The Mirror Crack'd - Agatha Christie [77]
Miss Marple leaned back and closed her eyes. ‘I’m going to have a little rest,’ she said. ‘Put the glass here — thank you. And please don’t come in and disturb me for at least three-quarters of an hour.’
‘Indeed I won’t, dear,’ said Miss Knight. ‘And I’ll tell that Mrs Baker to be very quiet.’
She bustled out purposefully.
II
The good-looking young American glanced round him in a puzzled way.
The ramifications of the housing estate perplexed him.
He addressed himself politely to an old lady with white hair and pink cheeks who seemed to be the only human being in sight.
‘Excuse me, ma’am, but could you tell me where to find Blenheim Close?’
The old lady considered him for a moment. He had just begun to wonder if she was deaf, and had prepared himself to repeat his demand in a louder voice, when she spoke.
‘Along here to the right, then turn left, second to the right again, and straight on. What number do you want?’
‘No. 16.’ He consulted a small piece of paper. ‘Gladys Dixon.’
‘That’s right,’ said the old lady. ‘But I believe she works at the Hellingforth Studios. In the canteen. You’ll find her there if you want her.’
‘She didn’t turn up this morning,’ explained the young man. ‘I want to get hold of her to come up to Gossington Hall. We’re very shorthanded there today.’
‘Of course,’ said the old lady. ‘The butler was shot last night, wasn’t he?’
The young man was slightly staggered by this reply.
‘I guess news gets round pretty quickly in these parts,’ he said.
‘It does indeed,’ said the old lady. ‘Mr Rudd’s secretary died of some kind of seizure yesterday, too, I understand.’ She shook her head. ‘Terrible. Quite terrible. What are we coming to?’
Chapter 20
I
A little later in the day yet another visitor found his way to 16 Blenheim Close. Detective-Sergeant William (Tom) Tiddler.
In reply to his sharp knock on the smart yellow painted door, it was opened to him by a girl of about fifteen. She had long straggly fair hair and was wearing tight black pants and an orange sweater.
‘Miss Gladys Dixon live here?’
‘You want Gladys? You’re unlucky. She isn’t here.’
‘Where is she? Out for the evening?’
‘No. She’s gone away. Bit of a holiday like.’
‘Where’s she gone to?’
‘That’s telling,’ said the girl.
Tom Tiddler smiled at her in his most ingratiating manner. ‘May I come in? Is your mother at home?’
‘Mum’s out at work. She won’t be in until half past seven. But she can’t tell you any more than I can. Gladys has gone off for a holiday.’
‘Oh, I see. When did she go?’
‘This morning. All of a sudden like. Said she’d got the chance of a free trip.’
‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me her address.’
The fair-haired girl shook her head. ‘Haven’t got an address,’ she said. ‘Gladys said she’d send us her address as soon as she knew where she was going to stay. As like as not she won’t though,’ she added. ‘Last summer she went to Newquay and never sent us as much as a postcard. She’s slack that way and besides, she says, why do mothers have to bother all the time?’
‘Did somebody stand her this holiday?’
‘Must have,’ said the girl. ‘She’s pretty hard up at the moment. Went to the sales last week.’
‘And you’ve no idea at all who gave her this trip or — er — paid for her going there?’
The fair girl bristled suddenly.
‘Now don’t get any wrong ideas. Our Gladys isn’t that sort. She and her boyfriend may like to go to the same place for holidays in August, but there’s nothing wrong about it. She pays for herself. So don’t you get ideas, mister.’
Tiddler said meekly that he wouldn’t get ideas but he would like the address if Gladys Dixon should send a postcard.
He returned to the station with the result of his various inquiries. From the studios, he had learnt that Gladys Dixon had rung up that day and said she wouldn’t be able to come to work for about a week. He had also learned some other things.
‘No end of a shemozzle there’s been there lately,’ he said. ‘Marina Gregg’s been having hysterics