The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [38]
He sighed again.
“Just shows you what human nature is. Looked forward no end to retiring, I did. And now—do you know I’ve actually played with the idea of buying a small share in a pharmaceutical business here in Bournemouth—just enough to give me an interest, no need to be tied to the shop all the time. But I’d feel in the middle of things again. It will be the same with you, I expect. You’ll make plans ahead, but when the time comes, you’ll miss the excitement of your present life.”
Lejeune smiled.
“A policeman’s life is not such a romantically exciting one as you think, Mr. Osborne. You’ve got the amateur’s view of crime. Most of it is dull routine. We’re not always chasing down criminals, and following up mysterious clues. It can be quite a dull business, really.”
Mr. Osborne looked unconvinced.
“You know best,” he said. “Good-bye, Mr. Lejeune, and I’m sorry indeed that I haven’t been able to help you. If there was anything—anytime—”
“I’ll let you know,” Lejeune promised him.
“That day at the fête, it seemed such a chance,” Osborne murmured sadly.
“I know. A pity the medical evidence is so definite, but one can’t get over that sort of thing, can one?”
“Well—” Mr. Osborne let the word linger, but Lejeune did not notice it. He strode away briskly. Mr. Osborne stood by the gate looking after him.
“Medical evidence,” he said. “Doctors indeed! If he knew half what I know about doctors—innocents, that’s what they are! Doctors indeed!”
Eleven
Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative
I
First Hermia. Now Corrigan.
All right, then, I was making a fool of myself!
I was accepting balderdash as solid truth. I had been hypnotised by that phony woman Thyrza Grey into accepting a farrago of nonsense. I was a credulous, superstitious ass.
I decided to forget the whole damned business. What was it to do with me anyway?
Through the mist of disillusionment, I heard the echoes of Mrs. Dane Calthrop’s urgent tones.
“You’ve got to DO something!”
All very well—to say things like that.
“You need someone to help you…”
I had needed Hermia. I had needed Corrigan. But neither of them would play. There was no one else.
Unless—
I sat—considering the idea.
On an impulse I went to the telephone and rang Mrs. Oliver.
“Hallo. Mark Easterbrook here.”
“Yes?”
“Can you tell me the name of that girl who was staying in the house for the fête?”
“I expect so. Let me see… Yes, of course, Ginger. That was her name.”
“I know that. But her other name.”
“What other name?”
“I doubt if she was christened Ginger. And she must have a surname.”
“Well, of course. But I’ve no idea what it is. One never seems to hear any surnames nowadays. It’s the first time I’d ever met her.” There was a slight pause and then Mrs. Oliver said, “You’ll have to ring up Rhoda and ask her.”
I didn’t like that idea. Somehow I felt shy about it.
“Oh, I can’t do that,” I said.
“It’s perfectly simple,” said Mrs. Oliver encouragingly. “Just say you’ve lost her address and can’t remember her name and you’d promised to send her one of your books, or the name of a shop that sells cheap caviare, or to return a handkerchief which she lent you when your nose bled one day, or the address of a rich friend who wants a picture restored. Any of those do? I can think of lots more if you’d like.”
“One of those will do beautifully,” I assured her.
I rang off, dialled 100 and presently was speaking to Rhoda.
“Ginger?” said Rhoda. “Oh, she lives in a Mews. Calgary Place. Forty-five. Wait a minute. I’ll give you her telephone number.” She went away and returned a minute later. “It’s Capricorn 35987. Got it?”
“Yes, thanks. But I haven’t got her name. I never heard it.”
“Her name? Oh, her surname, you mean. Corrigan. Katherine Corrigan. What did you say?”
“Nothing. Thanks, Rhoda.”
It seemed to me an odd coincidence. Corrigan. Two Corrigans. Perhaps it was an omen.
I dialled Capricorn 35987.
II
Ginger sat opposite me at a table in the White Cockatoo where we had met for a drink. She looked refreshingly