The Witness for the Prosecution

by Agatha Christie

  ‘Oh! Damn!’ said Mr Eastwood.

  He rose and seized the Daily Mail. It was just possible that someone or other had been done to death in such a way as to lend inspiration to a perspiring author. But the news this morning was mainly political and foreign. Mr Eastwood cast down the paper in disgust.

  Next, seizing a novel from the table, he closed his eyes and dabbed his finger down on one of the pages. The word thus indicated by Fate was ‘sheep’. Immediately, with startling brilliance, a whole story unrolled itself in Mr Eastwood’s brain. Lovely girl—lover killed in the war, her brain unhinged, tends sheep on the Scottish mountains—mystic meeting with dead lover, final effect of sheep and moonlight like Academy picture with girl lying dead in the snow, and two trails of footsteps …

  It was a beautiful story. Anthony came out of its conception with a sigh and a sad shake of the head. He knew only too well the editor in question did not want that kind of story—beautiful though it might be. The kind of story he wanted, and insisted on having (and incidentally paid handsomely for getting), was all about mysterious dark women, stabbed to the heart, a young hero unjustly suspected, and the sudden unravelling of the mystery and fixing of the guilt on the least likely person, by the means of wholly inadequate clues—in fact, ‘THE MYSTERY OF THE SECOND CUCUMBER.’

  ‘Although,’ reflected Anthony, ‘ten to one, he’ll alter the title and call it something rotten, like “Murder Most Foul” without so much as asking me! Oh, curse that telephone.’

  He strode angrily to it, and took down the receiver. Twice already in the last hour he had been summoned to it—once for a wrong number, and once to be roped in for dinner by a skittish society dame whom he hated bitterly, but who had been too pertinacious to defeat.

  ‘Hallo!’ he growled into the receiver.

  A woman’s voice answered him, a soft caressing voice with a trace of foreign accent.

  ‘Is that you, beloved?’ it said softly.

  ‘Well—er—I don’t know,’ said Mr Eastwood cautiously. ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘It is I. Carmen. Listen, beloved. I am pursued—in danger—you must come at once. It is life or death now.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr Eastwood politely. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong—’

  She broke in before he could complete the sentence.

  ‘Madre de Dios! They are coming. If they find out what I am doing, they will kill me. Do not fail me. Come at once. It is death for me if you don’t come. You know, 320 Kirk Street. The word is cucumber … Hush …’

  He heard the faint click as she hung up the receiver at the other end.

  ‘Well, I’m damned,’ said Mr Eastwood, very much astonished.

  He crossed over to his tobacco jar, and filled his pipe carefully.

  ‘I suppose,’ he mused, ‘that that was some curious effect of my subconscious self. She can’t have said cucumber. The whole thing is very extraordinary. Did she say cucumber, or didn’t she?’

  He strolled up and down, irresolutely.

  ‘320 Kirk Street. I wonder what it’s all about? She’ll be expecting the other man to turn up. I wish I could have explained. 320 Kirk Street. The word is cucumber—oh, impossible, absurd—hallucination of a busy brain.’

  He glanced malevolently at the typewriter.

  ‘What good are you, I should like to know? I’ve been looking at you all the morning, and a lot of good it’s done me. An author should get his plot from life—from life, do you hear? I’m going out to get one now.’

  He clapped a hat on his head, gazed affectionately at his priceless collection of old enamels, and left the flat.

  Kirk Street, as most Londoners know, is a long, straggling thoroughfare, chiefly devoted to antique shops, where all kinds of spurious goods are offered at fancy prices. There are also old brass shops, glass shops, decayed secondhand shops and second-hand clothes dealers.

  No 320 was devoted to the sale of old glass. Glassware of all kinds filled it to overflowing. It was necessary for Anthony to move gingerly as he advanced up a centre aisle flanked by wine glasses and with lustres and chandeliers swaying and twinkling over his head. A very old lady was sitting at the back of the shop. She had a budding moustache that many an undergraduate might have envied, and a truculent manner.

  She looked at Anthony and said, ‘Well?’ in a forbidding voice.

