The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [40]
“And the pretext?”
“Some feature of interest about her house?” suggested Ginger vaguely. “Sure to have something if it’s an old one.”
“Nothing to do with my period,” I objected.
“She won’t know that,” said Ginger. “People always think that anything over a hundred years old must interest a historian or an archaeologist. Or how about a picture? There must be some old pictures of some kind. Anyway, you make an appointment and you arrive and you butter her up and be charming, and then you say you once met her daughter—her stepdaughter—and say how sad etc…. And then, bring in, quite suddenly, a reference to the Pale Horse. Be a little sinister if you like.”
“And then?”
“And then you observe the reaction. If you mention the Pale Horse out of the blue, and she has a guilty conscience, I defy anyone not to show some sign.”
“And if she does—what next?”
“The important thing is, that we’ll know we’re on the right track. Once we’re sure, we can go full steam ahead.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“There’s something else. Why do you think the Grey woman told you all she did tell you? Why was she so forthcoming?”
“The commonsense answer is because she’s potty.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean—why you? You in particular? I just wondered if there might be some kind of tie-up?”
“Tie-up with what?”
“Wait just a minute—while I get my ideas in order.”
I waited. Ginger nodded twice emphatically and then spoke.
“Supposing—just supposing—it went like this. The Poppy girl knows all about the Pale Horse in a vague kind of way—not through personal knowledge, but by hearing it talked about. She sounds the sort of girl that wouldn’t be noticed much by anyone when they were talking—but she’d quite likely take in a lot more than they thought she did. Rather silly people are often like that. Say she was overheard talking to you about it that night, and someone ticks her off. Next day you come and ask her questions, and she’s been scared, so she won’t talk. But the fact that you’ve come and asked her also gets around. Now what would be the reason for your asking questions? You’re not the police. The likely reason would be that you’re a possible client.”
“But surely—”
“It’s logical, I tell you. You’ve heard rumours of this thing—you want to find out about it—for your own purposes. Presently you appear at the fête in Much Deeping. You are brought to the Pale Horse—presumably because you’ve asked to be taken there—and what happens? Thyrza Grey goes straight into her sales talk.”
“I suppose it’s a possibility.” I considered… “Do you think she can do what she claims to do, Ginger?”
“Personally I’d be inclined to say of course she can’t! But odd things can happen. Especially with things like hypnotism. Telling someone to go and take a bite out of a candle the next afternoon at four o’clock, and they do it without having any idea why. That sort of thing. And electric boxes where you put in a drop of blood and it tells you if you’re going to have cancer in two years’ time. It all sounds rather bogus—but perhaps not entirely bogus. About Thyrza—I don’t think it’s true—but I’m terribly afraid it might be!”
“Yes,” I said sombrely, “that explains it very well.”
“I might put in a bit of work on Lou,” said Ginger thoughtfully. “I know lots of places where I can run across her. Luigi might know a few things too.
“But the first thing,” she added, “is to get in touch with Poppy.”
The latter was arranged fairly easily. David was free three nights ahead, we settled on a musical show, and he arrived, with Poppy in tow. We went to the Fantasie for supper and I noticed that Ginger and Poppy after a prolonged retirement to powder their noses, reappeared on excellent terms with each other. No controversial subjects were raised during the party on Ginger’s instructions. We finally parted and I drove Ginger home.
“Not much to report,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve been onto Lou. The man they quarrelled about was Gene Pleydon, by the way. A nasty bit of goods, if you ask me. Very much on the make. The girls all