Listerdale Mystery - Agatha Christie [67]
‘Yes, sir. Was that not your wishes, sir? It was the tall gentleman told me to do so, sir, and seeing as you were busy talking to the other gentleman in the little end room, I didn’t like to disturb you.’
‘I wasn’t talking to him,’ said Anthony. ‘He was talking to me–curse him.’
Rogers coughed.
‘I’m sure I’m very sorry for the necessity, sir,’ he murmured.
‘Necessity?’
‘Of parting with your little treasures, sir.’
‘Eh? Oh, yes. Ha, ha!’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘They’ve driven off by now, I suppose. Those–those friends of mine, I mean?’
‘Oh, yes, sir, some time ago. I put the cases on the taxi and the tall gentleman went upstairs again, and then they both came running down and drove off at once…Excuse me, sir, but is anything wrong, sir?’
Rogers might well ask. The hollow groan which Anthony emitted would have aroused surmise anywhere.
‘Everything is wrong, thank you, Rogers. But I see clearly that you were not to blame. Leave me, I would commune a while with my telephone.’
Five minutes later saw Anthony pouring his tale into the ears of Inspector Driver, who sat opposite to him, note-book in hand. An unsympathetic man, Inspector Driver, and not (Anthony reflected) nearly so like a real inspector! Distinctly stagey, in fact. Another striking example of the superiority of Art over Nature.
Anthony reached the end of his tale. The inspector shut up his note-book.
‘Well?’ said Anthony anxiously.
‘Clear as paint,’ said the inspector. ‘It’s the Patterson gang. They’ve done a lot of smart work lately. Big fair man, small dark man, and the girl.’
‘The girl?’
‘Yes, dark and mighty good looking. Acts as a decoy usually.’
‘A–a Spanish girl?’
‘She might call herself that. She was born in Hampstead.’
‘I said it was a bracing place,’ murmured Anthony.
‘Yes, it’s clear enough,’ said the inspector, rising to depart. ‘She got you on the phone and pitched you a tale–she guessed you’d come along all right. Then she goes along to old Mother Gibson’s who isn’t above accepting a tip for the use of her room for them as finds it awkward to meet in public–lovers, you understand, nothing criminal. You fall for it all right, they get you back here, and while one of them pitches you a tale, the other gets away with the swag. It’s the Pattersons all right–just their touch.’
‘And my things?’ said Anthony anxiously.
‘We’ll do what we can, sir. But the Pattersons are uncommon sharp.’
‘They seem to be,’ said Anthony bitterly.
The inspector departed, and scarcely had the gone before there came a ring at the door. Anthony opened it. A small boy stood there, holding a package.
‘Parcel for you, sir.’
Anthony took it with some surprise. He was not expecting a parcel of any kind. Returning to the sitting-room with it, he cut the string.
It was the liqueur set!
‘Damn!’ said Anthony.
Then he noticed that at the bottom of one of the glasses there was a tiny artificial rose. His mind flew back to the upper room in Kirk Street.
‘I do like you–yes, I do like you. You will remember that whatever happens, won’t you?’
That was what she had said. Whatever happens…Did she mean–
Anthony took hold of himself sternly.
‘This won’t do,’ he admonished himself.
His eye fell on the typewriter, and he sat down with a resolute face.
THE MYSTERY OF THE SECOND CUCUMBER
His face grew dreamy again. The Shawl of a Thousand Flowers. What was it that was found on the floor beside the dead body? The gruesome thing that explained the whole mystery?
Nothing, of course, since it was only a trumped-up tale to hold his attention, and the teller had used the old Arabian Nights’ trick of breaking off at the most interesting point. But couldn’t there be a gruesome thing that explained the whole mystery? couldn’t there now? If one gave one’s mind to it?
Anthony tore the sheet of paper from his typewriter and substituted another. He typed a headline:
THE MYSTERY OF THE SPANISH SHAWL
He surveyed it for a moment or two in silence.
Then he began to type rapidly…
The Golden Ball
I
George Dundas stood