The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [35]
“Ah yes. And the cousin?”
“In Kenya with her husband.”
“All splendidly absent,” I commented.
Corrigan threw me an annoyed glance.
“Of the three Sandfords who’ve kicked the bucket, one left a wife much younger than himself who has married again—rather quickly. Deceased Sandford was an R.C., and wouldn’t have given her a divorce. A fellow called Sidney Harmondsworth who died of cerebral haemorrhage was suspected at the Yard of augmenting his income by discreet blackmail. Several people in high places must be greatly relieved that he is no more.”
“What you’re saying in effect is that all these deaths were convenient deaths. What about Corrigan?”
Corrigan grinned.
“Corrigan is a common name. Quite a lot of Corrigans have died—but not to the particular advantage of anyone in particular so far as we can learn.”
“That settles it. You’re the next prospective victim. Take good care of yourself.”
“I will. And don’t think that your Witch of Endor is going to strike me down with a duodenal ulcer, or Spanish ’flu. Not a casehardened doctor!”
“Listen, Jim. I want to investigate this claim of Thyrza Grey’s. Will you help me?”
“No, I won’t! I can’t understand a clever educated fellow like you being taken in by such balderdash.”
I sighed.
“Can’t you use another word? I’m tired of that one.”
“Poppycock, if you like it better.”
“I don’t much.”
“Obstinate fellow, aren’t you, Mark?”
“As I see it,” I said, “somebody has to be!”
Ten
Glendower Close was very very new. It swept round in an uneven semicircle and at its lower end the builders were still at work. About halfway along its length was a gate inscribed with the name of Everest.
Visible, bent over the garden border, planting bulbs, was a rounded back which Inspector Lejeune recognised without difficulty as that of Mr. Zachariah Osborne. He opened the gate and passed inside. Mr. Osborne rose from his stooping position and turned to see who had entered his domain. On recognising his visitor, an additional flush of pleasure rose to his already flushed face. Mr. Osborne in the country was looking very much the same as Mr. Osborne in his shop in London. He wore stout country shoes and was in his shirt sleeves, but even this déshabillé detracted little from the dapper neatness of his appearance. A fine dew of perspiration showed on the shining baldness of his domed head. This he carefully wiped with a pocket handkerchief before advancing to meet his visitor.
“Inspector Lejeune!” he exclaimed pleasurably. “I take this as an honour. I do indeed, sir. I received your acknowledgement of my letter, but I never hoped to see you in person. Welcome to my little abode. Welcome to Everest. The name surprises you perhaps? I have always been deeply interested in the Himalayas. I followed every detail of the Everest expedition. What a triumph for our country. Sir Edmund Hillary! What a man! What endurance! As one who has never had to suffer any personal discomfort, I do appreciate the courage of those who go forth to scale unconquered mountains or sail through icebound seas to discover the secrets of the Pole. But come inside and partake, I beg of you, of some simple refreshment.”
Leading the way, Mr. Osborne ushered Lejeune into the small bungalow which was the acme of neatness, though rather sparsely furnished.
“Not quite settled yet,” explained Mr. Osborne. “I attend local sales whenever possible. There is good stuff to be picked up that way, at a quarter of the cost one would have to pay in a shop. Now what can I offer you? A glass of sherry? Beer? A cup of tea? I could have the kettle on in a jiffy.”
Lejeune expressed a preference for beer.
“Here we are, then,” said Mr. Osborne, returning a moment later with two brimming pewter tankards. “We will sit and take our rest. Everest. Ha ha! The name of my house has a double meaning. I am always fond of a little joke.”
Those social amenities satisfied, Mr. Osborne leaned forward hopefully.
“My information