Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  "But the whole thing's crazy."

  "Yes, sir, but it's because it's crazy that it's dangerous."

  Molly said, "There's something more you haven't told us yet, isn't there, Sergeant?"

  "Yes, madam. At the top of the page in the notebook was written, 'Three Blind Mice.' Pinned to the dead woman's body was a paper with 'This is the first' written on it. And below it a drawing of three mice and a bar of music. The music was the tune of the nursery rhyme 'Three Blind Mice.'"

  Molly sang softly:

  "Three Blind Mice, See how they run.

  They all ran after the farmer's wife!

  She -"

  She broke off. "Oh, it's horrible - horrible. There were three children, weren't there?" "Yes, Mrs Davis. A boy of fifteen, a girl of fourteen, and the boy of twelve who died." "What happened to the others?"

  "The girl was, I believe, adopted by someone. We haven't been able to trace her. The boy would be just on twenty-three now. We've lost track of him. He was said to have always been a bit - queer. He joined up in the army at eighteen. Later he deserted. Since then he's disappeared.

  The army psychiatrist says definitely that he's not normal."

  "You think that it was he who killed Mrs Lyon?" Giles asked. "And that he's a homicidal maniac and may turn up here for some unknown reason?"

  "We think that there must be a connection between someone here and the Longridge Farm business. Once we can establish what that connection is, we will be forearmed. Now you state, sir, that you yourself have no connection with that case. The same goes for you, Mrs Davis?"

  "I - oh, yes -yes."

  "Perhaps you will tell me exactly who else there is in the house?"

  They gave him the names. Mrs Boyle. Major Metcalf. Mr Christopher Wren. Mr Paravicini.

  He wrote them down in his notebook.

  "Servants?"

  "We haven't any servants," said Molly. "And that reminds me, I must go and put the potatoes on."

  She left the study abruptly.

  Trotter turned to Giles. "What do you know about these people, sir?"

  "I - We -" Giles paused. Then he said quietly, "Really, we don't know anything about them, Sergeant Trotter. Mrs Boyle wrote from a Bournemouth hotel. Major Metcalf from Leamington. Mr Wren from a private hotel in South Kensington. Mr Paravicini just turned up out of the blue - or rather out of the white - his car overturned in a snowdrift near here. Still, I suppose they'll have identity cards, ration books, that sort of thing?"

  "I shall go into all that, of course."

  "In a way it's lucky that the weather is so awful," said Giles. "The murderer can't very well turn up in this, can he?"

  "Perhaps he doesn't need to, Mr Davis."

  "What do you mean?"

  Sergeant Trotter hesitated for a moment and then he said, "You've got to consider, sir, that he may be here already."

  Giles stared at him. "What do you mean?"

  "Mrs Gregg was killed two days ago. All your visitors here have arrived since then, Mr Davis."

  "Yes, but they'd booked beforehand - some time beforehand - except for Paravicini." Sergeant Trotter sighed. His voice sounded tired.

  "These crimes were planned in advance."

  "Crimes? But only one crime has happened yet. Why are you sure that there will be another?"

  "That it will happen - no. I hope to prevent that. That it will be attempted, yes."

  "But then - if you're right," Giles spoke excitedly, "there's only one person it could be. There's only one person who's the right age.

  Christopher Wren!"

  Sergeant Trotter had joined Molly in the kitchen.

  "I'd be glad, Mrs Davis, if you would come with me to the library. I want to make a general statement to everyone. Mr Davis has kindly gone to prepare the way -"

  "All right - just let me finish these potatoes. Sometimes I wish Sir Walter Raleigh had never discovered the beastly things."

  Sergeant Trotter preserved a disapproving silence. Molly said apologetically, "I can't really believe it, you see - It's so fantastic -"

  "It isn't fantastic, Mrs Davis - It's just plain facts."

  "You have a description of the man?" Molly asked curiously.

  "Medium height, slight build, wore a dark overcoat and a light hat, spoke in a whisper, his face was hidden by a muffler. You see - that might be anybody." He paused and added, "There are three dark overcoats and light hats hanging up in your hall here, Mrs Davis."

  "I don't think any of these people came from London."

