Cat Among the Pigeons - Agatha Christie [43]
“You think such things could not happen? I say they can. They are very very wicked, the Communists! Everybody knows that.”
As he still looked dubious, she went on:
“Perhaps they think I know where the jewels are!”
“What jewels?”
“My cousin had jewels. So had his father. My family always has a hoard of jewels. For emergencies, you comprehend.”
She made it sound very matter of fact.
Kelsey stared at her.
“But what has all this got to do with you—or with Miss Springer?”
“But I already tell you! They think, perhaps, I know where the jewels are. So they will take me prisoner and force me to speak.”
“Do you know where the jewels are?”
“No, of course I do not know. They disappeared in the Revolution. Perhaps the wicked Communists take them. But again, perhaps not.”
“Who do they belong to?”
“Now my cousin is dead, they belong to me. No men in his family anymore. His aunt, my mother, is dead. He would want them to belong to me. If he were not dead, I marry him.”
“That was the arrangement?”
“I have to marry him. He is my cousin, you see.”
“And you would have got the jewels when you married him?”
“No, I would have had new jewels. From Cartier in Paris. These others would still be kept for emergencies.”
Inspector Kelsey blinked, letting this Oriental insurance scheme for emergencies sink into his consciousness.
Shaista was racing on with great animation.
“I think that is what happens. Somebody gets the jewels out of Ramat. Perhaps good person, perhaps bad. Good person would bring them to me, would say: ‘These are yours,’ and I should reward him.”
She nodded her head regally, playing the part.
Quite a little actress, thought the Inspector.
“But if it was a bad person, he would keep the jewels and sell them. Or he would come to me and say: ‘What will you give me as a reward if I bring them to you?’ And if it worthwhile, he brings—but if not, then not!”
“But in actual fact, nobody has said anything at all to you?”
“No,” admitted Shaista.
Inspector Kelsey made up his mind.
“I think, you know,” he said pleasantly, “that you’re really talking a lot of nonsense.”
Shaista flashed a furious glance at him.
“I tell you what I know, that is all,” she said sulkily.
“Yes—well, it’s very kind of you, and I’ll bear it in mind.”
He got up and opened the door for her to go out.
“The Arabian Nights aren’t in it,” he said, as he returned to the table. “Kidnapping and fabulous jewels! What next?”
Eleven
CONFERENCE
When Inspector Kelsey returned to the station, the sergeant on duty said:
“We’ve got Adam Goodman here, waiting, sir.”
“Adam Goodman? Oh yes. The gardener.”
A young man had risen respectfully to his feet. He was tall, dark and good-looking. He wore stained corduroy trousers loosely held up by an aged belt, and an open-necked shirt of very bright blue.
“You wanted to see me, I hear.”
His voice was rough, and as that of so many young men of today, slightly truculent.
Kelsey said merely:
“Yes, come into my room.”
“I don’t know anything about the murder,” said Adam Goodman sulkily. “It’s nothing to do with me. I was at home and in bed last night.”
Kelsey merely nodded noncommittally.
He sat down at his desk, and motioned to the young man to take the chair opposite. A young policeman in plainclothes had followed the two men in unobtrusively and sat down a little distance away.
“Now then,” said Kelsey. “You’re Goodman—” he looked at a note on his desk—“Adam Goodman.”
“That’s right, sir. But first, I’d like to show you this.”
Adam’s manner had changed. There was no truculence or sulkiness in it now. It was quiet and deferential. He took something from his pocket and passed it across the desk. Inspector Kelsey’s eyebrows rose very slightly as he studied it. Then he raised his head.
“I shan’t need you, Barbar,” he said.
The discreet young policeman got up and went out. He managed not to look surprised, but he was.
“Ah,” said Kelsey. He looked across at Adam with speculative interest. “So that’s who you are? And what the hell, I’d like to know, are you—”
“Doing in