Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [42]
‘He’s not been away?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Was he here last night?’
‘Now then,’ said the Field Marshal, suddenly becoming aggressive. ‘What’s all this about? Want to know every one’s life history?’
Silently Spence displayed his warrant card. The Field Marshal was immediately deflated and became co-operative.
‘Sorry, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t tell, could I?’
‘Now then, was Mr Hunter here last night?’
‘Yes, sir, he was. At least to the best of my belief he was. That is, he didn’t say he was going away.’
‘Would you know if he was away?’
‘Well, generally speaking, no. I don’t suppose I should. Gentlemen and ladies usually say if they’re not going to be here. Leave word about letters or what they want said if any one rings up.’
‘Do telephone calls go through this office?’
‘No, most of the flats have their own lines. One or two prefer not to have a telephone and then we send up word on the house phone and the people come down and speak from the box in the hall.’
‘But Mrs Cloade’s flat has its own phone?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And as far as you know they were both here last night?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What about meals?’
‘There’s a restaurant, but Mrs Cloade and Mr Hunter don’t very often use it. They usually go out to dinner.’
‘Breakfast?’
‘That’s served in the flats.’
‘Can you find out if breakfast was served this morning to them?’
‘Yes, sir. I can find out from room service.’
Spence nodded. ‘I’m going up now. Let me know about that when I come down.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Spence entered the lift and pressed the button for the third floor. There were only two flats on each landing. Spence pushed the bell of No. 9.
David Hunter opened it. He did not know the Superintendent by sight and he spoke brusquely.
‘Well, what is it?’
‘Mr Hunter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Superintendent Spence of the Oastshire County Police. Can I have a word with you?’
‘I apologize, Superintendent.’ He grinned. ‘I thought you were a tout. Come in.’
He led the way into a modern and charming room. Rosaleen Cloade was standing by the window and turned at their entrance.
‘Superintendent Spence, Rosaleen,’ said Hunter. ‘Sit down, Superintendent. Have a drink?’
‘No, thank you, Mr Hunter.’
Rosaleen had inclined her head slightly. She sat now, her back to the window, her hands clasped tightly on her lap.
‘Smoke?’ David proferred cigarettes.
‘Thanks.’ Spence took a cigarette, waited…watched David slide a hand into a pocket, slide it out, frown, look round and pick up a box of matches. He struck one and lit the Superintendent’s cigarette.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Well,’ said David, easily, as he lit his own cigarette. ‘What’s wrong at Warmsley Vale? Has our cook been dealing in the black market? She provides us with wonderful food, and I’ve always wondered if there was some sinister story behind it.’
‘It’s rather more serious than that,’ said the Superintendent. ‘A man died at the Stag Inn last night. Perhaps you saw it in the papers?’
David shook his head.
‘No, I didn’t notice it. What about him?’
‘He didn’t only die. He was killed. His head was stove in as a matter of fact.’
A half-choked exclamation came from Rosaleen. David said quickly:
‘Please, Superintendent, don’t enlarge on any details. My sister is delicate. She can’t help it, but if you mention blood and horrors she’ll probably faint.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said the Superintendent. ‘But there wasn’t any blood to speak of. It was murder right enough, though.’
He paused. David’s eyebrows went up. He said gently:
‘You interest me. Where do we come in?’
‘We hoped you might be able to tell us something about this man, Mr Hunter.’
‘I?’
‘You called to see him on Saturday evening last. His name — or the name he was registered under — was Enoch Arden.’
‘Yes, of course. I remember now.’
David spoke quietly, without embarrassment.
‘Well, Mr Hunter?’
‘Well, Superintendent, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I know next to nothing about the man.’
‘Was his name really Enoch Arden?’
‘I should very much doubt it.’
‘Why did you go to see him?’
‘Just one of the usual hard luck stories. He mentioned