At Bertram's Hotel - Agatha Christie [84]
“Did you know what she was going to do?”
“Not really. That’s one of her gifts. The unexpected. She must have thought this out, you know. She knew what was coming. So she sat looking at us—keeping the ball rolling—and thinking. Thinking and planning hard. I expect—ah—” He broke off as there came the sudden roar of a car’s exhaust, the screaming of wheels, and the sound of a big racing engine. He leaned out. “She’s made it, she’s got to her car.”
There was more screaming as the car came round the corner on two wheels, a great roar, and the beautiful white monster came tearing up the street.
“She’ll kill someone,” said Father, “she’ll kill a lot of people…even if she doesn’t kill herself.”
“I wonder,” said Miss Marple.
“She’s a good driver, of course. A damn good driver. Whoof, that was a near one!”
They heard the roar of the car racing away with the horn blaring, heard it grow fainter. Heard cries, shouts, the sound of brakes, cars hooting and pulling up and finally a great scream of tyres and a roaring exhaust and—
“She’s crashed,” said Father.
He stood there very quietly waiting with the patience that was characteristic of his whole big patient form. Miss Marple stood silent beside him. Then, like a relay race, word came down along the street. A man on the pavement opposite looked up at Chief-Inspector Davy and made rapid signs with his hands.
“She’s had it,” said Father heavily. “Dead! Went about ninety miles an hour into the park railings. No other casualties bar a few slight collisions. Magnificent driving. Yes, she’s dead.” He turned back into the room and said heavily, “Well, she told her story first. You heard her.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “I heard her.” There was a pause. “It wasn’t true, of course,” said Miss Marple quietly.
Father looked at her. “You didn’t believe her, eh?”
“Did you?”
“No,” said Father. “No, it wasn’t the right story. She thought it out so that it would meet the case exactly, but it wasn’t true. She didn’t shoot Michael Gorman. D’you happen to know who did?”
“Of course I know,” said Miss Marple. “The girl.”
“Ah! When did you begin to think that?”
“I always wondered,” said Miss Marple.
“So did I,” said Father. “She was full of fear that night. And the lies she told were poor lies. But I couldn’t see a motive at first.”
“That puzzled me,” said Miss Marple. “She had found out her mother’s marriage was bigamous, but would a girl do murder for that? Not nowadays! I suppose there was a money side to it?”
“Yes, it was money,” said Chief-Inspector Davy. “Her father left her a colossal fortune. When she found out that her mother was married to Michael Gorman she realized that the marriage to Coniston hadn’t been legal. She thought that meant that the money wouldn’t come to her because, though she was his daughter, she wasn’t legitimate. She was wrong, you know. We had a case something like that before. Depends on the terms of a will. Coniston left it quite clearly to her, naming her by name. She’d get it all right, but she didn’t know that. And she wasn’t going to let go of the cash.”
“Why did she need it so badly?”
Chief-Inspector Davy said grimly, “To buy Ladislaus Malinowski. He would have married her for her money. He wouldn’t have married her without it. She wasn’t a fool, that girl. She knew that. But she wanted him on any terms. She was desperately in love with him.”
“I know,” said Miss Marple. She explained: “I saw her face that day in Battersea Park….”
“She knew that with