Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [87]
‘There was a girl and a boy, I believe. Some relative took them.’
‘So there are two more people to take into account. Two people who might have kept a photograph for the third reason I mentioned—revenge.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Spence.
Poirot sighed.
‘It has to be considered, all the same. I think I know the truth—though there is one fact that baffles me utterly.’
‘I’m glad something baffles you,’ said Spence.
‘Confirm one thing for me, mon cher Spence. Eva Kane left the country before Craig’s execution, that is right?’
‘Quite right.’
‘And she was, at that time, expecting a child?’
‘Quite right.’
‘Bon Dieu, how stupid I have been,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘The whole thing is simple, is it not?’
It was after that remark that there was very nearly a third murder—the murder of Hercule Poirot by Superintendent Spence in Kilchester Police Headquarters.
II
‘I want,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘a personal call. To Mrs Ariadne Oliver.’
A personal call to Mrs Oliver was not achieved without difficulties. Mrs Oliver was working and could not be disturbed. Poirot, however, disregarded all denials. Presently he heard the authoress’s voice.
It was cross and rather breathless.
‘Well, what is it?’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Have you got to ring me up just now? I’ve thought of a most wonderful idea for a murder in a draper’s shop. You know, the old-fashioned kind that sells combinations and funny vests with long sleeves.’
‘I do not know,’ said Poirot. ‘And anyway what I have to say to you is far more important.’
‘It couldn’t be,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Not to me, I mean. Unless I get a rough sketch of my idea jotted down, it will go!’
Hercule Poirot paid no attention to this creative agony. He asked sharp imperative questions to which Mrs Oliver replied somewhat vaguely.
‘Yes—yes—it’s a little Repertory Theatre—I don’t know its name…Well, one of them was Cecil Something, and the one I was talking to was Michael.’
‘Admirable. That is all I need to know.’
‘But why Cecil and Michael?’
‘Return to the combinations and the long-sleeved vests, madame.’
‘I can’t think why you don’t arrest Dr Rendell,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I would, if I were the Head of Scotland Yard.’
‘Very possibly. I wish you luck with the murder in the draper’s shop.’
‘The whole idea has gone now,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘You’ve ruined it.’
Poirot apologized handsomely.
He put down the receiver and smiled at Spence.
‘We go now—or at least I will go—to interview a young actor whose Christian name is Michael and who plays the less important parts in the Cullenquay Repertory Theatre. I pray only that he is the right Michael.’
‘Why on earth—’
Poirot dexterously averted the rising wrath of Superintendent Spence.
‘Do you know, cher ami, what is a secret de Polichinelle?’
‘Is this a French lesson?’ demanded the superintendent wrathfully.
‘A secret de Polichinelle is a secret that everyone can know. For this reason the people who do not know it never hear about it—for if everyone thinks you know a thing, nobody tells you.’
‘How I manage to keep my hands off you I don’t know,’ said Superintendent Spence.
Chapter 25
The inquest was over—a verdict had been returned of murder by a person or persons unknown.
After the inquest, at the invitation of Hercule Poirot, those who had attended it came to Long Meadows.
Working diligently, Poirot had induced some semblance of order in the long drawing-room. Chairs had been arranged in a neat semi-circle, Maureen’s dogs had been excluded with difficulty, and Hercule Poirot, a self-appointed lecturer, took up his position at the end of the room and initiated proceedings with a slightly self-conscious clearing of the throat.
‘Messieurs et Mesdames—’
He paused. His next words were unexpected and seemed almost farcical.
‘Mrs McGinty’s dead. How did she die?
Down on her knees just like I.
Mrs McGinty’s dead. How did she die?
Holding her hand out just like I.
Mrs McGinty’s dead. How did she die?
Like this…’
Seeing their