Listerdale Mystery - Agatha Christie [65]
‘That seems a comprehensive programme,’ remarked Anthony. ‘I can assure you that you’re welcome to any guilty secrets of mine you may lay your hands on.’
The inspector grinned. For a detective, he was a singularly human person.
‘Will you go into the little end room, sir, with Carter, whilst I’m getting busy?’
‘All right,’ said Anthony unwillingly. ‘I suppose it couldn’t be the other way about, could it?’
‘Meaning?’
‘That you and I and a couple of whiskies and sodas should occupy the end room whilst our friend, the Sergeant, does the heavy searching.’
‘If you prefer it, sir?’
‘I do prefer it.’
They left Carter investigating the contents of the desk with business-like dexterity. As they passed out of the room, they heard him take down the telephone and call up Scotland Yard.
‘This isn’t so bad,’ said Anthony, settling himself with a whisky and soda by his side, having hospitably attended to the wants of Inspector Verrall. ‘Shall I drink first, just to show you that the whisky isn’t poisoned?’
The inspector smiled.
‘Very irregular, all this,’ he remarked. ‘But we know a thing or two in our profession. I realized right from the start that we’d made a mistake. But of course one had to observe all the usual forms. You can’t get away from red tape, can you, sir?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Anthony regretfully. ‘The sergeant doesn’t seem very matey yet, though, does he?’
‘Ah, he’s a fine man, Detective-Sergeant Carter. You wouldn’t find it easy to put anything over on him.’
‘I’ve noticed that,’ said Anthony.
‘By the way, inspector,’ he added, ‘is there any objection to my hearing something about myself?’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘Come now, don’t you realize that I’m devoured by curiousity? Who was Anna Rosenburg, and why did I murder her?’
‘You’ll read all about it in the newspapers tomorrow, sir.’
‘“Tomorrow I may be Myself with Yesterday’s ten thousand years”,’ quoted Anthony. ‘I really think you might satisfy my perfectly legitimate curiosity, inspector. Cast aside your official reticence, and tell me all.’
‘It’s quite irregular, sir.’
‘My dear inspector, when we are becoming such fast friends?’
‘Well, sir, Anna Rosenburg was a German-Jewess who lived at Hampstead. With no visible means of livelihood, she grew yearly richer and richer.’
‘I’m just the opposite,’ commented Anthony. ‘I have a visible means of livelihood and I get yearly poorer and poorer. Perhaps I should do better if I lived in Hampstead. I’ve always heard Hampstead is very bracing.’
‘At one time,’ continued Verrall, ‘she was a second-hand clothes dealer–’
‘That explains it,’ interrupted Anthony. ‘I remember selling my uniform after the war–not khaki, the other stuff. The whole flat was full of red trousers and gold lace, spread out to best advantage. A fat man in a check suit arrived in a Rolls-Royce with a factotum complete with bag. He bid one pound ten for the lot. In the end I threw in a hunting coat and some Zeiss glasses to make up the two pounds, at a given signal the factotum opened the bag and shovelled the goods inside, and the fat man tendered me a ten-pound note and asked me for change.’
‘About ten years ago,’ continued the inspector, ‘there were several Spanish political refugees in London–amongst them a certain Don Fernando Ferrarez with his young wife and child. They were very poor, and the wife was ill. Anna Rosenburg visited the place where they were lodging and asked if they had anything to sell. Don Fernando was out, and his wife decided to part with a very wonderful Spanish shawl, embroidered in a marvellous manner, which had been one of her husband’s last presents to her before flying from Spain. When Don Fernando returned, he flew into a terrible