime are not in my line at all. The human heart is my province.”

“Well, I was a bit unhappy when I got on this train,” said Elsie, “but nothing to what I am now! I could just cry buckets. My lovely, lovely bracelet—and the emerald ring Edward gave me when we were engaged.”

“But surely you are insured against theft?” Mr. Parker Pyne interpolated.

“Am I? I don’t know. Yes, I suppose I am. But it’s the sentiment of the thing, Mr. Pyne.”

The train slackened speed. Mr. Parker Pyne peered out of the window. “Trieste,” he said. “I must send my telegram.”

“Edward!” Elsie’s face lighted up as she saw her husband hurrying to meet her on the platform at Stamboul. For the moment even the loss of her jewellery faded from her mind. She forgot the curious words she had found on the blotter. She forgot everything except that it was a fortnight since she had seen her husband last, and that in spite of being sober and straightlaced he was really a most attractive person.

They were just leaving the station when Elsie felt a friendly tap on the shoulder and turned to see Mr. Parker Pyne. His bland face was beaming good-naturedly.

“Mrs. Jeffries,” he said, “will you come to see me at the Hotel Tokatlian in half an hour? I think I may have some good news for you.”

Elsie looked uncertainly at Edward. Then she made the introduction. “This—er—is my husband—Mr. Parker Pyne.”

“As I believe your wife wired you, her jewels have been stolen,” said Mr. Parker Pyne. “I have been doing what I can to help her recover them. I think I may have news for her in about half an hour.”

Elsie looked enquiringly at Edward. He replied promptly: “You’d better go, dear. The Tokatlian, you said, Mr. Pyne? Right; I’ll see she makes it.”

It was just a half an hour later that Elsie was shown into Mr. Parker Pyne’s private sitting room. He rose to receive her.

“You’ve been disappointed in me, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said. “Now, don’t deny it. Well, I don’t pretend to be a magician but I do what I can. Take a look inside here.”

He passed along the table a small stout cardboard box. Elsie opened it. Rings, brooches, bracelets, necklace—they were all there.

“Mr. Pyne, how marvellous! How—how too wonderful!”

Mr. Parker Pyne smiled modestly. “I am glad not to have failed you, my dear young lady.”

“Oh, Mr. Pyne, you make me feel just mean! Ever since Trieste I’ve been horrid to you. And now—this. But how did you get hold of them? When? Where?”

Mr. Parker Pyne shook his head thoughtfully. “It’s a long story,” he said. “You may hear it one day. In fact, you may hear it quite soon.”

“Why can’t I hear it now?”

“There are reasons,” said Mr. Parker Pyne.

And Elsie had to depart with her curiosity unsatisfied.

When she had gone, Mr. Parker Pyne took up his hat and stick and went out into the streets of Pera. He walked along smiling to himself, coming at last to a little café, deserted at the moment, which overlooked the Golden Horn. On the other side, the mosques of Stamboul showed slender minarets against the afternoon sky. It was very beautiful. Mr. Pyne sat down and ordered two coffees. They came thick and sweet. He had just begun to sip his when a man slipped into the seat opposite. It was Edward Jeffries.

“I have ordered some coffee for you,” said Mr. Parker Pyne, indicating the little cup.

Edward pushed the coffee aside. He leaned forward across the table. “How did you know?” he asked.

Mr. Parker Pyne sipped his coffee dreamily. “Your wife will have told you about her discovery on the blotter? No? Oh, but she will tell you; it has slipped her mind for the moment.”

He mentioned Elsie’s discovery.

“Very well; that linked up perfectly with the curious incident that happened just before Venice. For some reason or other you were engineering the theft of your wife’s jewels. But why the phrase ‘just before Venice would be the best time?’ There seemed nonsense in that. Why did you not leave it to your—agent—to choose her own time and place?

“And then, suddenly, I saw the point. Your wife’s jewels were stolen before you yourself left London and were replaced by paste duplicates. But that solution did not satisfy you. You were a high-minded, conscientious young man. You have a horror of some servant or other innocent person being suspected. A theft must actually occur—at a place and in a manner which will leave no suspicion attached to anybody of your acquaintance or household.

“Your accomplice is provided with a key to the jewel box and a smoke bomb. At the correct moment she gives the alarm, darts into your wife’s compartment, unlocks the jewel case and flings the paste duplicates into the sea. She may be suspected and searched, but nothing can be proved against her, since the jewels are not in her possession.

“And now the significance of the place chosen becomes apparent. If the jewels had merely been thrown out by the side of the line, they might have been found. Hence the importance of the one moment when the train is passing over the sea.”

