The Hollow hp-24

by Agatha Christie

  "Do you know, I really can't remember!

  We talked for some time, I do know that. It must have been quite late."

  "He came in?"

  "Yes, I gave him a drink."

  "I see. I imagined your conversation might have taken place in the-er-pavilion by the swimming pool."

  He saw her eyelids flicker. There was hardly a moment's hesitation before she said:

  "You really are a detective, aren't you?

  Yes, we sat there and smoked and talked for some time. How did you know?"

  Her face bore the pleased, eager expression of a child asking to be shown a clever trick.

  "You left your furs behind there. Miss Cray." He added just without emphasis, "And the matches."

  "Yes, of course, I did."

  "Dr. Christow returned to The Hollow at 3:00 a.m.," announced the Inspector, again without emphasis.

  "Was it really as late as that?" Veronica sounded quite amazed.

  "Yes, it was. Miss Cray."

  "Of course, we had so much to talk over -not having seen each other for so many years."

  "Are you sure it was quite so long since you had seen Dr. Christow?"

  "I've just told you I hadn't seen him for fifteen years."

  "Are you quite sure you're not making a mistake? I've got the impression you might have been seeing quite a lot of him."

  "What on earth makes you think that?"

  "Well, this note for one thing." Inspector Grange took out a letter from his pocket, glanced down at it, cleared his throat and read:

  "Please come over this morning. I must see you, Veronica."

  "Ye-es." She smiled. "It is a little peremptory, perhaps. I'm afraid Hollywood makes one-well, rather arrogant."

  "Dr. Christow came over to your house the following morning in answer to that summons. You had a quarrel. Would you care to tell me. Miss Cray, what that quarrel was about?"

  The Inspector had unmasked his batteries.

  He was quick to seize the flash of anger, the ill-tempered tightening of the lips.

  She snapped out:

  "We didn't quarrel."

  "Oh, yes, you did. Miss Cray. Your last words were, 'I think I hate you more than I believed I could hate anyone.'"

  She was silent now. He could feel her thinking-thinking quickly and warily.

  Some women might have rushed into speech.

  But Veronica Cray was too clever for that.

  She shrugged her shoulders and said lightly:

  "I see. More servants' tales. My little maid has rather a lively imagination. There are different ways of saying things, you know.

  I can assure you that I wasn't being melodramatic.

  It was really a mildly flirtatious remark. We had been sparring together."

  "Those words were not intended to be taken seriously?"

  "Certainly not. And I can assure you. Inspector, that it was fifteen years since I had last seen John Christow. You can verify that for yourself."

  She was poised again, detached, sure of herself.

  Grange did not argue or pursue the subject.

  He got up.

  "That's all for the moment. Miss Cray," he said pleasantly.

  He went out of Dovecotes and down the lane and turned in at the gate of Resthaven.

  Hercule Poirot stared at the Inspector in the utmost surprise. He repeated incredulously:

  "The revolver that Gerda Christow was holding and which was subsequently dropped into the pool was not the revolver that fired the fatal shot? But that is extraordinary."

  "Exactly, M. Poirot. Put bluntly, it just doesn't make sense."

  Poirot murmured softly:

  "No, it does not make sense… But all the same,Inspector, it has got to make sense, eh?"

  The Inspector said heavily, "That's just it, M. Poirot. We've got to find some way that it does make sense-but at the moment I can't see it. The truth is that we shan't get much further until we've found the gun that was used. It came from Sir Henry's collection all right-at least there's one missing-and that means that the whole thing is still tied up with The Hollow."

  "Yes," murmured Poirot. "It is still tied up with The Hollow."

  "It seemed a simple, straightforward business," went on the Inspector. "Well, it isn't so simple or so straightforward."

  "No," said Poirot, "it is not simple."

  "We've got to admit the possibility that the thing was a frame-up-that's to say that it was all set to implicate Gerda Christow.

  But if that was so, why not leave the right revolver lying by the body for her to pick up?"

  "She might not have picked it up."