  Anthony was a young man somewhat easily discomposed. He immediately inquired the price of some hock glasses.

  ‘Forty-five shillings for half a dozen.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ said Anthony. ‘Rather nice, aren’t they? How much are these things?’

  ‘Beautiful, they are, old Waterford. Let you have the pair for eighteen guineas.’

  Mr Eastwood felt that he was laying up trouble for himself. In another minute he would be buying something, hypnotized by this fierce old woman’s eye. And yet he could not bring himself to leave the shop.

  ‘What about that?’ he asked, and pointed to a chandelier.

  ‘Thirty-five guineas.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Eastwood regretfully. ‘That’s rather more than I can afford.’

  ‘What do you want?’ asked the old lady. ‘Something for a wedding present?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Anthony, snatching at the explanation. ‘But they’re very difficult to suit.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ said the lady, rising with an air of determination. ‘A nice piece of old glass comes amiss to nobody. I’ve got a couple of old decanters here—and there’s a nice little liqueur set, just the thing for a bride—’

  For the next ten minutes Anthony endured agonies. The lady had him firmly in hand. Every conceivable specimen of the glass-maker’s art was paraded before his eyes. He became desperate.

  ‘Beautiful, beautiful,’ he exclaimed in a perfunctory manner, as he put down a large goblet that was being forced on his attention. Then blurted out hurriedly, ‘I say, are you on the telephone here?’

  ‘No, we’re not. There’s a call office at the post office just opposite. Now, what do you say, the goblet—or these fine old rummers?’

  Not being a woman, Anthony was quite unversed in the gentle art of getting out of a shop without buying anything.

  ‘I’d better have the liqueur set,’ he said gloomily.

  It seemed the smallest thing. He was terrified of being landed with the chandelier.

  With bitterness in his heart he paid for his purchase. And then, as the old lady was wrapping up the parcel, courage suddenly returned to him. After all, she would only think him eccentric, and, anyway, what the devil did it matter what she thought?

  ‘Cucumber,’ he said, clearly and firmly.

  The old crone paused abruptly in her wrapping operations.

  ‘Eh? What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ lied Anthony defiantly.

  ‘Oh! I thought you said cucumber.’

  ‘So I did,’ said Anthony defiantly.

  ‘Well,’ said the old lady. ‘Why ever didn’t you say that before? Wasting my time. Through that door there and upstairs. She’s waiting for you.’

  As though in a dream, Anthony passed through the door indicated, and climbed some extremely dirty stairs. At the top of them a door stood ajar displaying a tiny sitting-room.

  Sitting on a chair, her eyes fixed on the door, and an expression of eager expectancy on her face, was a girl.

  Such a girl! She really had the ivory pallor that Anthony had so often written about. And her eyes! Such eyes! She was not English, that could be seen at a glance. She had a foreign exotic quality which showed itself even in the costly simplicity of her dress.

  Anthony paused in the doorway, somewhat abashed. The moment of explanations seemed to have arrived. But with a cry of delight the girl rose and flew into his arms.

  ‘You have come,’ she cried. ‘You have come. Oh, the saints and the Holy Madonna be praised.’

  Anthony, never one to miss opportunities, echoed her fervently. She drew away at last, and looke
d up in his face with a charming shyness.

  ‘I should never have known you,’ she declared. ‘Indeed I should not.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ said Anthony feebly.

  ‘No, even your eyes seem different—and you are ten times handsomer than I ever thought you would be.’

  ‘Am I?’

  To himself Anthony was saying, ‘Keep calm, my boy, keep calm. The situation is developing very nicely, but don’t lose your head.’

  ‘I may kiss you again, yes?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ said Anthony heartily. ‘As often as you like.’

  There was a very pleasant interlude.

  ‘I wonder who the devil I am?’ thought Anthony. ‘I hope to goodness the real fellow won’t turn up. What a perfect darling she is.’

  Suddenly the girl drew away from him, and a momentary terror showed in her face.

  ‘You were not followed here?’

  ‘Lord, no.’

  ‘Ah, but they are very cunning. You do not know them as well as I do. Boris, he is a fiend.’

