Pocket Full of Rye - Agatha Christie [25]
“Yes.”
“I’d better go down there straight away.” He turned to his wife. “You’d better go to an hotel, Pat.”
She protested quickly. “No, no, Lance, I’ll come with you.”
“No, darling.”
“But I want to.”
“Really, I’d rather you didn’t. Go and stay at the—oh it’s so long since I stayed in London—Barnes’s. Barnes’s Hotel used to be a nice, quiet sort of place. That’s still going, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Fortescue.”
“Right, Pat. I’ll settle you in there if they’ve got a room, then I’ll go on down to Yewtree Lodge.”
“But why can’t I come with you, Lance?”
Lance’s face took suddenly a rather grim line.
“Frankly, Pat, I’m not sure of my welcome. It was Father who invited me there, but Father’s dead. I don’t know who the place belongs to now. Percy, I suppose, or perhaps Adele. Anyway, I’d like to see what reception I get before I bring you there. Besides—”
“Besides what?”
“I don’t want to take you to a house where there’s a poisoner at large.”
“Oh, what nonsense.”
Lance said firmly:
“Where you’re concerned, Pat, I’m taking no risks.”
Chapter Eleven
I
Mr. Dubois was annoyed. He tore Adele Fortescue’s letter angrily across and threw it into the wastepaper basket. Then, with a sudden caution, he fished out the various pieces, struck a match and watched them burn to ashes. He muttered under his breath:
“Why have women got to be such damned fools? Surely common prudence . . .” But then, Mr. Dubois reflected gloomily, women never had any prudence. Though he had profited by this lack many a time, it annoyed him now. He himself had taken every precaution. If Mrs. Fortescue rang up they had instructions to say that he was out. Already Adele Fortescue had rung him up three times, and now she had written. On the whole, writing was far worse. He reflected for a moment or two, then he went to the telephone.
“Can I speak to Mrs. Fortescue, please? Yes, Mr. Dubois.” A minute or two later he heard her voice.
“Vivian, at last!”
“Yes, yes, Adele, but be careful. Where are you speaking from?”
“From the library.”
“Sure nobody’s listening in, in the hall?”
“Why should they?”
“Well, you never know. Are the police still about the house?”
“No, they’ve gone for the moment, anyhow. Oh, Vivian dear, it’s been awful.”
“Yes, yes, it must have I’m sure. But look here, Adele, we’ve got to be careful.”
“Oh, of course, darling.”
“Don’t call me darling through the phone. It isn’t safe.”
“Aren’t you being a little bit panicky, Vivian? After all, everybody says darling nowadays.”
“Yes, yes, that’s true enough. But listen. Don’t telephone to me and don’t write.”
“But Vivian—”
“It’s just for the present, you understand. We must be careful.”
“Oh. All right.” Her voice sounded offended.
“Adele, listen. My letters to you. You did burn them, didn’t you?”
There was a momentary hesitation before Adele Fortescue said:
“Of course. I told you I was going to do so.”
“That’s all right then. Well I’ll ring off now. Don’t phone and don’t write. You’ll hear from me in good time.”
He put the receiver back in its hook. He stroked his cheek thoughtfully. He didn’t like that moment’s hesitation. Had Adele burnt his letters? Women were all the same. They promised to burn things and then didn’t.
Letters, Mr. Dubois thought to himself. Women always wanted you to write them letters. He himself tried to be careful but sometimes one could not get out of it. What had he said exactly in the few letters he had written to Adele Fortescue? “It was the usual sort of gup,” he thought, gloomily. But were there any special words—special phrases that the police could twist to make them say what they wanted them to say. He remembered the Edith Thompson case. His letters were innocent enough, he thought, but he could not be sure. His uneasiness grew. Even if Adele had not already burnt his letters, would she have the sense to burn them now? Or had the police already got hold of them? Where did she keep them, he wondered. Probably in that sitting room of hers upstairs. That gimcrack little desk, probably sham antique Louis XIV. She had