The Moving Finger - Agatha Christie [62]
I said to Megan. “You’re my cousin.”
“Why?”
“Don’t argue,” I said.
Mary Grey was being firm with a stout Jewess who was enamoured of a skintight powder-blue evening dress. I detached her and took her aside.
“Listen,” I said. “I’ve brought a little cousin of mine along. Joanna was coming up but was prevented. But she said I could leave it all to you. You see what the girl looks like now?”
“My God, I do,” said Mary Grey with feeling.
“Well, I want her turned out right in every particular from head to foot. Carte blanche. Stockings, shoes, undies, everything! By the way, the man who does Joanna’s hair is close round here, isn’t he?”
“Antoine? Round the corner. I’ll see to that too.”
“You’re a woman in a thousand.”
“Oh, I shall enjoy it—apart from the money—and that’s not to be sneezed at in these days—half my damned brutes of women never pay their bills. But as I say, I shall enjoy it.” She shot a quick professional glance at Megan standing a little way away. “She’s got a lovely figure.”
“You must have X-ray eyes,” I said. “She looks completely shapeless to me.”
Mary Grey laughed.
“It’s these schools,” she said. “They seem to take a pride in turning out girls who preen themselves on looking like nothing on earth. They call it being sweet and unsophisticated. Sometimes it takes a whole season before a girl can pull herself together and look human. Don’t worry, leave it all to me.”
“Right,” I said. “I’ll come back and fetch her about six.”
II
Marcus Kent was pleased with me. He told me that I surpassed his wildest expectations.
“You must have the constitution of an elephant,” he said, “to make a comeback like this. Oh well, wonderful what country air and no late hours or excitements will do for a man if he can only stick it.”
“I grant you your first two,” I said. “But don’t think that the country is free from excitements. We’ve had a good deal in my part.”
“What sort of excitement?”
“Murder,” I said.
Marcus Kent pursed up his mouth and whistled.
“Some bucolic love tragedy? Farmer lad kills his lass?”
“Not at all. A crafty, determined lunatic killer.”
“I haven’t read anything about it. When did they lay him by the heels?”
“They haven’t, and it’s a she!”
“Whew! I’m not sure that Lymstock’s quite the right place for you, old boy.”
I said firmly:
“Yes, it is. And you’re not going to get me out of it.”
Marcus Kent has a low mind. He said at once:
“So that’s it! Found a blonde?”
“Not at all,” I said, with a guilty thought of Elsie Holland. “It’s merely that the psychology of crime interests me a good deal.”
“Oh, all right. It certainly hasn’t done you any harm so far, but just make sure that your lunatic killer doesn’t obliterate you.”
“No fear of that,” I said.
“What about dining with me this evening? You can tell me all about your revolting murder.”
“Sorry. I’m booked.”
“Date with a lady—eh? Yes, you’re definitely on the mend.”
“I suppose you could call it that,” I said, rather tickled at the idea of Megan in the role.
I was at Mirotin’s at six o’clock when the establishment was officially closing. Mary Grey came to meet me at the top of the stairs outside the showroom. She had a finger to her lips.
“You’re going to have a shock! If I say it myself, I’ve put in a good bit of work.”
I went into the big showroom. Megan was standing looking at herself in a long mirror. I give you my word I hardly recognized her! For the minute it took my breath away. Tall and slim as a willow with delicate ankles and feet shown off by sheer silk stockings and well-cut shoes. Yes, lovely feet and hands, small bones—quality and distinction in every line of her. Her hair had been trimmed and shaped to her head and it was glowing like a glossy chestnut. They’d had the sense to leave her face alone. She was not made-up, or if she was it was so light and delicate that it did not show. Her mouth needed no lipstick.
Moreover there was about her something that I had never seen before, a new