  ‘I’ll soon settle Boris for you.’

  ‘You are a lion—yes, but a lion. As for them, they are canaille—all of them. Listen, I have it! They would have killed me had they known. I was afraid—I did not know what to do, and then I thought of you … Hush, what was that?’

  It was a sound in the shop below. Motioning to him to remain where he was, she tiptoed out on to the stairs. She returned with a white face and staring eyes.

  ‘Madre de Dios! It is the police. They are coming up here. You have a knife? A revolver? Which?’

  ‘My dear girl, you don’t expect me seriously to murder a policeman?’

  ‘Oh, but you are mad—mad! They will take you away and hang you by the neck until you’re dead.’

  ‘They’ll what?’ said Mr Eastwood, with a very unpleasant feeling going up and down his spine.

  Steps sounded on the stair.

  ‘Here they come,’ whispered the girl. ‘Deny everything. It is the only hope.’

  ‘That’s easy enough,’ admitted Mr Eastwood, sotto voce.

  In another minute two men had entered the room. They were in plain clothes, but they had an official bearing that spoke of long training. The smaller of the two, a little dark man with quiet grey eyes, was the spokesman.

  ‘I arrest you, Conrad Fleckman,’ he said, ‘for the murder of Anna Rosenburg. Anything you say will be used in evidence against you. Here is my warrant and you will do well to come quietly.’

  A half-strangled scream burst from the girl’s lips. Anthony stepped forward with a composed smile.

  ‘You are making a mistake, officer,’ he said pleasantly. ‘My name is Anthony Eastwood.’

  The two detectives seemed completely unimpressed by his statement.

  ‘We’ll see about that later,’ said one of them, the one who had not spoken before. ‘In the meantime, you come along with us.’

  ‘Conrad,’ wailed the girl. ‘Conrad, do not let them take you.’

  Anthony looked at the detectives.

  ‘You will permit me, I am sure, to say goodbye to this young lady?’

  With more decency of feeling than he had expected, the two men moved towards the door. Anthony drew the girl into the corner by the window, and spoke to her in a rapid undertone.

  ‘Listen to me. What I said was true. I am not Conrad Fleckman. When you rang up this morning, they must have given you the wrong number. My name is Anthony Eastwood. I came in answer to your appeal because—well, I came.’

  She stared at him incredulously.

  ‘You are not Conrad Fleckman?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh!’ she cried, with a deep accent of distress. ‘And I kissed you!’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Mr Eastwood assured her. ‘The early Christians made a practice of that sort of thing. Jolly sensible. Now look here, I’ll tool off with these people. I shall soon prove my identity. In the meantime, they won’t worry you, and you can warn this precious Conrad of yours. Afterwards—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well—just this. My telephone number is Northwestern 1743—and mind they don’t give you the wrong one.’

  She gave him an enchanting glance, half-tears, half a smile.

  ‘I shall not forget—indeed, I shall not forget.’

  ‘That’s all right then. Goodbye. I say—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Talking of the early Christians—once more wouldn’t matter, would it?’

  She flung her arms round his neck. Her lips just touched his.

  ‘I do like you—yes, I do like you. You will remember that, whatever happens, won’t you?’

  Anthony disengaged himself reluctantly and approached his captors.

  ‘I am ready to come with you. You don’t want to detain this young lady, I suppose?’

  ‘No, sir, that will be quite all right,’ said the small man civilly.

  ‘Decent fellows, these Scotland Yard men,’ thought Anthony to himself, as he followed them down the narrow stairway.

  There was no sign of the old woman in the shop, but Anthony caught a heavy breathing from a door at the rear, and guessed that she stood behind it, cautiously observing events.

  Once out in the dinginess of Kirk Street, Anthony drew a long breath, and addressed the smaller of the two men.

  ‘Now then, inspector—you are an inspector, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Detective-Inspector Verrall. This is Detective-Sergeant Carter.’

