The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [84]
“But that’s all surmise. To go back. Osborne’s description of the man he had seen that night was interesting. It was so obviously a description of a real person whom he had at one time seen. It’s extraordinarily difficult, you know, to make up a description of anybody. Eyes, nose, chin, ears, bearing, all the rest of it. If you try it you’ll find yourself unconsciously describing somebody that you’ve noticed somewhere—in a tram or a train or an omnibus. Osborne was obviously describing a man with somewhat unusual characteristics. I’d say that he noticed Venables sitting in his car one day in Bournemouth and was struck by his appearance—if he’d seen him that way, he wouldn’t realise the man was a cripple.
“Another reason that kept me interested in Osborne was that he was a pharmacist. I thought it just possible that that list we had might tie-up with the narcotic trade somewhere. Actually that wasn’t so, and I might, therefore, have forgotten all about Mr. Osborne if Mr. Osborne himself hadn’t been determined to keep in the picture. He wanted, you see, to know just what we were doing, and so he writes to say that he’s seen the man in question at a church fête in Much Deeping. He still didn’t know that Mr. Venables was a paralysis case. When he did find that out he hadn’t the sense to shut up. That was his vanity. Typical criminal’s vanity. He wasn’t going to admit for one moment that he’d been wrong. Like a fool, he stuck to his guns and put forward all sorts of preposterous theories. I had a very interesting visit to him at his bungalow in Bournemouth. The name of it ought to have given the show away. Everest. That’s what he called it. And he’d hung up a picture of Mount Everest in the hall. Told me how interested he was in Himalayan exploration. But that was the kind of cheap joke that he enjoyed. Ever rest. That was his trade—his profession. He did give people eternal rest on payment of a suitable fee. It was a wonderful idea, one’s got to hand him that. The whole setup was clever. Bradley in Birmingham, Thyrza Grey holding her séances in Much Deeping. And who was to suspect Mr. Osborne who had no connection with Thyrza Grey, no connection with Bradley and Birmingham, no connection with the victim. The actual mechanics of the thing was child’s play to a pharmacist. As I say, if only Mr. Osborne had had the sense to keep quiet.”
“But what did he do with the money?” I asked. “After all, he did it for money presumably?”
“Oh, yes, he did it for the money. Had grand visions, no doubt, of himself travelling, entertaining, being a rich and important person. But of course he wasn’t the person he imagined himself to be. I think his sense of power was exhilarated by the actual performance of murder. To get away with murder again and again intoxicated him, and what’s more, he’ll enjoy himself in the dock. You see if he doesn’t. The central figure with all eyes upon him.”
“But what did he do with the money?” I demanded.
“Oh, that’s very simple,” said Lejeune, “though I don’t know that I should have thought of it unless I’d noticed the way he’d furnished the bungalow. He was a miser, of course. He loved money and he wanted money, but not for spending. That bungalow was sparsely furnished and all with stuff that he’d bought cheap at sales. He didn’t like spending money, he just wanted to have it.”
“Do you mean he banked it all?”
“Oh no,” said Lejeune. “I’d say we’ll find it somewhere under the floor in that bungalow of his.”
Both Lejeune and I were silent for some minutes while I contemplated the strange creature