  "That's true, but even if she didn't, so long as nobody else's finger-prints were on the gun-that's to say if it was wiped after use-she would probably have been suspected all right. And that's what the murderer wanted, wasn't it?"

  "Was it?"

  Grange stared.

  "Well, if you'd done a murder, you'd want to plant it good and quick on someone else, wouldn't you? That would be a murderer's normal reaction."

  "Ye-es," said Poirot. "But then perhaps we have here a rather unusual type of murderer. It is possible that that is the solution of our problem."

  "What is the solution?"

  Poirot said thoughtfully:

  "An unusual type of murderer."

  Inspector Grange stared at him curiously.

  He said:

  "But then-what was the murderer's idea? What was he or she getting at?"

  Poirot spread out his hands with a sigh.

  "I have no idea-I have no idea at all. But it seems to me-dimly-"

  "Yes?"

  "That the murderer is someone who wanted to kill John Christow but who did not want to implicate Gerda Christow."

  "Hm! Actually we suspected her right away."

  "Ah, yes, but it was only a matter of time before the facts about the gun came to light, and that was bound to give a new angle. In the interval the murderer has had time-"

  Poirot came to a full stop.

  "Time to do what?"

  "Ah, mon ami, there you have me. Again I have to say I do not know."

  Inspector Grange took a turn or two up and down the room. Then he stopped and came to a stand in front of Poirot.

  "I've come to you this afternoon, M. Poirot, for two reasons. One is because I know-it's pretty well known in the Force -that you're a man of wide experience who's done some very tricky work on this type of problem. That's reason Number One. But there's another reason. You were there. You were an eye-witness. You saw what happened."

  Poirot nodded.

  "Yes, I saw what happened-but the eyes, Inspector Grange, are very unreliable witnesses."

  "What do you mean, M. Poirot?"

  "The eyes see, sometimes, what they are meant to see."

  "You think that it was planned out beforehand?"

  "I suspect it. It was exactly, you understand, like a stage scene. What I saw was clear enough. A man who had just been shot and the woman who had shot him holding in her hand the gun she had just used. That is what I saw and already we know that in one particular the picture is wrong. That gun had not been used to shoot John Christow."

  "Hm," the Inspector pulled his drooping moustache firmly downwards. "What you are getting at is that some of the other particulars of the picture may be wrong, too?"

  Poirot nodded. He said:

  "There were three other people present-three people who had apparently just arrived on the scene. But that may not be true either.

  The pool is surrounded by a thick grove of young chestnuts. From the pool, five paths lead away: one to the house, one up to the woods, one up to the flower walk, one down from the pool to the farm, and one to the lane here.

  "Of those three people, each one came along a different path, Edward Angkatell from the woods above, Lady Angkatell up from the farm, and Henrietta Savernake from the flower border above the house. Those three arrived upon the scene of the crime almost simultaneously,
and a few minutes after Gerda Christow.

  "But one of those three, Inspector, could have been at the pool before Gerda Christow, could have shot John Christow, and could have retreated up or down one of the paths and then, turning round, could have arrived at the same time as the others."

  Inspector Grange said:

  "Yes, it's possible."

  "And another possibility, not envisaged at the time: someone could have come along the path from the lane, could have shot John Christow, and could have gone back the same way, unseen."

  Grange said, "You're dead right. There are two other possible suspects besides Gerda Christow. We've got the same motive- jealousy-it's definitely a crime passionel- there were two other women mixed up with John Christow."

  He paused and said:

  "Christow went over to see Veronica Cray that morning. They had a row. She told him that she'd make him sorry for what he'd done and she said she hated him more than she believed she could hate anyone."

  "Interesting," murmured Poirot.

  "She's straight from Hollywood-and by what I read in the papers they do a bit of shooting each other out there sometimes.

  She could have come along to get her furs which she'd left in the pavilion the night before. They could have met-the whole thing could have flared up-she fired at him-and then, hearing someone coming, she could have dodged back the way she came."

