Passenger to Frankfurt - Agatha Christie [18]
‘Young man who objects to hard work and who would like an easy life would be glad to undertake a job that would suit him.’
‘Girl wants to travel to Cambodia. Refuses to look after children.’
‘Firearm used at Waterloo. What offers.’
‘Glorious fun-fur coat. Must be sold immediately. Owner going abroad.’
‘Do you know Jenny Capstan? Her cakes are superb.
Come to 14 Lizzard Street, S.W.3.’
For a moment Stafford Nye’s finger came to a stop. Jenny Capstan. He liked the name. Was there any Lizzard Street? He supposed so. He had never heard of it. With a sigh, the finger went down the column and almost at once was arrested once more.
‘Passenger from Frankfurt, Thursday Nov. 11, Hungerford Bridge 7.20.’
Thursday, November 11th. That was–yes, that was today. Sir Stafford Nye leaned back in his chair and drank more coffee. He was excited, stimulated. Hungerford. Hungerford Bridge. He got up and went into the kitchenette. Mrs Worrit was cutting potatoes into strips and throwing them into a large bowl of water. She looked up with some slight surprise.
‘Anything you want, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Sir Stafford Nye. ‘If anyone said Hungerford Bridge to you, where would you go?’
‘Where should I go?’ Mrs Worrit considered. ‘You mean if I wanted to go, do you?’
‘We can proceed on that assumption.’
‘Well, then, I suppose I’d go to Hungerford Bridge, wouldn’t I?’
‘You mean you would go to Hungerford in Berkshire?’
‘Where is that?’ said Mrs Worrit.
‘Eight miles beyond Newbury.’
‘I’ve heard of Newbury. My old man backed a horse there last year. Did well, too.’
‘So you’d go to Hungerford near Newbury?’
‘No, of course I wouldn’t,’ said Mrs Worrit. ‘Go all that way–what for? I’d go to Hungerford Bridge, of course.’
‘You mean–?’
‘Well, it’s near Charing Cross. You know where it is. Over the Thames.’
‘Yes,’ said Sir Stafford Nye. ‘Yes, I do know where it is quite well. Thank you, Mrs Worrit.’
It had been, he felt, rather like tossing a penny heads or tails. An advertisement in a morning paper in London meant Hungerford Railway Bridge in London. Presumably therefore that is what the advertiser meant, although about this particular advertiser Sir Stafford Nye was not at all sure. Her ideas, from the brief experience he had had of her, were original ideas. They were not the normal responses to be expected. But still, what else could one do. Besides, there were probably other Hungerfords, and possibly they would also have bridges, in various parts of England. But today, well, today he would see.
IV
It was a cold windy evening with occasional bursts of thin misty rain. Sir Stafford Nye turned up the collar of his mackintosh and plodded on. It was not the first time he had gone across Hungerford Bridge, but it had never seemed to him a walk to take for pleasure. Beneath him was the river and crossing the bridge were large quantities of hurrying figures like himself. Their mackintoshes pulled round them, their hats pulled down and on the part of one and all of them an earnest desire to get home and out of the wind and rain as soon as possible. It would be, thought Sir Stafford Nye, very difficult to recognize anybody in this scurrying crowd. 7.20. Not a good moment to choose for a rendezvous of any kind. Perhaps it was Hungerford Bridge in Berkshire. Anyway, it seemed very odd.
He plodded on. He kept an even pace, not overtaking those ahead of him, pushing past those coming the opposite way. He went fast enough not to be overtaken by the others behind him, though it would be possible for them to do so if they wanted to. A joke, perhaps, thought Stafford Nye. Not quite his kind of joke, but someone else’s.
And yet–not her brand of humour either, he would have thought. Hurrying figures passed him again, pushing him slightly aside. A woman in a mackintosh was coming along, walking heavily. She collided with him, slipped, dropped to her knees. He assisted her up.
‘All right?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
She hurried on, but as she passed him, her wet hand, by which he had held