The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [39]
“I’ve had to do a lot of work to track you down,” I said. “Your surname and your address and your telephone number—all unknown. I’ve got a problem.”
“That’s what my daily always says. It usually means that I have to buy her a new saucepan scourer or a carpet brush, or something dull.”
“You don’t have to buy anything,” I assured her.
Then I told her. It didn’t take quite so long as the story I had told to Hermia, because she was already familiar with the Pale Horse and its occupants. I averted my eyes from her as I finished the tale. I didn’t want to see her reaction. I didn’t want to see indulgent amusement, or stark incredulity. The whole thing sounded more idiotic than ever. No one (except Mrs. Dane Calthrop) could possibly feel about it as I felt. I drew patterns on the plastic tabletop with a stray fork.
Ginger’s voice came briskly.
“That’s all, is it?”
“That’s all,” I admitted.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“You think— I should do something about it?”
“Well, of course! Someone’s got to do something! You can’t have an organisation going about bumping people off and not do anything.”
“But what can I do?”
I could have fallen on her neck and hugged her.
She was sipping Pernod and frowning. Warmth spread over me. I was no longer alone.
Presently she said musingly:
“You’ll have to find out what it all means.”
“I agree. But how?”
“There seem to be one or two leads. Perhaps I can help.”
“Would you? But there’s your job.”
“Plenty could be done out of office hours.” She frowned again as she thought.
“That girl,” she said at last. “The one at supper after the Old Vic. Poppy or something. She knows about it—she must do—to say what she did.”
“Yes, but she got frightened, and sheered off when I tried to ask her questions. She was scared. She definitely wouldn’t talk.”
“That’s where I can help,” said Ginger confidently. “She’d tell me things she wouldn’t tell you. Can you arrange for us to meet? Your friend and her and you and me? A show, or dinner or something?” Then she looked doubtful. “Or is that too expensive?”
I assured her that I could support the expense.
“As for you—” Ginger thought a minute. “I believe,” she said slowly, “that your best bet would be the Thomasina Tuckerton angle.”
“But how? She’s dead.”
“And somebody wanted her dead, if your ideas are correct! And arranged it with the Pale Horse. There seem two possibilities. The stepmother, or else the girl she had the fight with at Luigi’s and whose young man she had pinched. She was going to marry him, perhaps. That wouldn’t suit the stepmother’s book—or the girl’s—if she was crazy enough about the young man. Either of them might have gone to the Pale Horse. We might get a lead there. What was the girl’s name, or don’t you know?”
“I think it was Lou.”
“Ash-blonde lank hair, medium height, rather bosomy?”
I agreed with the description.
“I think I’ve met her about. Lou Ellis. She’s got a bit of money herself—”
“She didn’t look like it.”
“They don’t—but she has, all right. Anyway, she could afford to pay the Pale Horse’s fees. They don’t do it for nothing, I suppose.”
“One would hardly imagine so.”
“You’ll have to tackle the stepmother. It’s more up your street than mine. Go and see her—”
“I don’t know where she lives or anything.”
“Luigi knows something about Tommy’s home. He’ll know what county she lives in, I should imagine. A few books of reference ought to do the rest. But what idiots we are! You saw the notice in The Times of her death. You’ve only got to go and look in their files.”
“I’ll have to have a pretext for tackling the stepmother,” I said thoughtfully.
Ginger said that that would be easy.
“You’re someone, you see,” she pointed out. “A historian, and you lecture and you’ve got letters after your name. Mrs. Tuckerton will