Best detective stories of Agatha Christie

by Agatha Christie

  But it was too late. Mrs Middleton, that quiet middle-aged woman, who had appeared so normal and respectable, had vanished into thin air. Her box had been left behind. It contained only ordinary wearing apparel. There was no clue in it to her identity, or as to her whereabouts. From Mrs Havering we elicited all the facts we could:

  “I engaged her about three weeks ago when Mrs Emery, our former housekeeper, left. She came to me from Mrs Selbourne’s Agency in Mount Street a very well-known place. I get all my servants from there. They sent several women to see me, but this Mrs Middleton seemed much the nicest, and had splendid references. I engaged her on the spot, and nolified the Agency of the Fact. I can’t believe that there was anything wrong with her. She was such a nice quiet woman.

  The thing was certainly a mystery. Whilst it was clear that the woman herself could not have committed the crime, since at the moment the shot was fired Mrs Havering was with her in the hall, nevertheless she must have some connection with the murder, or why should she suddenly take to her heels and bolt?

  I wired the latest development to Poirot and suggested returning to London and makinginquiries at Selbourne’s Agency.

  Poirot’s reply was prompt:

  “Useless to inquire at agency they will never have heard of her. Find out what vehicle took her up to Hunter’s Lodge when she first arrived there.”

  Though mystified, I was obedient. The means of transport in Elmer’s Dale were limited. The local garage had two battered Ford cars, and there were two station flies. None of these had been requisitioned on the date in question. Questioned, Mrs Havering explained that she had given the woman the money for her fare down to Derbyshire and sufficient to hire a car or fly to take her up to Hunter’s Lodge. There was usually one of the Fords at the station on the chance of its being required. Taking into consideration the further fact that nobody at the station had noticed the arrival of a stranger, black-bearded or otherwise, on the fatal evening, everything seemed to point to the conclusion that the murderer had come to the spot in a car, which had been waiting near at hand to aid his escape, and that the same car had brought the mysterious housekeeper to her new post. I may mention that inquiries at the Agency in London bore out Poirot’s prognostication. No such woman as “Mrs Middleton” had ever been on their books. They had received the Hon. Mrs Havering’s application for a housekeeper, and had sent her various applicants for the post. When she sent them the engagement fee, she omitted to mention which woman she had selected.

  Somewhat crestfallen, I returned to London. I found Poirot established in an armchair by the fire in a garish, silk dressing gown. He greeted me with much affection.

  “Mon ami Hastings! But how glad I am to see you. Veritably I have for you a great affcction! And you have enjoyed yourself? You have run to and fro with the good Japp? You have interrogated and investigated to your heart’s content?”

  “Poirot,” I cried, “the thing’s a dark mystery! It will never be solved.”

  “It is true that we are not likely to cover ourselves with glory over it.”

  “No, indeed. It’s a hard nut to crack.”

  “Oh, as far as that goes, I am very good at cracking the nuts! A veritable squirrel! It is not that which embarrasses me. I know well enough who killed Mr Harrington Pace.”

  “You know? How did you find out?”

  “Your illuminating answers to my wires supplied me with the truth. See here, Hastings, let us examine the facts methodically and in order. Mr Harrington Pace is a man with a considerable fortune which at his death will doubtless pass to his nephew. Point No. 1. His nephew is known to be desperately hard up. Point No. 2. His nephew is also known to be -shall we say a man of rather loose moral fibre. Point No. 3.”

  “But Roger Havering is proved to have journeyed straight up to London.”

  “Précisément - and therefore, as Mr Havering left Elmer’s Dale at 6.15, and since Mr Pace cannot have been killed before he left, or the doctor would have spotted the time of the crime as being given wrongly when he examined the body, we conclude quite rightly, that Mr Havering did not shoot his uncle. But there is a Mrs Havering Hastings.”

  “Impossible! The housekeeper was with her when the shot was fired.”

  “Ah, yes, the housekeeper. But she has disappeared.”

  “She will be found.”

  “I think not. There is something peculiarly elusive about that housekeeper, don’t you think so, Hastings? It struck me at once.”

  “She played her part, I suppose, and then got out in the nick of time.”