“In the meantime, you make your arrangements for selling the jewellery here. You have only to hand over the stones when the robbery has actually taken place. My wire, however, reached you in time. You obeyed my instructions and deposited the box of jewellery at the Tokatlian to await my arrival, knowing that otherwise I should keep my threat of placing the matter in the hands of the police. You also obeyed my instructions in joining me here.”

Edward Jeffries looked at Mr. Parker Pyne appealingly. He was a good-looking young man, tall and fair, with a round chin and very round eyes. “How can I make you understand?” he said hopelessly. “To you I must seem just a common thief.”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Parker Pyne. “On the contrary, I should say you are almost painfully honest. I am accustomed to the classification of types. You, my dear sir, fall naturally into the category of victims. Now, tell me the whole story.”

“I can tell you in one word—blackmail.”

“Yes?”

“You’ve seen my wife: you realize what a pure, innocent creature she is—without knowledge or thought of evil.”

“Yes, yes.”

“She has the most marvellously pure ideals. If she were to find out about—about anything I had done, she would leave me.”

“I wonder. But that is not the point. What have you done, my young friend? I presume there is some affair with a woman?”

Edward Jeffries nodded.

“Since your marriage—or before?”

“Before—oh, before.”

“Well, well, what happened?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. This is just the cruel part of it. It was at a hotel in the West Indies. There was a very attractive woman—a Mrs. Rossiter—staying there. Her husband was a violent man; he had the most savage fits of temper. One night he threatened her with a revolver. She escaped from him and came to my room. She was half-crazy with terror. She—she asked me to let her stay there till morning. I—what else could I do?”

Mr. Parker Pyne gazed at the young man, and the young man gazed back with conscious rectitude. Mr. Parker Pyne sighed. “In other words, to put it plainly, you were had for a mug, Mr. Jeffries.”

“Really—”

“Yes, yes. A very old trick—but it often comes off successfully with quixotic young men. I suppose, when your approaching marriage was announced, the screw was turned?”

“Yes. I received a letter. If I did not send a certain sum of money, everything would be disclosed to my prospective father-in-law. How I had—had alienated this young woman’s affection from her husband; how she had been seen coming to my room. The husband would bring a suit for divorce. Really, Mr. Pyne, the whole thing made me out the most utter blackguard.”

He wiped his brow in a harassed manner.

“Yes, yes, I know. And so you paid. And from time to time the screw has been put on again.”

“Yes. This was the last straw. Our business has been badly hit by the slump. I simply could not lay my hands on any ready money. I hit upon this plan.” He picked up his cup of cold coffee, looked at it absently, and drank it. “What am I to do now?” he demanded pathetically. “What am I to do, Mr. Pyne?”

“You will be guided by me,” said Parker Pyne firmly. “I will deal with your tormentors. As to your wife, you will go straight back to her and tell her the truth—or at least a portion of it. The only point where you will deviate from the truth is concerning the actual facts in the West Indies. You must conceal from her the fact that you were—well, had for a mug, as I said before.”

“But—”

“My dear Mr. Jeffries, you do not understand women. If a woman has to choose between a mug and a Don Juan, she will choose Don Juan every time. Your wife, Mr. Jeffries, is a charming, innocent, high-minded girl, and the only way she is going to get any kick out of her life with you is to believe that she has reformed a rake.”

Edward Jeffries was staring at him, openmouthed.

“I mean what I say,” said Mr. Parker Pyne. “At the present moment your wife is in love with you, but I see signs that she may not remain so if you continue to present to her a picture of such goodness and rectitude that it is almost synonymous with dullness.”

“Go to her, my boy,” said Mr. Parker Pyne kindly. “Confess everything—that is, as many things as you can think of. Then explain that from the moment you met her you gave up all this life. You even stole so that it might not come to her ears. She will forgive you enthusiastically.”

“But when there’s nothing really to forgive—”

“What is truth?” said Mr. Parker Pyne. “In my experience it is usually the thing that upsets the apple cart! It is a fundamental axiom of married life that you must lie to a woman. She likes it! Go and be forgiven, my boy. And live happily ever afterwards. I daresay your wife will keep a wary eye on you in future whenever a pretty woman comes along—some men would mind that, but I don’t think you will.”

“I never want to look at any other woman but Elsie,” said Mr. Jeffries simply.

“Splendid, my boy,” said Mr. Parker Pyne. “But I shouldn’t let her know that if I were you. No woman likes to feel she’s taken on too soft a job.”

Edward Jeffries rose. “You really think—?”

“I know,” said Mr. Parker Pyne, with force.

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® PARKER PYNE INVESTIGATES™ are registered trademarks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere. All rights reserved.

“Have You Got Everything You Want?” was previously published as part of Parker Pyne Investigates short story collection, copyright © 1934 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 NOVEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062302595

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