  "Didn't they, Mrs Davis?" With a swift movement Sergeant Trotter moved to the dresser and picked up a newspaper.

  "The Evening Standard of February 19th. Two days ago. Someone brought that paper here, Mrs Davis."

  "But how extraordinary." Molly stared, some faint chord of memory stirred. "Where can that paper have come from?"

  "You mustn't take people always at their face value, Mrs Davis. You don't really know anything about these people you have admitted to your house." He added, "I take it you and Mr Davis are new to the guest-house business?"

  "Yes, we are," Molly admitted. She felt suddenly young, foolish, and childish.

  "You haven't been married long, perhaps, either?"

  "Just a year." She blushed slightly. "It was all rather sudden."

  "Love at first sight," said Sergeant Trotter sympathetically.

  Molly felt quite unable to snub him. "Yes," she said, and added in a burst of confidence, "we'd only known each other a fortnight."

  Her thoughts went back over those fourteen days of whirlwind courtship. There hadn't been any doubts -they had both known. In a worrying, nerve-racked world, they had found the miracle of each other. A little smile came to her lips.

  She came back to the present to find Sergeant Trotter eying her indulgently. "Your husband doesn't come from these parts, does he?"

  "No," said Molly vaguely. "He comes from Lincolnshire."

  She knew very little of Giles's childhood and upbringing. His parents were dead, and he always avoided talking about his early days. He had had, she fancied, an unhappy childhood.

  "You're both very young, if I may say so, to run a place of this kind," said Sergeant Trotter.

  "Oh, I don't know. I'm twenty-two and -"

  She broke off as the door opened and Giles came in.

  "Everything's all set. I've given them a rough outline," he said. "I hope that's all right, Sergeant?"

  "Saves time," said Trotter. "Are you ready, Mrs Davis?"

  Four voices spoke at once as Sergeant Trotter entered the library.

  Highest and shrillest was that of Christopher Wren declaring that this was too, too thrilling and he wasn't going to sleep a wink tonight, and please, please could we have all the gory details?

  A kind of double-bass accompaniment came from Mrs Boyle.

  "Absolute outrage - sheer incompetence - police have no business to let murderers go roaming about the countryside."

  Mr Paravicini was eloquent chiefly with his hands. His gesticulations were more eloquent than his words, which were drowned by Mrs Boyle's double bass. Major Metcalf could be heard in an occasional short staccato bark. He was asking for facts.

  Trotter waited a moment or two, then he held up an authoritative hand and, rather surprisingly, there was silence.

  "Thank you," he said. "Now, Mr Davis has given you an outline of why I'm here. I want to know one thing, and one thing only, and I want to know it quick. Which of you has some connection with the Longridge Farm case?"

  The silence was unbroken. Four blank faces looked at Sergeant Trotter. The emotions of a few moments back - excitement, indignation, hysteria, inquiry, were wiped away as a sponge wipes out the chalk marks on a slate.

  Sergeant Trotter spoke again, more urgently. "Please understand me.

  One of you, we have reason to believe, is in danger - deadly danger. I have got to know which one of you it is!"

  And still no one spoke or moved.

  Someth
ing like anger came into Trotter's voice. "Very well - I'll ask you one by one. Mr Paravicini?"

  A very faint smile flickered across Mr Paravicini's face. He raised his hands in a protesting foreign gesture.

  "But I am a stranger in these parts, Inspector. I know nothing, but nothing, of these local affairs of bygone years."

  Trotter wasted no time. He snapped out, "Mrs Boyle?"

  "Really I don't see why -1 mean - why should I have anything to do with such a distressing business?"

  "Mr Wren?"

  Christopher said shrilly, "I was a mere child at the time. I don't remember even hearing about it."

  "Major Metcalf?"

  The Major said abruptly, "Read about it in the papers. I was stationed at Edinburgh at the time."

  "That's all you have to say - any of you?" Silence again.

  Trotter gave an exasperated sigh. "If one of you gets murdered," he said, "you'll only have yourself to blame." He turned abruptly and went out of the room.

  "My dears," said Christopher. "How melodramatic!" He added, "He's very handsome, isn't he? I do admire the police. So stern and hardboiled. Quite a thrill, this whole business. 'Three Blind Mice.' How does the tune go?"

