Towards Zero - Agatha Christie [53]
Nevile did not answer at once. Leach said:
“You had better tell the truth, you know. I’ll tell you frankly some of your conversation was overheard.”
Nevile said shortly:
“We had a bit of a disagreement. It was nothing.”
“What was the subject of the disagreement?”
With an effort Nevile recovered his temper. He smiled. “Frankly,” he said, “she ticked me off. That often happened. If she disapproved of anyone she let them have it straight from the shoulder. She was old-fashioned, you see, and she was inclined to be down on modern ways and modern lines of thought—divorce—all that. We had an argument and I may have got a bit heated, but we parted on perfectly friendly terms—agreeing to differ.” He added, with some heat, “I certainly didn’t bash her over the head because I lost my temper over an argument—if that’s what you think!”
Leach glanced at Battle. Battle leaned forward ponderously across the table. He said:
“You recognized that niblick as your property this morning. Have you any explanation for the fact that your fingerprints were found upon it?”
Nevile stared. He said sharply:
“I—but of course they would be—it’s my club—I’ve often handled it.”
“Any explanation, I mean, for the fact that your fingerprints show that you were the last person to have handled it?”
Nevile sat quite still. The colour had gone out of his face.
“That’s not true,” he said at last. “It can’t be. Somebody could have handled it after me—someone wearing gloves.”
“No, Mr. Strange—nobody could have handled it in the sense you mean—by raising it to strike—without blurring your own marks.”
There was a pause—a very long pause.
“Oh, God,” said Nevile convulsively, and gave a long shudder. He put his hands over his eyes. The two policemen watched him.
Then he took away his hands. He sat up straight.
“It isn’t true,” he said quietly. “It simply isn’t true. You think I killed her, but I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. There’s some horrible mistake.”
“You’ve no explanation to offer about these fingerprints?”
“How can I have? I’m dumbfounded.”
“Have you any explanation for the fact that the sleeves and cuffs of your dark blue suit are stained with blood?”
“Blood?” It was a horror-struck whisper. “It couldn’t be!”
“You didn’t, for instance, cut yourself—”
“No. No, of course I didn’t!”
They waited a little while.
Nevile Strange, his forehead creased, seemed to be thinking. He looked up at them at last with frightened horror-stricken eyes.
“It’s fantastic!” he said. “Simply fantastic. It’s none of it true.”
“Facts are true enough,” said Superintendent Battle.
“But why should I do such a thing? It’s unthinkable—unbelievable! I’ve known Camilla all my life.”
Leach coughed.
“I believe you told us yourself, Mr. Strange, that you come into a good deal of money upon Lady Tressilian’s death?”
“You think that’s why—But I don’t want money! I don’t need it!”
“That,” said Leach, with his little cough, “is what you say, Mr. Strange.”
Nevile sprang up.
“Look here, that’s something I can prove. That I didn’t need money. Let me ring up my bank manager—you can talk to him yourself.”
The call was put through. The line was clear and in a very few minutes they were through to London. Nevile spoke:
“That you, Ronaldson? Nevile Strange speaking. You know my voice. Look here, will you give the police—they’re here now—all the information they want about my affairs—yes—yes, please.”
Leach took the phone. He spoke quietly. It went on, question and answer.
He replaced the phone at last.
“Well?” said Nevile eagerly.
Leach said impassively:
“You have a substantial credit balance, and the Bank have charge of all your investments and report them to be in a favourable condition.”
“So you see it’s true what I said!”
“It seems so—but again, Mr. Strange, you may have commitments, debts—payment of blackmail—reasons for requiring money of which we do not know.”
“But I haven’t! I assure you I haven’t. You won’t find anything of that kind.”
Superintendent Battle shifted his heavy shoulders. He spoke in a kind, fatherly voice.
“We’ve sufficient evidence, as I