  ‘Well, Inspector Verrall, the time has come to talk sense—and to listen to it too. I’m not Conrad What’s his-name. My name is Anthony Eastwood, as I told you, and I am a writer by profession. If you will accompany me to my flat, I think that I shall be able to satisfy you of my identity.’

  Something in the matter-of-fact way Anthony spoke seemed to impress the detectives. For the first time an expression of doubt passed over Verrall’s face.

  Carter, apparently, was harder to convince.

  ‘I dare say,’ he sneered. ‘But you’ll remember the young lady was calling you “Conrad” all right.’

  ‘Ah! that’s another matter. I don’t mind admitting to you both that for—er—reasons of my own, I was passing myself off upon that lady as a person called Conrad. A private matter, you understand.’

  ‘Likely story, isn’t it?’ observed Carter. ‘No, sir, you come along with us. Hail that taxi, Joe.’

  A passing taxi was stopped, and the three men got inside. Anthony made a last attempt, addressing himself to Verrall as the more easily convinced of the two.

  ‘Look here, my dear inspector, what harm is it going to do you to come along to my flat and see if I’m speaking the truth? You can keep the taxi if you like—there’s a generous offer! It won’t make five minutes’ difference either way.’

  Verrall looked at him searchingly.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he said suddenly. ‘Strange as it appears, I believe you’re speaking the truth. We don’t want to make fools of ourselves at the station by arresting the wrong man. What’s the address?’

  ‘Forty-eight Brandenburg Mansions.’

  Verrall leant out and shouted the address to the taxi-driver. All three sat in silence until they arrived at their destination, when Carter sprang out, and Verrall motioned to Anthony to follow him.

  ‘No need for any unpleasantness,’ he explained, as he, too, descended. ‘We’ll go in friendly like, as though Mr Eastwood was bringing a couple of pals home.’

  Anthony felt extremely grateful for the suggestion, and his opinion of the Criminal Investigation Department rose every minute.

  In the hall-way they were fortunate enough to meet Rogers, the porter. Anthony stopped.

  ‘Ah! Good-evening, Rogers,’ he remarked casually.

  ‘Good-evening, Mr Eastwood,’ replied the porter respectfully.

  He was attached to Anthony, who set an example of liberality not always followed by his neighbours.

  Anthony paused with his f
oot on the bottom step of the stairs.

  ‘By the way, Rogers,’ he said casually. ‘How long have I been living here? I was just having a little discussion about it with these friends of mine.’

  ‘Let me see, sir, it must be getting on for close on four years now.’

  ‘Just what I thought.’

  Anthony flung a glance of triumph at the two detectives. Carter grunted, but Verrall was smiling broadly.

  ‘Good, but not good enough, sir,’ he remarked. ‘Shall we go up?’

  Anthony opened the door of the flat with his latchkey. He was thankful to remember that Seamark, his man, was out. The fewer witnesses of this catastrophe the better.

  The typewriter was as he had left it. Carter strode across to the table and read the headline on the paper.

  ‘THE MYSTERY OF THE SECOND CUCUMBER’

  he announced in a gloomy voice.

  ‘A story of mine,’ explained Anthony nonchalantly.

  ‘That’s another good point, sir,’ said Verrall, nodding his head, his eyes twinkling. ‘By the way, sir, what was it about? What was the mystery of the second cucumber?’

  ‘Ah, there you have me,’ said Anthony. ‘It’s that second cucumber that’s been at the bottom of all this trouble.’

  Carter was looking at him intently. Suddenly he shook his head and tapped his forehead significantly.

  ‘Balmy, poor young fellow,’ he murmured in an audible aside.

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Mr Eastwood briskly. ‘To business. Here are letters addressed to me, my bankbook, communications from editors. What more do you want?’

  Verrall examined the papers that Anthony thrust upon him.

  ‘Speaking for myself, sir,’ he said respectfully, ‘I want nothing more. I’m quite convinced. But I can’t take the responsibility of releasing you upon myself. You see, although it seems positive that you have been residing here as Mr Eastwood for some years, yet it is possible that Conrad Fleckman and Anthony Eastwood are one and the same person. I must make a thorough search of the flat, take your fingerprints, and telephone to headquarters.’