  He paused a moment and added irritably:

  "And now we come to the part where it all goes haywire. That damned gun! Unless," his eyes brightened, "she shot him with her own gun and dropped one that she'd pinched from Sir Henry's study so as to throw suspicion on the crowd at The Hollow.

  She mightn't know about our being able to identify the gun used from the marks on the rifling."

  "How many people do know that, I wonder?"

  "I put the point to Sir Henry. He said he thought quite a lot of people would know-on account of all the detective stories that are written. Quoted a new one. The Clue of the Dripping Fountain, which he said John Christow himself had been reading on Saturday and which emphasized that particular point."

  "But Veronica Cray would have had to get the gun somehow from Sir Henry's study."

  "Yes, it would mean premeditation…" The Inspector took another tug at his moustache, then he looked at Poirot. "But you've hinted yourself at another possibility, M. Poirot. There's Miss Savernake. And here's where your eye-witness stuff, or rather I should say ear-witness stuff, comes in again.

  Dr. Christow said 'Henrietta' when he was dying. You heard him-they all heard him, though Mr. Angkatell doesn't seem to have caught what he said-"

  "Edward Angkatell did not hear? That is interesting."

  "But the others did. Miss Savernake herself says he tried to speak to her. Lady Angkatell says he opened his eyes, saw Miss Savernake, and said 'Henrietta.' She doesn't, I think, attach any importance to it."

  Poirot smiled. "No-she would not attach importance to it."

  "Now, M. Poirot, what about you? You were there-you saw-you heard. Was Dr. Christow trying to tell you all that it was Henrietta who had shot him? In short, was that word an accusation?"

  Poirot said slowly:

  "I did not think so at the time."

  "But now, M. Poirot? What do you think now?" Poirot sighed. Then he said slowly:

  "It may have been so. I cannot say more than that. It is an impression only for which you are asking me, and when the moment is past there is a temptation to read into things a meaning which was not there at the time."

  Grange said hastily:

  "Of course, this is all off the record.

  What M. Poirot thought isn't evidence-I know that. It's only a pointer I'm trying to get."

  "Oh, I understand you very well-and an impression from an eye-witness can be a very useful thing. But I am humiliated to have to say that my impressions are valueless.

  I was under the misconception, induced by the visual evidence, that Mrs. Christow had just shot her husband, so that when Dr. Christow opened his eyes and said 'Henrietta,'

  I never thought of it as being an accusation.

  It is tempting now, looking back, to read into that scene something that was not there."

  "I know what you mean," said Grange. "But it seems to me that since 'Henrietta' Was the last word Christow spoke, it must have meant one of two things. It was either an accusation of murder or else it was-well, purely emotional. She's the woman he was in love with and he was dying. Now, bearing everything in mind, which of the two did it sound like to you?"

  Poirot sighed, stirred, closed his eyes, opened them again, stretched out his hands in acute vexation. He said:

  "His voice was urgent-that is all I can say-urgent. It seemed to me neither accusing nor emotional-but urgent, yes! And of one thing I am sure. He was in full possession of his faculties. He spoke-yes, he spoke like a doctor-a doctor who has, say, a sudden surgical emergency on his hands -a patient who is bleeding to death, perhaps…" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "That is the best I can do for you."

  "Medical, eh?" said the Inspector. "Well, yes, that is a third way of looking at it. He was shot, he suspected he was dying, he wanted something done for him quickly. And if, as Lady Angkatell says, Miss Savernake was the first person he saw when his eyes opened, then he would appeal to her …It's not very satisfactory, though."

  "Nothing about this case is satisfactory," said Poirot with some bitterness.

  A murder scene, set and staged to deceive Hercule Poirot-and which had deceived him! No, it was not satisfactory.

  Inspector Grange was looking out of the window.

  "Hullo," he said, "here's Coombes, my Sergeant. Looks as though he's got something.

  He's been working on the servants-the friendly touch. He's a nice-looking chap, got a way with women."

  Sergeant Coombes came in a little breathlessly.

  He was clearly pleased with himself, though subduing the fact under a respectful official manner.