  He whistled the air softly, and Molly cried out involuntarily, "Don't!"

  He whirled round on her and laughed. "But, darling," he said, "it's my signature tune. I've never been taken for a murderer before and I'm getting a tremendous kick out of it!"

  "Melodramatic rubbish," said Mrs Boyle. "I don't believe a word of it."

  Christopher's light eyes danced with an impish mischief. "But just wait, Mrs Boyle," he lowered his voice, "till I creep up behind you and you feel my hands round your throat."

  Molly flinched.

  Giles said angrily, "You're upsetting my wife, Wren. It's a damned poor joke, anyway."

  "It's no joking matter," said Metcalf.

  "Oh, but it is," said Christopher. "That's just what it is - a madman's joke. That's what makes it so deliciously macabre."

  He looked round at them and laughed again. "If you could just see your faces," he said. Then he went swiftly out of the room.

  Mrs Boyle recovered first. "A singularly ill-mannered and neurotic young man," she said. "Probably a conscientious objector."

  "He tells me he was buried during an air raid for forty-eight hours before being dug out," said Major Metcalf. "That accounts for a good deal, I daresay."

  "People have so many excuses for giving way to nerves," said Mrs Boyle acidly. "I'm sure I went through as much as anybody in the war, and my nerves are all right."

  "Perhaps that's just as well for you, Mrs Boyle," said Metcalf.

  "What do you mean?"

  Major Metcalf said quietly, "I think you were actually the billeting officer for this district in 1940, Mrs Boyle."

  He looked at Molly who gave a grave nod. "That is so, isn't it?"

  An angry flush appeared on Mrs Boyle's face. "What of it?" she demanded.

  Metcalf said gravely, "You were responsible for sending three children to Longridge Farm."

  "Really, Major Metcalf, I don't see how I can be held responsible for what happened. The Farm people seemed very nice and were most anxious to have the children. I don't see that I was to blame in any way - or that I can be held responsible -" Her voice trailed off.

  Giles said sharply, "Why didn't you tell Sergeant Trotter this?"

  "No business of the police," snapped Mrs Boyle. "I can look after myself."

  Major Metcalf said quietly, "You'd better watch out."

  Then he, too, left the room.

  Molly murmured, "Of course, you were the billeting officer. I remember."

  "Molly, did you know?" Giles stared at her.

  "You had the big house on the common, didn't you?"

  "Requisitioned," said Mrs Boyle. "And completely ruined," she added bitterly. "Devastated. Iniquitous."

  Then, very softly, Mr Paravicini began to laugh. He threw his head back and laughed without restraint.

  "You must forgive me," he gasped. "But, indeed. I find all this most amusing. I enjoy myself - yes, I enjoy myself greatly."

  Sergeant Trotter re-entered the room at that moment. He threw a glance of disapproval at Mr Paravicini. "I'm glad," he said acidly, "that everyone finds this so funny."

  "I apologize, my dear Inspector. I do apologize. I am spoiling the effect of your solemn warning."

  Sergeant Trotter shrugged his shoulders. "I've done my best to make the position clear," he said. "And I'm not an inspector. I'm only a sergeant. I'd like to use the telephone, please, Mrs Davis."

  "I abase myself," said Mr Paravicini. "I creep away."

  Far from creeping, he left the room with that jaunty and youthful step that Molly had noticed before.

  "He's an odd fish," said Giles.

  "Criminal type"," said Trotter. "Wouldn't trust him a yard."

  "Oh," said Molly. "You think he - but he's far too old - Or is he old at all?

  He uses make up -quite a lot of it. And his walk is young. Perhaps, he's made up to look old. Sergeant Trotter, do you think -"

  Sergeant Trotter snubbed her severely. "We shan't get anywhere with unprofitable speculation, Mrs Davis," he said. "I must report to Superintendent Hogben."

  He crossed to the telephone.

  "But you can't," said Molly. "The telephone's dead."

  "What?" Trotter swung round.

  The sharp alarm in his voice impressed them all. "Dead? Since when?"

  "Major Metcalf tried it just before you came."

  "But it was all right before that. You got Superintendent Hogben's message?"