  “And what was her part?”

  “Well, presumably to admit her confederate, the black-bearded man.”

  * * *

  “Oh, no, that was not her part! Her part was what you have just mentioned, to provide an alibi for Mrs Havering at the moment the shot was fired. And no one will ever find her, mon ami, because she does not exist! ‘There’s no such person,’ as your so great Shakespeare says.”

  “It was Dickens,” I murmured, unable to suppress a smile.

  “But what do you mean, Poirot?”

  “I mean that Zoe Havering was an actress before her marriage, that you and Japp only saw the housekeeper in a dark hall, a dim middle-aged figure in black with a faint subdued voice, and finally that neither you nor Japp, nor the local police whom the housekeeper fetched, ever saw Mrs Middleton and her mistress at one and the same time. It was child’s play for that clever and daring woman. On the pretext of summoning her mistress, she runs upstairs, slips on a bright jumper and a hat with black curls attached which she jams down over the grey transformation. A few deft touches, and the make-up is removed, a slight dusting of rouge, and the brilliant Zoe Havering comes down with her clear ringing voice. Nobody looks particularly at the housekeeper. Why should they? There is nothing to connect her with the crime. She, too, has an alibi.”

  “But the revolver that was found at Ealing? Mrs Havering could not have placed it there?”

  “No, that was Roger Havering’s job - but it was a mistake on their part. It put me on the right track. A man who has committed murder with a revolver which he found on the spot would fling it away at once, he would not carry it up to London with him. No, the motive was clear, the criminals wished to focus the interest of the police on a spot far removed from Derbyshire, they were anxious to get the police away as soon as possible from the vicinity of Hunter’s Lodge. Of course the revolver found at Ealing was not the one with which Mr Pace was shot. Roger Havering discharged one shot from it, brought it up to London, went straight to his club to establish his alibi, then went quickly out to Ealing by the District, a matter of about twenty minutes only, placed the parcel where it was found and so back to town. That charming creature, his wife, quietly shoots Mr Pace after dinner - you remember he was shot from behind? Another significant point, that! - reloads the revolver and puts it back in its place, and then starts off with her desperate little comedy.”

  “It’s incredible,” I murmured, fascinated, “and yet -”

  “And yet it is true. Bien sûr, my friend, it is true. But to bring that precious pair to justice, that is another matter. Well, Japp must do what he can - I have written him fully -but I very much fear, Hastings, that we shall be obliged to leave them to fate, or le bon Dieu, whichever you prefer.”

  “The wicked flourish like a green bay tree,” I reminded him.

  “But at a price, Hastings, always at a price, croyez-moi!”

  Poirot’s forebodings were confirmed. Japp, though convinced of the truth of his theory, was unable to get together the necessary evidence to ensure a conviction.

  Mr Pace’s huge fortune passed into the hands of his murderers. Nevertheless, Nemesis did overtake them, and when I read in the paper that the Hon. Roger and Mrs Havering were amongst those killed in the crashing of the Air Mail to Paris I knew that Justice was satisfied.

  TAPE-MEASURE MURDER

  Miss Politt took hold of the knocker and rapped politely on the cottage d
oor. After a discreet interval she knocked again. The parcel under her left arm shifted a little as she did so, and she readjusted it. Inside the parcel was Mrs Spenlow’s new green winter dress, ready for fitting. From Miss Politt’s left hand dangled a bag of black silk, containing a tape measure, a pincushion, and a large, practical pair of scissors.

  Miss Politt was tall and gaunt, with a sharp nose, pursed lips, and meagre iron-grey hair. She hesitated before using the knocker for the third time. Glancing down the street, she saw a figure rapidly approaching. Miss Hartnell, jolly, weather-beaten, fifty-five, shouted out in her usual loud bass voice,

  “Good afternoon, Miss Politt!”

  The dressmaker answered, “Good afternoon, Miss Hartnell.” Her voice was excessively thin and genteel in its accents. She had started life as a lady’s maid. “Excuse me, she went on, “but do you happen to know if by any chance Mrs Spenlow isn’t at home?”

