The Moving Finger - Agatha Christie [41]
Elsie Holland sounded, not unnaturally, very much surprised.
“Agnes? Oh, she’s sure to be in by now.”
I felt a fool, but I went on with it.
“Do you mind just seeing if she has come in, Miss Holland?”
There is one thing to be said for a nursery governess; she is used to doing things when told. Hers not to reason why! Elsie Holland put down the receiver and went off obediently.
Two minutes later I heard her voice.
“Are you there, Mr. Burton?”
“Yes.”
“Agnes isn’t in yet, as a matter of fact.”
I knew then that my hunch had been right.
I heard a noise of voices vaguely from the other end, then Symmington himself spoke.
“Hallo, Burton, what’s the matter?”
“Your maid Agnes isn’t back yet?”
“No. Miss Holland has just been to see. What’s the matter? There’s not been an accident, has there?”
“Not an accident,” I said.
“Do you mean you have reason to believe something has happened to the girl?”
I said grimly: “I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Eight
I
I slept badly that night. I think that, even then, there were pieces of the puzzle floating about in my mind. I believe that if I had given my mind to it, I could have solved the whole thing then and there. Otherwise why did those fragments tag along so persistently?
How much do we know at anytime? Much more, or so I believe, than we know we know! But we cannot break through to that subterranean knowledge. It is there, but we cannot reach it.
I lay on my bed, tossing uneasily, and only vague bits of the puzzle came to torture me.
There was a pattern, if only I could get hold of it. I ought to know who wrote those damned letters. There was a trail somewhere if only I could follow it….
As I dropped off to sleep, words danced irritatingly through my drowsy mind.
“No smoke without fire.” No fire without smoke. Smoke… Smoke? Smoke screen… No, that was the war—a war phrase. War. Scrap of paper… Only a scrap of paper. Belgium— Germany….
I fell asleep. I dreamt that I was taking Mrs. Dane Calthrop, who had turned into a greyhound, for a walk with a collar and lead.
II
It was the ringing of the telephone that roused me. A persistent ringing.
I sat up in bed, glanced at my watch. It was half past seven. I had not yet been called. The telephone was ringing in the hall downstairs.
I jumped out of bed, pulled on a dressing-gown, and raced down. I beat Partridge coming through the back door from the kitchen by a short head. I picked up the receiver.
“Hallo?”
“Oh—” It was a sob of relief. “It’s you!” Megan’s voice. Megan’s voice indescribably forlorn and frightened. “Oh, please do come—do come. Oh, please do! Will you?”
“I’m coming at once,” I said. “Do you hear? At once.”
I took the stairs two at a time and burst in on Joanna.
“Look here, Jo, I’m going off to the Symmingtons.’”
Joanna lifted a curly blonde head from the pillow and rubbed her eyes like a small child.
“Why—what’s happened?”
“I don’t know. It was the child— Megan. She sounded all in.”
“What do you think it is?”
“The girl Agnes, unless I’m very much mistaken.”
As I went out of the door, Joanna called after me:
“Wait. I’ll get up and drive you down.”
“No need. I’ll drive myself.”
“You can’t drive the car.”
“Yes, I can.”
I did, too. It hurt, but not too much. I’d washed, shaved, dressed, got the car out and driven to the Symmingtons’ in half an hour. Not bad going.
Megan must have been watching for me. She came out of the house at a run and clutched me. Her poor little face was white and twitching.
“Oh, you’ve come—you’ve come!”
“Hold up, funny face,” I said. “Yes, I’ve come. Now what is it?”
She began to shake. I put my arm round her.
“I— I found her.”
“You found Agnes? Where?”
The trembling grew.
“Under the stairs. There’s a cupboard there. It has fishing rods and golf clubs and things. You know.