Towards Zero - Agatha Christie [61]
“Mm,” said Thomas. “I’ve been through all that.”
“But why should he do it? What was the point?”
“I suppose,” said Royde, “it was a kind of warning. Not to try anything on.”
“You mean that Mr. Treves knew then that Camilla was going to be murdered?”
“No-o. I think that’s too fantastic. It may have been just a general warning.”
“What I’ve been wondering is, do you think we ought to tell the police?”
To that Thomas again gave his thoughtful consideration.
“I think not,” he said at last. “I don’t see that it’s relevant in any way. It’s not as though Treves were alive and could tell them anything.”
“No,” said Mary. “He’s dead!” She gave a quick shiver. “It’s so odd, Thomas, the way he died.”
“Heart attack. He had a bad heart.”
“I mean that curious business about the lift being out of order. I don’t like it.”
“I don’t like it very much myself,” said Thomas Royde.
XI
Superintendent Battle looked round the bedroom. The bed had been made. Otherwise the room was unchanged. It had been neat when they first looked round it. It was neat now.
“That’s it,” said Superintendent Battle, pointing to the old-fashioned steel fender. “Do you see anything odd about that fender?”
“Must take some cleaning,” said Jim Leach. “It’s well kept. Nothing odd about it that I can see, except—yes, the left-hand knob is brighter than the right-hand one.”
“That’s what put Hercule Poirot into my head,” said Battle. “You know his fad about things not being quite symmetrical—gets him all worked up. I suppose I thought unconsciously ‘That would worry old Poirot,’ and then I began talking about him. Get your fingerprint kit, Jones, we’ll have a look at those two knobs.”
Jones reported presently.
“There are prints on the right-hand knob, sir, none on the left.”
“It’s the left one we want, then. Those other prints are the housemaid’s when she last cleaned it. That left-hand one has been cleaned twice.”
“There was a bit of screwed-up emery paper in this waste paper basket,” volunteered Jones. “I didn’t think it meant anything.”
“Because you didn’t know what you were looking for, then. Gently now, I’ll bet anything you like that knob unscrews—yes, I thought so.”
Presently Jones held the knob up.
“It’s a good weight,” he said, weighing it in his hands.
Leach, bending over it, said:
“There’s something dark—on the screw.”
“Blood, as likely as not,” said Battle. “Cleaned the knob itself and wiped it and that little stain on the screw wasn’t noticed. I’ll bet anything you like that’s the weapon that caved the old lady’s skull in. But there’s more to find. It’s up to you, Jones, to search the house again. This time, you’ll know exactly what you’re looking for.”
He gave a few swift detailed instructions. Going to the window he put his head out.
“There’s something yellow tucked into the ivy. That may be another piece of the puzzle. I rather think it is.”
XII
Crossing the hall, Superintendent Battle was waylaid by Mary Aldin.
“Can I speak to you a minute, Superintendent?”
“Certainly, Miss Aldin. Shall we come in here?”
He threw open the dining room door. Lunch had been cleared away by Hurstall.
“I want to ask you something, Superintendent. Surely you don’t, you can’t still think that this—this awful crime was done by one of us? It must have been someone from outside! Some maniac!”
“You may not be far wrong there, Miss Aldin. Maniac is a word that describes this criminal very well if I’m not mistaken. But not an outsider.”
Her eyes opened very wide.
“Do you mean that someone in this house is—is mad?”
“You’re thinking,” said the Superintendent, “of someone foaming at the mouth and rolling their eyes. Mania isn’t like that. Some of the most dangerous criminal lunatics have looked as sane as you or I. It’s a question, usually, of having an obsession. One idea, preying on the mind, gradually distorting it. Pathetic, reasonable people who come up to you and explain how they’re being