  “Not the least idea,” said Miss Hartnell.

  “It’s rather awkward, you see. I was to fit on Mrs Spenlow’s new dress this afternoon. Three-thirty, she said.” Miss Hartnell consulted her wristwatch. “It’s a little Past the half-hour now.”

  “Yes. I have knocked three times, but there doesn’t seem to be any answer, so I was wondering if perhaps Mrs Spenlow might have gone out and forgotten. She doesn’t forget appointments as a rule, and she wants the dress to wear the day after tomorrow.”

  Miss Hartnell entered the gate and walked up the path to join Miss Politt outside the door of Laburnam Cottage.

  “Why doesn’t Gladys answer the door?” she demanded. “Oh, no, of course, it’s Thursday - Gladys’s day out. I expect Mrs Spenlow has fallen asleep. I don’t expect you’ve made enough noise with this thing.”

  Seizing the knocker, she executed a deafening rat-a-tat-tat, and in addition thumped upon the panels of the door. She also called out in a stentorian voice, “What ho, within there!”

  There was no response.

  Miss Politt murmured, “Oh, I think Mrs Spenlow must have forgotten and gone out. I’ll call round some other time.” She began edging away down the path.

  “Nonsense,” said Miss Hartnell firmly. “She can’t have gone out. I’d have met her. I’ll just take a look through the windows and see if I can find any signs of life.”

  She laughed in her usual hearty manner, to indicate that it was a joke, and applied a perfunctory glance to the nearest windowpane - perfunctory because she knew quite well that the front room was seldom used, Mr and Mrs Spenlow preferring the small back sitting room.

  Perfunctory as it was, thoug·h, it succeeded in its object. Miss Hartnell, it is true, saw no signs of life. On the contrary, she saw, through the window, Mrs Spenlow lying on the hearthrug - dead.

  “Of course,” said Miss Hartnell, telling the story afterwards, “I managed to keep my head. That Politt creature wouldn’t have had the least idea of what to do. ‘Got to keep our heads,’ I said to her. ‘You stay here, and I’ll go for Constable Palk.’ She said something about not wanting to be left, but I paid no attention at all. One has to be firm with that sort of person. I’ve always found they enjoy making a fuss. So I was just going off when, at that very moment, Mr Spenlow came round the corner of the house.”

  Here Miss Hartnell made a significant pause. It enabled her audience to ask breathlessly, “Tell me, how did he look?”

  Miss Hartnell would then go on, “Frankly, I suspected somethinp at once! He was far too calm. He didn’t seem surprised in the least. And you may say what you like, it isn’t natural for a man to hear that his wife is dead and display no emotion whatever.”

  Everybody agreed with this statement.

  The police agreed with it, too. So suspicious did they consider Mr Spenlow’s detachment, that they lost no time in ascertaining how that gentleman was situated as a result of his wife’s death. When they discovered that Mrs Spenlow had been the monied partner, and that her money went to her husband under a will made soon after their marriage, they were more suspicious than ever.

  Miss Marple, that sweet-faced - and, some said, vinegartongued - elderly spinster who lived in the house next to the rectory, was interviewed very early - within half an hour of the discovery of the crime. She was approached by Police Constable Palk, importantly thumbing a notebook. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ve a few questions to ask you.” Miss Marple said, “In connexion with the murder of Mrs Spenlow?”

  Palk was startled. “May I ask, madam, how you got to know of it?”

  “The fish,” said Miss Marple.

  The reply was perfectly intelligible to Constable Palk. He assumed correctly that the fishmonger’s boy had brought it, together with Miss Marple’s evening meal.

  Miss Marple continued gently. “Lying on the floor in the sitting room, strangled - possibly by a very narrow belt. But whatever it was, it was taken away.”

  Palk’s face was wrathful. “How that young Fred gets to know everything - “

  Miss Marple cut him short adroitly. She said, “There’s a pin in your tunic.”

  Constable Palk looked down, startled. He said, “They do say, ‘See a pin and pick it up, all the day you’ll have good luck.”‘

  “I hope that will come true. Now what is it you want me to tell you?”