  "Yes. I suppose - since then - the line's down - with the snow."

  But Trotter's face remained grave. "I wonder," he said. "It may have been - cut."

  Molly stared. "You think so?"

  "I'm going to make sure."

  He hurried out of the room. Giles hesitated, then went after him.

  Molly exclaimed, "Good heavens! Nearly lunch time, I must get on - or we'll have nothing to eat."

  As she rushed from the room, Mrs Boyle muttered, "Incompetent chit!

  What a place. I shan't pay seven guineas for this kind of thing."

  Sergeant Trotter bent down, following the wires. He asked Giles, "Is there an extension?" "Yes, in our bedroom upstairs. Shall I go up and see there?"

  "If you please."

  Trotter opened the window and leaned out, brushing snow from the sill. Giles hurried up the stairs.

  Mr Paravicini was in the big drawing-room. He went across to the grand piano and opened it. Sitting on the music stool, he picked out a tune softly with one finger.

  Three Blind Mice, See how they run...

  Christopher Wren was in his bedroom. He moved about it, whistling briskly. Suddenly the whistle wavered and died. He sat down on the edge of the bed He buried his face in his hands and began to sob. He murmured childishly, "I can't go on."

  Then his mood changed. He stood up, squared his shoulders. "I've got to go on," he said. "I've got to go through with it."

  Giles stood by the telephone in his and Molly's room. He bent down toward the skirting. One of Molly's gloves lay there. He picked it up. A pink bus ticket dropped out of it. Giles stood looking down at it as it fluttered to the ground. Watching it, his face changed. It might have been a different man who walked slowly, as though in a dream, to the door, opened it, and stood a moment peering along the corridor toward the head of the stairs.

  Molly finished the potatoes, threw them into the pot, and set the pot on the fire. She glanced into the oven. Everything was all set, going according to plan.

  On the kitchen table was the two-day-old copy of the Evening Standard. She frowned as she looked at it. If she could only just remember -

  Suddenly her hands went to her eyes. "Oh, no," said Molly. "Oh, no!"

  Slowly she took her hands away. She looked round the kitchen like someone looking at a strange place. So warm and comfortable and spa
cious, with its faint savory smell of cooking.

  "Oh, no," she said again under her breath.

  She moved slowly, like a sleepwalker, toward the door into the hall.

  She opened it. The house was silent except for someone whistling.

  That tune -

  Molly shivered and retreated. She waited a minute or two, glancing once more round the familiar kitchen. Yes, everything was in order and progressing. She went once more toward the kitchen door.

  Major Metcalf came quietly down the back stairs. He waited a moment or two in the hall, then he opened the big cupboard under the stairs and peered in. Everything seemed quiet. Nobody about. As good a time as any to do what he had set out to do -

  Mrs Boyle, in the library, turned the knobs of the radio with some irritation.

  Her first attempt had brought her into the middle of a talk on the origin and significance of nursery rhymes. The last thing she wanted to hear.

  Twirling impatiently, she was informed by a cultured voice: "The psychology of fear must be thoroughly understood. Say you are alone in a room. A door opens softly behind you -"

  A door did open.

  Mrs Boyle, with a violent start, turned sharply.

  "Oh, it's you," she said with relief. "Idiotic programs they have on this thing. I can't find anything worth listening to!"

  "I shouldn't bother to listen, Mrs Boyle."

  Mrs Boyle snorted. "What else is there for me to do?" she demanded.

  "Shut up in a house with a possible murderer - not that I believe that melodramatic story for a moment -"

  "Don't you, Mrs Boyle?" "Why - what do you mean -"

  The belt of the raincoat was slipped round her neck so quickly that she hardly realized its significance. The knob of the radio amplifier was turned higher. The lecturer on the psychology of fear shouted his learned remarks into the room and drowned what incidental noises there were attendant on Mrs Boyle's demise.

  But there wasn't much noise. The killer was too expert for that.

  They were all huddled in the kitchen. On the gas cooker the potatoes bubbled merrily. The savory smell from the oven of steak and kidney pie was stronger than ever.

  Four shaken people stared at each other, the fifth, Molly, white and shivering, sipped at the glass of whisky that the sixth, Sergeant Trotter, had forced her to drink.