Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [38]
Gladys threw back her head and screamed, then rushed out of the room and down the stairs, still screaming.
‘Ow, Miss Lippincott — Miss Lippincott — ow — ’
Beatrice Lippincott was in her private room having a cut hand bandaged by Dr Lionel Cloade — the latter dropped the bandage and turned irritably as the girl burst in.
‘Ow, Miss!’
The doctor snapped:
‘What is it? What is it?’
‘What’s the matter, Gladys?’ asked Beatrice.
‘It’s the gentleman in No. 5, Miss. He’s lying there on the floor, dead.’
The doctor stared at the girl and then at Miss Lippincott: the latter stared at Gladys and then at the doctor.
Finally, Dr Cloade said uncertainly:
‘Nonsense.’
‘Dead as a doornail,’ said Gladys, and added with a certain relish: ‘’Is ’ead’s bashed in!’
The doctor looked towards Miss Lippincott.
‘Perhaps I’d better — ’
‘Yes, please, Dr Cloade. But really — I hardly think — it seems so impossible.’
They trooped upstairs, Gladys leading the way. Dr Cloade took one look, knelt down and bent over the recumbent figure.
He looked up at Beatrice. His manner had changed. It was abrupt, authoritative.
‘You’d better telephone through to the police station,’ he said.
Beatrice Lippincott went out, Gladys followed her.
Gladys said in an awed whisper:
‘Ow, Miss, do you think it’s murder?’
Beatrice smoothed back her golden pompadour with an agitated hand.
‘You hold your tongue, Gladys,’ she said sharply. ‘Saying a thing’s murder before you know it’s murder is libel and you might be had up in court for it. It’ll do the Stag no good to have a lot of gossip going about.’ She added, as a gracious concession: ‘You can go and make yourself a nice cup of tea. I dare say you need it.’
‘Yes, indeed, Miss, I do. My inside’s fair turning over! I’ll bring you along a cup, too!’
To which Beatrice did not say No.
Chapter 16
Superintendent Spence looked thoughtfully across his table at Beatrice Lippincott, who was sitting with her lips compressed tightly together.
‘Thank you, Miss Lippincott,’ he said. ‘That’s all you can remember? I’ll have it typed out for you to read and then if you wouldn’t mind signing it — ’
‘Oh, dear — I shan’t have to give evidence in a police court, I do hope.’
Superintendent Spence smiled appeasingly.
‘Oh, we hope it mayn’t come to that,’ he said mendaciously.
‘It may be suicide,’ Beatrice suggested hopefully.
Superintendent Spence forbore to say that a suicide does not usually cave in the back of his skull with a pair of steel fire-tongs. Instead, he replied in the same easy manner:
‘Never any good jumping to conclusions. Thank you, Miss Lippincott. Very good of you to come forward with this statement so promptly.’
When she had been ushered out, he ran over her statement in his mind. He knew all about Beatrice Lippincott, had a very good idea of how far her accuracy was to be depended upon. So much for a conversation genuinely overhead and remembered. A little extra embroidery for excitement’s sake. A little extra still because murder had been done in bedroom No. 5. But take extras away and what remained was ugly and suggestive.
Superintendent Spence looked at the table in front of him. There was a wrist-watch with a smashed glass, a small gold lighter with initials on it, a lipstick in a gilt holder, and a pair of heavy steel fire-tongs, the heavy head of which was stained a rusty brown.
Sergeant Graves looked in and said that Mr Rowley Cloade was waiting. Spence nodded and the Sergeant showed Rowley in.
Just as he knew all about Beatrice Lippincott, so the Superintendent knew all about Rowley Cloade. If Rowley had come to the police station, it was because Rowley had got something to say and that something would be solid, reliable and unimaginative. It would, in fact, be worth hearing. At the same time, Rowley being a deliberate type of person, it would take some time to say. And you couldn’t hurry the Rowley Cloade type. If you did, they became rattled, repeated themselves, and generally took twice