  Constable Palk cleared his throat, looked important, and consulted his notebook. “Statement was made to me by Mr Arthur Spenlow, husband of the deceased. Mr Spenlow says that at two-thirty, as far as he can say, he was rung up by Miss Marple, and asked if he would come over at a quarter Past three as she was anxious to consult him about something. Now, ma’am, is that true?”

  “Certainly not,” said Miss Marple.

  “You did not ring up Mr Spenlow at two-thirty!”

  “Neither at two-thirty nor any other time.”

  “Ah,” said Constable Palk, and sucked his moustache with a good deal of satisfaction.

  “What else did Mr Spenlow say?”

  “Mr Spenlow’s statement was that he came over here as requested, leaving his own house at ten minutes Past three; that on arrival here he was informed by the maid-servant that Miss Marple was ‘not at home’.

  “That part of it is true,” said Miss Marple. “He did come here, but I was at a meeting at the Women’s Institute.”

  “Ah,” said Constable Palk again.

  Miss Marple exclaimed, “Do tell me, Constable, do you suspect Mr Spenlow?”

  “It’s not for me to say at this stage, but it looks to me as though somebody, naming no names, had been trying to be artful.”

  Miss Marple said thoughtfully, “Mr Spenlow?”

  She liked Mr Spenlow. He was a small, spare man, stiff and conventional in speech, the acme of respectability. It seemed odd that he should have come to live in the country, he had so clearly lived in towns all his life. To Miss Marple he confided the reason. He said, “I have always intended, ever since I was a small boy, to live in the country some day and have a garden of my own. I have always been very much attached to flowers. My wife, you know, kept a flower shop. That’s where I saw her first.”

  A dry statement, but it opened up a vista of romance. A younger, prettier Mrs Spenlow, seen against a background of flowers.

  Mr Spenlow, however, really knew nothing about flowers. He had no idea of seeds, of cuttings, of bedding out, of annuals or perennials. He had only a vision - a vision of a small cottage garden thickly planted with sweet-smelling, brightly coloured blossoms. He had asked, almost pathetically, for instruction, and had noted down Miss Marple’s replies to questions in a little book.

  He was a man of quiet method. It was, perhaps, because of this trait, that the police were interested in him when his wife was found murdered. With patience and perseverance they learned a good deal about the late Mrs Spenlow - and soon all St Mary Mead knew it, too.

  The late Mrs Spenlow had begun life as a between-maid in a large house. She had left that position to marry the second gardener, and with him had started a flower shop in
London. The shop had prospered. Not so the gardener, who before long had sickened and died.

  His widow carried on the shop and enlarged it in an ambitious way. She had continued to prosper. Then she had sold the business at a handsome price and embarked upon matrimony for the second time - with Mr Spenlow, a middle-aged jeweller who had inherited a small and struggling business. Not long afterwards, they had sold the business and come down to St Mary Mead.

  Mrs Spenlow was a well-to-do woman. The profits from her florist’s establishment she had invested - “under spirit guidance,” as she explaincd to all and sundry. The spirits had advised her with unexpected acumen.

  All her investments had prospered, some in quite a sensational fashion. Instead, however, of this increasing her belief in spiritualism, Mrs Spenlow basely deserted mediums and sittings, and made a brief but wholehearted plunge into an obscure religion with Indian affinities which was based on various forms of deep breathing. When, however, she arrived at St Mary Mead, she had relapsed into a Period of orthodox Church-of-England beliefs. She was a good deal at the vicarage, and attended church services with assiduity. She patronized the village shops, took an interest in the local happenings, and played village bridge.

  A humdrum, everyday life. And - suddenly - murder.

  Colonel Melchett, the chief constable, had summoned Inspector Slack.

  Slack was a positive type of man. When he had made up his mind, he was sure. He was quite sure now. “Husband did it, sir,” he said.

  “You think so?”

  “Quite sure of it. You’ve only got to look at him. Guilty as hell. Never showed a sign of grief or emotion. He came back to the house knowing she was dead.”

  “Wouldn’t he at least have tried to act the part of the distracted husband?”

  “Not him, sir. Too pleased with himself. Some gentlemen can’t act. Too stiff.”