Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [28]
Sometimes, as David knew by experience, you had to ring four or five times before any one condescended to come and attend to you. Except for the short period of meal times, the hall of the Stag was as deserted as Robinson Crusoe’s island.
This time, David’s third ring of the bell brought Miss Beatrice Lippincott along the passage from the bar, her hand patting her golden pompadour of hair into place. She slipped into the glass box and greeted him with a gracious smile.
‘Good evening, Mr Hunter. Rather cold weather for the time of year, isn’t it?’
‘Yes — I suppose it is. Have you got a Mr Arden staying here?’
‘Let me see now,’ said Miss Lippincott, making rather a parade of not knowing exactly, a proceeding she always adopted as tending to increase the importance of the Stag. ‘Oh, yes. Mr Enoch Arden. No. 5. On the first floor. You can’t miss it, Mr Hunter. Up the stairs, and don’t go along the gallery but round to the left and down three steps.’
Following these complicated directions, David tapped on the door of No. 5 and a voice said Come in.
He went in, closing the door behind him.
III
Coming out of the office, Beatrice Lippincott called, ‘Lily.’ An adenoidal girl with a giggle and pale boiled-gooseberry eyes responded to the summons.
‘Can you manage for a bit, Lily? I’ve got to see about some linen.’
Lily said, ‘Oh, yes, Miss Lippincott,’ gave a giggle and added, sighing gustily: ‘I do think Mr Hunter’s ever so good-looking, don’t you?’
‘Ah, I’ve seen a lot of his type in the war,’ said Miss Lippincott, with a world-weary air. ‘Young pilots and such-like from the fighter station. Never could be sure about their cheques. Often had such a way with them that you’d cash the things against your better judgment. But, of course, I’m funny that way, Lily, what I like is class. Give me class every time. What I say is a gentleman’s a gentleman even if he does drive a tractor.’ With which enigmatic pronouncement Beatrice left Lily and went up the stairs.
IV
Inside room No. 5, David Hunter paused inside the door and looked at the man who had signed himself Enoch Arden.
Fortyish, knocked about a bit, a suggestion of having come down in the world — on the whole a difficult customer. Such was David’s summing up. Apart from that, not easy to fathom. A dark horse.
Arden said;
‘Hallo — you Hunter? Good. Sit down. What’ll you have? Whisky?’
He’d made himself comfortable, David noted that. A modest array of bottles — a fire burning in the grate on this chilly spring evening. Clothes not English cut, but worn as an Englishman wears clothes. The man was the right age, too…
‘Thanks,’ David said, ‘I’ll have a spot of whisky.’
‘Say When.’
‘When. Not too much soda.’
They were a little like dogs, manoeuvring for position — circling round each other, backs stiff, hackles up, ready to be friendly or ready to snarl and snap.
‘Cheerio,’ said Arden.
‘Cheerio.’
They set their glasses down, relaxed a little. Round One was over.
The man who called himself Enoch Arden said:
‘You were surprised to get my letter?’
‘Frankly,’ said David, ‘I don’t understand it at all.’
‘N-no — n-no — well, perhaps not.’
David said:
‘I understand you knew my sister’s first husband — Robert Underhay.’
‘Yes, I knew Robert very well.’ Arden was smiling, blowing clouds of smoke idly up in the air. ‘As well, perhaps, as any one could know him. You never met him, did you, Hunter?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, perhaps that’s as well.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ David asked sharply.
Arden said easily:
‘My dear fellow, it makes everything much simpler — that’s all. I apologize for asking you to come here, but I did think it was best to keep’ — he paused — ‘Rosaleen out of it all. No need to give her unnecessary pain.’
‘Do you mind coming to the point?’
‘Of course, of course. Well now, did you ever suspect — how shall we say — that there was anything — well — fishy — about Underhay’s death?’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Well, Underhay had rather peculiar ideas, you know. It may have been chivalry — it may just possibly have been for quite