The Hound of Death - Agatha Christie [47]
‘Wondering why I hide my beauty, dear? He, he, he. Afraid it may tempt you, eh? But you shall see–you shall see.’
She drew aside the scarf and the lawyer recoiled involuntarily before the almost formless blur of scarlet. She replaced the scarf again.
‘So you’re not wanting to kiss me, dearie? He, he, I don’t wonder. And yet I was a pretty girl once–not so long ago as you’d think, either. Vitriol, dearie, vitriol–that’s what did that. Ah! but I’ll be even with em–’
She burst into a hideous torrent of profanity which Mr Mayherne tried vainly to quell. She fell silent at last, her hands clenching and unclenching themselves nervously.
‘Enough of that,’ said the lawyer sternly. ‘I’ve come here because I have reason to believe you can give me information which will clear my client, Leonard Vole. Is that the case?’
Her eyes leered at him cunningly.
‘What about the money, dearie?’ she wheezed. ‘Two hundred quid, you remember.’
‘It is your duty to give evidence, and you can be called upon to do so.’
‘That won’t do, dearie. I’m an old woman, and I know nothing. But you give me two hundred quid, and perhaps I can give you a hint or two. See?’
‘What kind of hint?’
‘What should you say to a letter? A letter from her. Never mind now how I got hold of it. That’s my business. It’ll do the trick. But I want my two hundred quid.’
Mr Mayherne looked at her coldly, and made up his mind.
‘I’ll give you ten pounds, nothing more. And only that if this letter is what you say it is.’
‘Ten pounds?’ She screamed and raved at him.
‘Twenty,’ said Mr Mayherne, ‘and that’s my last word.’
He rose as if to go. Then, watching her closely, he drew out a pocket book, and counted out twenty one-pound notes.
‘You see,’ he said. ‘That is all I have with me. You can take it or leave it.’
But already he knew that the sight of the money was too much for her. She cursed and raved impotently, but at last she gave in. Going over to the bed, she drew something out from beneath the tattered mattress.
‘Here you are, damn you!’ she snarled. ‘It’s the top one you want.’
It was a bundle of letters that she threw to him, and Mr Mayherne untied them and scanned them in his usual cool, methodical manner. The woman, watching him eagerly, could gain no clue from his impassive face.
He read each letter through, then returned again to the top one and read it a second time. Then he tied the whole bundle up again carefully.
They were love letters, written by Romaine Heilger, and the man they were written to was not Leonard Vole. The top letter was dated the day of the latter’s arrest.
‘I spoke true, dearie, didn’t I?’ whined the woman. ‘It’ll do for her, that letter?’
Mr Mayherne put the letters in his pocket, then he asked a question.
‘How did you get hold of this correspondence?’
‘That’s telling,’ she said with a leer. ‘But I know something more. I heard in court what that hussy said. Find out where she was at twenty past ten, the time she says she was at home. Ask at the Lion Road Cinema. They’ll remember–a fine upstanding girl like that–curse her!’
‘Who is the man?’ asked Mr Mayherne. ‘There’s only a Christian name here.’
The other’s voice grew thick and hoarse, her hands clenched and unclenched. Finally she lifted one to her face.
‘He’s the man that did this to me. Many years ago now. She took him away from me–a chit of a girl she was then. And when I went after him–and went for him too–he threw the cursed stuff at me! And she laughed–damn her! I’ve had it in for her for years. Followed her, I have, spied upon her. And now I’ve got her! She’ll suffer for this, won’t she, Mr Lawyer? She’ll suffer?’
‘She will probably be sentenced to a term of imprisonment for perjury,’ said Mr Mayherne quietly.
‘Shut away–that’s what I want. You’re going, are you? Where’s my money? Where’s that good money?’
Without a word, Mr Mayherne put down the notes on the table.