The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [37]
Mr. Osborne broke off.
“Yes, I see,” said Lejeune thoughtfully.
“A brother,” suggested Mr. Osborne hopefully. “A twin brother, perhaps? Now that would be a solution.”
“The identical twin solution?” Lejeune smiled and shook his head. “So very convenient in fiction. But in real life—” he shook his head. “It doesn’t happen, you know. It really doesn’t happen.”
“No… No, I suppose not. But possibly an ordinary brother. A close family resemblance—” Mr. Osborne looked wistful.
“As far as we can ascertain,” Lejeune spoke carefully, “Mr. Venables has not got a brother.”
“As far as you can ascertain?” Mr. Osborne repeated the words.
“Though of British nationality, he was born abroad, his parents only brought him to England when he was eleven years old.”
“You don’t know very much about him really, then? About his family, I mean?”
“No,” said Lejeune, thoughtfully. “It isn’t easy to find out very much about Mr. Venables—without, that is to say, going and asking him—and we’ve no grounds for doing that.”
He spoke deliberately. There were ways of finding out things without going and asking, but he had no intention of telling Mr. Osborne so.
“So if it wasn’t for the medical evidence,” he said, getting to his feet, “you’d be sure about the identification?”
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Osborne, following suit. “It’s quite a hobby of mine, you know, memorising faces.” He chuckled. “Many a customer I’ve surprised that way. ‘How’s the asthma?’ I’d say to someone—and she’d look quite surprised. ‘You came in last March,’ I’d say, ‘with a prescription. One of Dr. Hargreaves’s.’ And wouldn’t she look surprised! Did me a lot of good in business. It pleases people to be remembered, though I wasn’t as good with names as with faces. I started making a hobby of the thing quite young. If Royalty can do it, I used to say to myself, you can do it, Zachariah Osborne! After a while it becomes automatic. You hardly have to make an effort.”
Lejeune sighed.
“I’d like to have a witness like you in the box,” he said. “Identification is always a tricky business. Most people can’t tell you anything at all. They’ll say things like: ‘Oh, tallish, I think. Fair-haired—well, not very fair, sort of middling. Ordinary sort of face. Eyes blue—or grey—or perhaps brown. Grey mackintosh—or it may have been dark blue.’”
Mr. Osborne laughed.
“Not much good to you, that sort of thing.”
“Frankly, a witness like you would be a godsend!”
Mr. Osborne looked pleased.
“It’s a gift,” he said modestly. “But mind you, I’ve cultivated my gift. You know the game they play at children’s parties—a lot of objects brought in on a tray and a few minutes given to memorise them. I can score a hundred percent every time. Quite surprises people. How wonderful, they say. It’s not wonderful. It’s a knack. Comes with practice.” He chuckled. “I’m not a bad conjurer either. I do a bit to amuse the kiddies at Christmastime. Excuse me, Mr. Lejeune, what have you got in your breast pocket?”
He leaned forward and extracted a small ashtray.
“Tut, tut, sir, and you in the police force!”
He laughed heartily and Lejeune laughed with him. Then Mr. Osborne sighed.
“It’s a nice little place I’ve got here, sir. The neighbours seem pleasant and friendly. It’s the life I’ve been looking forward to for years, but I’ll admit to you, Mr. Lejeune, that I miss the interest of my own business. Always someone coming in and out. Types, you know, lots of types to study. I’ve looked forward to having my little bit of garden, and I’ve got quite a lot of interests. Butterflies, as I told you, and a bit of bird-watching now and again. I didn’t realise that I’d miss what I might call the human element so much.
“I’d looked forward to going abroad in a small way. Well, I’ve taken one weekend trip to France. Quite nice, I must say—but I felt, very strongly, that England’s really good enough for me. I didn’t care for the foreign cooking, for one thing.