The Clocks - Agatha Christie [45]
I shook my head. “Thank you—no time today.”
“Going back to Crowdean?”
“Yes. There’s the inquest to attend.”
“It will only be adjourned. Sure it’s not some girl you’re running after in Crowdean?”
“Certainly not,” I said sharply.
Colonel Beck began to chuckle unexpectedly.
“You mind your step, my boy! Sex rearing its ugly head as usual. How long have you known her?”
“There isn’t any—I mean—well—there was a girl who discovered the body.”
“What did she do when she discovered it?”
“Screamed.”
“Very nice too,” said the colonel. “She rushed to you, cried on your shoulder and told you about it. Is that it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said coldly. “Have a look at these.”
I gave him a selection of the police photographs.
“Who’s this?” demanded Colonel Beck.
“The dead man.”
“Ten to one this girl you’re so keen about killed him. The whole story sounds very fishy to me.”
“You haven’t even heard it yet,” I said. “I haven’t told it to you.”
“I don’t need telling,” Colonel Beck waved his cigar. “Go away to your inquest, my boy, and look out for that girl. Is her name Diana, or Artemis, or anything crescenty or moonlike?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Well, remember that it might be!”
Fourteen
COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE
It had been quite a long time since I had visited Whitehaven Mansions. Some years ago it had been an outstanding building of modern flats. Now there were many other more imposing and even more modern blocks of buildings flanking it on either side. Inside, I noted, it had recently had a face-lift. It had been repainted in pale shades of yellow and green.
I went up in the lift and pressed the bell of Number 203. It was opened to me by that impeccable manservant, George. A smile of welcome came to his face.
“Mr. Colin! It’s a long time since we’ve seen you here.”
“Yes, I know. How are you, George?”
“I am in good health, I am thankful to say, sir.”
I lowered my voice. “And how’s he?”
George lowered his own voice, though that was hardly necessary since it had been pitched in a most discreet key from the beginning of our conversation.
“I think, sir, that sometimes he gets a little depressed.”
I nodded sympathetically.
“If you will come this way, sir—” He relieved me of my hat.
“Announce me, please, as Mr. Colin Lamb.”
“Very good, sir.” He opened a door and spoke in a clear voice. “Mr. Colin Lamb to see you, sir.”
He drew back to allow me to pass him and I went into the room.
My friend, Hercule Poirot, was sitting in his usual large, square armchair in front of the fireplace. I noted that one bar of the rectangular electric fire glowed red. It was early September, the weather was warm, but Poirot was one of the first men to recognize the autumn chill, and to take precautions against it. On either side of him on the floor was a neat pile of books. More books stood on the table at his left side. At his right hand was a cup from which steam rose. A tisane, I suspected. He was fond of tisanes and often urged them on me. They were nauseating to taste and pungent to smell.
“Don’t get up,” I said, but Poirot was already on his feet. He came towards me on twinkling, patent-leather shod feet with outstretched hands.
“Aha, so it is you, it is you, my friend! My young friend Colin. But why do you call yourself by the name of Lamb? Let me think now. There is a proverb or a saying. Something about mutton dressed as lamb. No. That is what is said of elderly ladies who are trying to appear younger than they are. That does not apply to you. Aha, I have it. You are a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Is that it?”
“Not even that,” I said. “It’s just that in my line of business I thought my own name might be rather a mistake, that it might be connected too much with my old man. Hence Lamb. Short, simple, easily remembered. Suiting, I flatter myself, my personality.”
“Of that I cannot be sure,” said Poirot. “And how is my good friend, your father?”
“The old man’s fine,” I said. “Very busy with his holly-hocks—or is it chrysanthemums? The seasons go by so fast I can never remember what it is at the