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      Copyright

      Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

       1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

      First published in Great Britain by

       Collins 1936 Copyright © 1936 Agatha Christie Ltd. All rights reserved.

      www.agathachristie.com

      Epub Edition 2010 ISBN: 9780007422661

      The moral right of the author is asserted

      All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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 ebooks.

      Version: 2017-04-12

      Contents

       Cover

      Title Page

      Copyright

      Author’s Foreword

      The Case of the Middle-Aged Wife

      The Case of the Discontented Soldier

      The Case of the Distressed Lady

      The Case of the Discontented Husband

      The Case of the City Clerk

      The Case of the Rich Woman

      Have You Got Everything You Want?

      The Gate of Baghdad

      The House at Shiraz

      The Pearl of Price

      Death on the Nile

      The Oracle at Delphi

      Problem at Pollensa Bay

      The Regatta Mystery

      About the Author

      Other Books by Agatha Christie

      Credits

      About the Publisher

      Author’s Foreword

      One day, having lunch at a Corner House, I was enraptured by a conversation on statistics going on at a table behind me. I turned my head and caught a vague glimpse of a bald head, glasses, and a beaming smile–I caught sight, that is, of Mr Parker Pyne. I had never thought about statistics before (and indeed seldom think about them now!) but the enthusiasm with which they were being discussed awakened my interest. I was just considering a new series of short stories and then and there I decided on the general treatment and scope, and in due course enjoyed writing them.

      My own favourites are The Case of the Discontented Husband and The Case of the Rich Woman, the theme for the latter being suggested to me by having been addressed by a strange woman ten years before when I was looking into a shop window. She said with the utmost venom: ‘I’d like to know what I can do with all the money I’ve got. I’m too seasick for a yacht–I’ve got a couple of cars and three fur coats–and too much rich food fair turns my stomach.’

      Startled, I suggested ‘Hospitals?’

      She snorted ‘Hospitals? I don’t mean charity. I want to get my money’s worth’, and departed wrathfully.

      That, of course, was now twenty-five years ago. Today all such problems would be solved for her by the income tax inspector, and she would probably be more wrathful still!

      The Case of the Middle-Aged Wife

      Four grunts, an indignant voice asking why nobody could leave a hat alone, a slammed door, and Mr Packington had departed to catch the eight forty-five to the city. Mrs Packington sat on at the breakfast table. Her face was flushed, her lips were pursed, and the only reason she was not crying was that at the last minute anger had taken the place of grief. ‘I won’t stand it,’ said Mrs Packington. ‘I won’t stand it!’ She remained for some moments brooding, and then murmured: ‘The minx. Nasty sly little cat! How George can be such a fool!’

      Anger faded; grief came back. Tears came into Mrs Packington’s eyes and rolled slowly down her middle-aged cheeks. ‘It’s all very well to say I won’t stand it, but what can I do?’

      Suddenly she felt alone, helpless, utterly forlorn. Slowly she took up the morning paper and read, not for the first time, an advertisement on the front page.

      ‘Absurd!’ said Mrs Packington. ‘Utterly absurd.’ Then: ‘After all, I might just see…’

      Which explains why at eleven o’clock Mrs Packington, a little nervous, was being shown into Mr Parker Pyne’s private office.

      As has been said, Mrs Packington was nervous, but somehow or other, the mere sight of Mr Parker Pyne brought a feeling of reassurance. He was large, not to say fat; he had a bald head of noble proportions, strong glasses, and little twinkling eyes.

      ‘Pray sit down,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘You have come in answer to my advertisement?’ he added helpfully.

      ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Packington, and stopped there.

      ‘And you are not happy,’ said Mr Parker Pyne in a cheerful, matter-of-fact voice. ‘Very few people are. You would really be surprised if you knew how few people are happy.’

      ‘Indeed?’ said Mrs Packington, not feeling, however, that it mattered whether other people were unhappy or not.

      ‘Not interesting to you, I know,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, ‘but very interesting to me. You see, for thirty-five years of my life I have been engaged in the compiling of statistics in a government office. Now I have retired, and it has occurred to me to use the experience I have gained in a novel fashion. It is all so simple. Unhappiness can be classified under five main heads–no more, I assure you. Once you know the cause of a malady, the remedy should not be impossible.

      ‘I stand in the place of the doctor. The doctor first diagnoses the patient’s disorder, then he proceeds to recommend a course of treatment. There are cases where no treatment can be of avail. If that is so, I say frankly that I can do nothing. But I assure you, Mrs Packington, that if I undertake a case, the cure is practically guaranteed.’

      Could it be so? Was this nonsense, or could it, perhaps be true? Mrs Packington gazed at him hopefully.

      ‘Shall we diagnose your case?’ said Mr Parker Pyne, smiling. He leaned back in his chair and brought the tips of his fingers together. ‘The trouble concerns your husband. You have had, on the whole, a happy married life. You husband has, I think, prospered. I think there is a young lady concerned in the case–perhaps a young lady in your husband’s office.’

      ‘A typist,’ said Mrs Packington. ‘A nasty made-up little minx, all lipstick and silk stockings and curls.’ The words rushed from her.

      Mr Parker Pyne nodded in a soothing manner. ‘There is no real harm in it–that is your husband’s phrase, I have no doubt.’

      ‘His very words.’

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