Cat Among the Pigeons - Agatha Christie [93]
“From Ali?”
“Yes.”
“There isn’t—there couldn’t be—any hope? I mean—it’s really true—that he was killed? There couldn’t be any mistake?”
“I’m afraid there was no mistake,” said Mr. Robinson gently.
“No—no, I suppose not. Anyway, I never expected—When he went back there I didn’t think really I’d ever see him again. I don’t mean I thought he was going to be killed or that there would be a Revolution. I just mean—well, you know—he’d have to carry on, do his stuff—what was expected of him. Marry one of his own people—all that.”
Mr. Robinson drew out a package and laid it down on the table.
“Open it, please.”
Her fingers fumbled a little as she tore the wrappings off and then unfolded the final covering….
She drew her breath in sharply.
Red, blue, green, white, all sparkling with fire, with life, turning the dim little room into Aladdin’s cave….
Mr. Robinson watched her. He had seen so many women look at jewels….
She said at last in a breathless voice,
“Are they—they can’t be—real?”
“They are real.”
“But they must be worth—they must be worth—”
Her imagination failed.
Mr. Robinson nodded.
“If you wish to dispose of them, you can probably get at least half a million pounds for them.”
“No—no, it’s not possible.”
Suddenly she scooped them up in her hands and rewrapped them with shaking fingers.
“I’m scared,” she said. “They frighten me. What am I to do with them?”
The door burst open. A small boy rushed in.
“Mum, I got a smashing tank off Billy. He—”
He stopped, staring at Mr. Robinson.
An olive skinned, dark boy.
His mother said,
“Go in the kitchen, Allen, your tea’s all ready. Milk and biscuits and there’s a bit of gingerbread.”
“Oh good.” He departed noisily.
“You call him Allen?” said Mr. Robinson.
She flushed.
“It was the nearest name to Ali. I couldn’t call him Ali—too difficult for him and the neighbours and all.”
She went on, her face clouding over again.
“What am I to do?”
“First, have you got your marriage certificate? I have to be sure you’re the person you say you are.”
She stared a moment, then went over to a small desk. From one of the drawers she brought out an envelope, extracted a paper from it and brought it to him.
“Hm … yes … Register of Edmonstow … Ali Yusuf, student … Alice Calder, spinster … Yes, all in order.”
“Oh it’s legal all right—as far as it goes. And no one ever tumbled to who he was. There’s so many of these foreign Moslem students, you see. We knew it didn’t mean anything really. He was a Moslem and he could have more than one wife, and he knew he’d have to go back and do just that. We talked about it. But Allen was on the way, you see, and he said this would make it all right for him—we were married all right in this country and Allen would be legitimate. It was the best he could do for me. He really did love me, you know. He really did.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Robinson. “I am sure he did.”
He went on briskly.
“Now, supposing that you put yourself in my hands. I will see to the selling of these stones. And I will give you the address of a lawyer, a really good and reliable solicitor. He will advise you, I expect, to put most of the money in a trust fund. And there will be other things, education for your son, and a new way of life for you. You’ll want social education and guidance. You’re going to be a very rich woman and all the sharks and the confidence tricksters and the rest of them will be after you. Your life’s not going to be easy except in the purely material sense. Rich people don’t have an easy time in life, I can tell you—I’ve seen too many of them to have that illusion. But you’ve got character. I think you’ll come through. And that boy of yours may be a happier man than his father ever was.”
He paused. “You agree?”
“Yes. Take them.” She pushed them towards him, then said suddenly: “That schoolgirl—the one who found them—I’d like her to have one of them—which—what colour do you think she’d like?”
Mr. Robinson reflected. “An emerald, I think—green for mystery. A good idea of yours. She will