The Moving Finger - Agatha Christie [67]
I went out into the hall and brought Joanna her letter. She opened it, glanced vaguely at its contents, and let it drop.
“He was—really—rather wonderful. The way he fought—the way he wouldn’t be beaten! He was rude and horrible to me—but he was wonderful.”
I observed Paul’s disregarded letter with some pleasure. Plainly, Joanna was cured of Paul.
Thirteen
I
Things never come when they are expected.
I was full of Joanna’s and my personal affairs and was quite taken aback the next morning when Nash’s voice said over the telephone: “We’ve got her, Mr. Burton!”
I was so startled I nearly dropped the receiver.
“You mean the—”
He interrupted.
“Can you be overheard where you are?”
“No, I don’t think so—well, perhaps—”
It seemed to me that the baize door to the kitchen had swung open a trifle.
“Perhaps you’d care to come down to the station?”
“I will. Right away.”
I was at the police station in next to no time. In an inner room Nash and Sergeant Parkins were together. Nash was wreathed in smiles.
“It’s been a long chase,” he said. “But we’re there at last.”
He flicked a letter across the table. This time it was all typewritten. It was, of its kind, fairly mild.
“It’s no use thinking you’re going to step into a dead woman’s shoes. The whole town is laughing at you. Get out now. Soon it will be too late. This is a warning. Remember what happened to that other girl. Get out and stay out.”
It finished with some mildly obscene language.
“That reached Miss Holland this morning,” said Nash.
“Thought it was funny she hadn’t had one before,” said Sergeant Parkins.
“Who wrote it?” I asked.
Some of the exultation faded out of Nash’s face.
He looked tired and concerned. He said soberly:
“I’m sorry about it, because it will hit a decent man hard, but there it is. Perhaps he’s had his suspicions already.”
“Who wrote it?” I reiterated.
“Miss Aimée Griffith.”
II
Nash and Parkins went to the Griffiths’ house that afternoon with a warrant.
By Nash’s invitation I went with them.
“The doctor,” he said, “is very fond of you. He hasn’t many friends in this place. I think if it is not too painful to you, Mr. Burton, that you might help him to bear up under the shock.”
I said I would come. I didn’t relish the job, but I thought I might be some good.
We rang the bell and asked for Miss Griffith and we were shown into the drawing room. Elsie Holland, Megan and Symmington were there having tea.
Nash behaved very circumspectly.
He asked Aimée if he might have a few words with her privately.
She got up and came towards us. I thought I saw just a faint hunted look in her eye. If so, it went again. She was perfectly normal and hearty.
“Want me? Not in trouble over my car lights again, I hope?”
She led the way out of the drawing room and across the hall into a small study.
As I closed the drawing room door, I saw Symmington’s head jerk up sharply. I supposed his legal training had brought him in contact with police cases, and he had recognized something in Nash’s manner. He half rose.
That is all I saw before I shut the door and followed the others.
Nash was saying his piece. He was very quiet and correct. He cautioned her and then told her that he must ask her to accompany him. He had a warrant for her arrest and he read out the charge—
I forget now the exact legal term. It was the letters, not murder yet.
Aimée Griffith flung up her head and bayed with laughter. She boomed out: “What ridiculous nonsense! As though I’d write a packet of indecent stuff like that. You must be mad. I’ve never written a word of the kind.”
Nash had produced the letter to Elsie Holland. He said:
“Do you deny having written this, Miss Griffith?”
If she hesitated it was only for a split second.
“Of course I do. I’ve never seen it before.”
Nash said quietly: “I must tell you, Miss Griffith, that you were observed to type that letter on the machine at the Women’s Institute between eleven and eleven thirty p.m. on the night before