Sparkling Cyanide - Agatha Christie [68]
‘So that’s it! Now don’t tell me that the girl, a pure Cockney if ever there was one, is a well-known European spy because I simply don’t believe it.’
‘No, no, nothing of the kind.’
‘And don’t tell me she’s one of our counter-espionage either, because I don’t believe that.’
‘Quite right. The girl is simply a parlourmaid.’
‘And since when have you been interested in simple parlourmaids—not that Betty is simple—an artful dodger is more like it.’
‘I think,’ said Colonel Race, ‘that she might be able to tell me something.’
‘If you asked her nicely? I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re right. She has the close-to-the-door-when there’s-anything-interesting-going-on technique very highly developed. What does M. do?’
‘M. very kindly offers me a drink and rings for Betty and orders it.’
‘And when Betty brings it?’
‘By then M. has very kindly gone away.’
‘To do some listening outside the door herself?’
‘If she likes.’
‘And after that I shall be bursting with Inside Information about the latest European crisis?’
‘I’m afraid not. There is no political situation involved in this.’
‘What a disappointment! All right. I’ll play!’
Mrs Rees-Talbot, who was a lively near-brunette of forty-nine, rang the bell and directed her good-looking parlourmaid to bring Colonel Race a whisky and soda.
When Betty Archdale returned, with a salver and the drink upon it, Mrs Rees-Talbot, was standing by the far door into her own sitting-room.
‘Colonel Race has some questions to ask you,’ she said and went out.
Betty turned her impudent eyes on the tall grey-haired soldier with some alarm in their depths. He took the glass from the tray and smiled.
‘Seen the papers today?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir.’ Betty eyed him warily.
‘Did you see that Mr George Barton died last night at the Luxembourg Restaurant?’
‘Oh, yes, sir.’ Betty’s eyes sparkled with the pleasure of public disaster. ‘Wasn’t it dreadful?’
‘You were in service there, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, sir. I left last winter, soon after Mrs Barton died.’
‘She died at the Luxembourg, too.’
Betty nodded. ‘Sort of funny, that, isn’t it, sir?’
Race did not think it funny, but he knew what the words were intended to convey. He said gravely:
‘I see you’ve got brains. You can put two and two together.’
Betty clasped her hands and cast discretion to the winds.
‘Was he done in, too? The papers didn’t say exactly.’
‘Why do you say “too”? Mrs Barton’s death was brought in by the coroner’s jury as suicide.’
She gave him a quick look out of the corner of her eye. Ever so old, she thought, but he’s nice looking. That quiet kind. A real gentleman. Sort of gentleman who’d have given you a gold sovereign when he was young. Funny, I don’t even know what a sovereign looks like! What’s he after, exactly?
She said demurely: ‘Yes, sir.’
‘But perhaps you never thought it was suicide?’
‘Well, no, sir. I didn’t—not really.’
‘That’s very interesting—very interesting indeed. Why didn’t you think so?’
She hesitated, her fingers began pleating her apron.
So nicely he said that, so gravely. Made you feel important and as though you wanted to help him. And anyway she had been smart over Rosemary Barton’s death. Never been taken in, she hadn’t!
‘She was done in, sir, wasn’t she?’
‘It seems possible that it may be so. But how did you come to think so?’
‘Well,’ Betty hesitated. ‘It was something I heard one day.’
‘Yes?’
His tone was quietly encouraging.
‘The door wasn’t shut or anything. I mean I’d never go and listen at a door. I don’t like that sort of thing,’ said Betty virtuously. ‘But I was going through the hall to the dining-room and carrying the silver on a tray and they were speaking quite loud. Saying something she was—Mrs Barton I mean—about Anthony Browne not being his name. And then he got really nasty, Mr Browne did. I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him—so nice-looking and so pleasant spoken as he was as a rule. Said something about carving up her face—ooh! and then he said if she didn’t do what he told her he’d bump her off. Just like that! I didn’t hear any more because