  "Thought I'd better come and report, sir, since I knew where you'd gone."

  He hesitated, shooting a doubtful glance at Poirot, whose exotic foreign appearance did not commend itself to his sense of official reticence.

  "Out with it, my lad," said Grange. "Never mind M. Poirot here. He's forgotten more about this game than you'll know for many years to come."

  "Yes, sir. It's this way, sir. I got something out of the kitchen maid-"

  Grange interrupted. He turned to Poirot triumphantly.

  "What did I tell you? There's always hope where there's a kitchen maid. Heaven help us when domestic staffs are so reduced that nobody keeps a kitchen maid any more.

  Kitchen maids talk, kitchen maids babble.

  They're so kept down and in their place by the cook and the upper servants that it's only human nature to talk about what they know to someone who wants to hear it. Go on, Coombes."

  "This is what the girl says, sir. That on Sunday afternoon she saw Gudgeon, the butler, walking across the hall with a revolver in his hand."

  "Gudgeon?"

  "Yes, sir." Coombes referred to a notebook.

  "These are her own words. 'I don't know what to do, but I think I ought to say what I saw that day. I saw Mr. Gudgeon; he was standing in the hall with a revolver in his hand. Mr. Gudgeon looked very peculiar indeed.' "I don't suppose," said Coombes, breaking off, "that the part about looking peculiar means anything. She probably put that in out of her head. But I thought you ought to know about it at once, sir."

  Inspector Grange rose, with the satisfaction of a man who sees a task ahead of him which he is well fitted to perform.

  "Gudgeon?" he said. "I'll have a word with Mr. Gudgeon right away."

  Chapter XX

  Sitting once more in Sir Henry's study, Inspector Grange stared at the impassive face of the man in front of him.

  So far, the honours lay with Gudgeon.

  "I am very sorry, sir," he repeated.

  "I suppose I ought to have menti
oned the occurrence, but it had slipped my memory."

  He looked apologetically from the Inspector to Sir Henry.

  "It was about 5:30 if I remember rightly, sir. I was crossing the hall to see if there were any letters for the post when I noticed a revolver lying on the hall table. I presumed it was from the master's collection, so I picked it up and brought it in here. There was a gap on the shelf by the mantelpiece where it had come from, so I replaced it where it belonged."

  "Point it out to me," said Grange.

  Gudgeon rose and went to the shelf in question, the Inspector close beside him.

  "It was this one, sir." Gudgeon's finger indicated a small Mauser pistol at the end of the row.

  It was a.25-quite a small weapon. It was certainly not the gun that had killed John Christow.

  Grange, with his eyes on Gudgeon's face, said:

  "That's an automatic pistol, not a revolver."

  Gudgeon coughed.

  "Indeed, sir? I'm afraid that I am not at all well up in firearms. I may have used the term revolver rather loosely, sir."

  "But you are quite sure that that is the gun you found in the hall and brought in here?"

  "Oh, yes, sir, there can be no possible doubt about that."

  Grange stopped him as he was about to stretch out a hand.

  "Don't touch it, please. I must examine it for finger-prints and to see if it is loaded."

  "I don't think it is loaded, sir. None of Sir Henry's collection is kept loaded. And as for finger-prints, I polished it over with my handkerchief before replacing it, sir, so there will only be my finger-prints on it."

  "Why did you do that?" asked Grange sharply.

  But Gudgeon's apologetic smile did not waver.

  "I fancied it might be dusty, sir."

  The door opened and Lady Angkatell came in. She smiled at the Inspector.

  "How nice to see you, Inspector Grange.

  What is all this about a revolver and Gudgeon?

  That child in the kitchen is in floods of tears. Mrs. Medway has been bullying her-but, of course, the girl was quite right to say what she saw if she thought she ought to do so. I always find right and wrong so bewildering myself-easy, you know, if right is unpleasant and wrong is agreeable, because then one knows where one is-but confusing when it is the other way about-and I think, don't you. Inspector, that everyone must do what they think right themselves.