Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [70]
‘Don’t go in there—don’t go in. Your mother—she—she’s dead—I think—she’s been killed…’
Chapter 18
I
‘Quite a neat bit of work,’ said Superintendent Spence.
His red countryman’s face was angry. He looked across to where Hercule Poirot sat gravely listening.
‘Neat and ugly,’ he said. ‘She was strangled,’ he went on. ‘Silk scarf—one of her own silk scarves, one she’d been wearing that day—just passed around the neck and the ends crossed—and pulled. Neat, quick, efficient. The thugs did it that way in India. The victim doesn’t struggle or cry out—pressure on the carotid artery.’
‘Special knowledge?’
‘Could be—need not. If you were thinking of doing it, you could read up the subject. There’s no practical difficulty. ’Specially with the victim quite unsuspicious—and she was unsuspicious.’
Poirot nodded.
‘Someone she knew.’
‘Yes. They had coffee together—a cup opposite her and one opposite the—guest. Prints had been wiped off the guest’s cup very carefully but lipstick is more difficult—there were still faint traces of lipstick.’
‘A woman, then?’
‘You expected a woman, didn’t you?’
‘Oh yes. Yes, that was indicated.’
Spence went on:
‘Mrs Upward recognized one of those photographs—the photograph of Lily Gamboll. So it ties up with the McGinty murder.’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘It ties up with the McGinty murder.’
He remembered Mrs Upward’s slightly amused expression as she had said:
‘Mrs McGinty’s dead. How did she die?
Sticking her neck out, just like I.’
Spence was going on:
‘She took an opportunity that seemed good to her—her son and Mrs Oliver were going off to the theatre. She rang up the person concerned and asked that person to come and see her. Is that how you figure it out? She was playing detective.’
‘Something like that. Curiosity. She kept her knowledge to herself, but she wanted to find out more. She didn’t in the least realize what she was doing might be dangerous.’ Poirot sighed. ‘So many people think of murder as a game. It is not a game. I told her so. But she would not listen.’
‘No, we know that. Well, that fits in fairly well. When young Robin started off with Mrs Oliver and ran back into the house his mother had just finished telephoning to someone. She wouldn’t say who to. Played it mysterious. Robin and Mrs Oliver thought it might be you.’
‘I wish it had been,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘You have no idea to whom it was that she telephoned?’
‘None whatever. It’s all automatic round here, you know.’
‘The maid couldn’t help you in any way?’
‘No. She came in about half-past ten—she has a key to the back door. She went straight into her own room which leads off the kitchen and went to bed. The house was dark and she assumed that Mrs Upward had gone to bed and that the others had not yet returned.’
Spence added:
‘She’s deaf and pretty crotchety as well. Takes very little notice of what goes on—and I imagine does as little work as she can with as much grumbling as possible.’
‘Not really an old faithful?’
‘Oh no! She’s only been with the Upwards a couple of years.’
A constable put his head round the door.
‘There’s a young lady to see you, sir,’ he said. ‘Says there’s something perhaps you ought to know. About last night.’
‘About last night? Send her in.’
Deirdre Henderson came in. She looked pale and strained and, as usual, rather awkward.
‘I thought perhaps I’d better come,’ she said. ‘If I’m not interrupting you or anything,’ she added apologetically.
‘Not at all, Miss Henderson.’
Spence rose and pushed forward a chair. She sat down on it squarely in an ungainly schoolgirlish sort of way.
‘Something about last night?’ said Spence encouragingly. ‘About Mrs Upward, you mean?’
‘Yes, it’s true, isn’t it, that she was murdered? I mean the post said so and the baker. Mother said of course it couldn’t be true—’ She stopped.
‘I’m afraid your mother isn’t quite right there. It’s true enough. Now, you wanted to make a—to tell us something?’
Deirdre nodded.