Five Little Pigs - Agatha Christie [39]
“What?”
“To get her hanged, of course,” said Elsa Dittisham.
He noticed her hands—beautiful hands but with long curving nails. Predatory hands.
She said:
“You’re thinking me vindictive? So I am vindictive—to anyone who has injured me. That woman was to my mind the lowest kind of woman there is. She knew that Amyas cared for me—that he was going to leave her and she killed him so that I shouldn’t have him.”
She looked across at Poirot.
“Don’t you think that’s pretty mean?”
“You do not understand or sympathize with jealousy?”
“No, I don’t think I do. If you’ve lost, you’ve lost. If you can’t keep your husband, let him go with a good grace. It’s possessiveness I don’t understand.”
“You might have understood it if you had ever married him.”
“I don’t think so. We weren’t—” She smiled suddenly at Poirot. Her smile was, he felt, a little frightening. It was so far removed from any real feeling. “I’d like you to get this right,” she said. “Don’t think that Amyas Crale seduced an innocent young girl. It wasn’t like that at all! Of the two of us, I was responsible. I met him at a party and I fell for him—I knew I’d got to have him—”
A travesty—a grotesque travesty but—
And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay
And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world….
“Although he was married?”
“Trespassers will be prosecuted? It takes more than a printed notice to keep you from reality. If he was unhappy with his wife and could be happy with me, then why not? We’ve only one life to live.”
“But it has been said he was happy with his wife.”
Elsa shook her head.
“No. They quarrelled like cat and dog. She nagged at him. She was—oh, she was a horrible woman!”
She got up and lit a cigarette. She said with a little smile:
“Probably I’m unfair to her. But I really do think she was rather hateful.”
Poirot said slowly: “It was a great tragedy.”
“Yes, it was a great tragedy.” She turned on him suddenly, into the dead monotonous weariness of her face something came quiveringly alive.
“It killed me, do you understand? It killed me. Ever since there’s been nothing—nothing at all.” Her voice dropped. “Emptiness!” She waved her hands impatiently. “Like a stuffed fish in a glass case!”
“Did Amyas Crale mean so much to you?”
She nodded. It was a queer confiding little nod—oddly pathetic. She said:
“I think I’ve always had a single-track mind.” She mused sombrely. “I suppose—really—one ought to put a knife into oneself—like Juliet. But—but to do that is to acknowledge that you’re done for—that life’s beaten you.”
“And instead?”
“There ought to be everything—just the same—once one has got over it. I did get over it. It didn’t mean anything to me any more. I thought I’d go on to the next thing.”
Yes, the next thing. Poirot saw her plainly trying so hard to fulfil that crude determination. Saw her beautiful and rich, seductive to men, seeking with greedy predatory hands to fill up a life that was empty. Hero worship—a marriage to a famous aviator—then an explorer, that big giant of a man, Arnold Stevenson—possibly not unlike Amyas Crale physically—a reversion to the creative arts: Dittisham!
Elsa Dittisham said:
“I’ve never been a hypocrite! There’s a Spanish proverb I’ve always liked. Take what you want and pay for it, says God. Well, I’ve done that. I’ve taken what I wanted—but I’ve always been willing to pay the price.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“What you do not understand is that there are things that cannot be bought.”
She stared at him. She said:
“I don’t mean just money.”
Poirot said:
“No, no, I understand what you mean. But it is not everything in life that has its ticket, so much. There are things that are not for sale.”
“Nonsense!”
He smiled very faintly. In her voice was the arrogance of the successful mill hand who had risen to riches.
Hercule Poirot felt a sudden wave of pity. He looked at the ageless, smooth face, the weary eyes, and he remembered the girl whom Amyas Crale had painted….
Elsa Dittisham said:
“Tell me all about this book. What