The Hollow hp-24

by Agatha Christie

  From time to time he heard the cracking of twigs in the woods above or caught sight of a figure moving through the chestnut groves below him.

  Presently, Henrietta came along the path from the direction of the lane. She stopped for a moment when she saw Poirot, then she came and sat down by him.

  "Good morning, M. Poirot. I have just been to call upon you. But you were out. You look very Olympian. Are you presiding over the hunt? The Inspector seems very active. What are they looking for? The revolver?"

  "Yes, Miss Savernake."

  "Will they find it, do you think?"

  "I think so. Quite soon now, I should say?"

  She looked at him inquiringly.

  "Have you an idea, then, where it is?"

  "No. But I think it will be found soon. It is time for it to be found."

  "You do say odd things, M. Poirot!"

  "Odd things happen here. You have come back very soon from London, Mademoiselle."

  Her face hardened. She gave a short, bitter laugh.

  "The murderer returns to the scene of the crime? That is the old superstition, isn't it? So you do think that I-did it! You don't believe me when I tell you that I wouldn't -that I couldn't kill anybody?"

  Poirot did not answer at once. At last he said thoughtfully:

  "It has seemed to me from the beginning that either this crime was very simple-so simple that it was difficult to believe its simplicity (and simplicity, Mademoiselle, can be strangely baffling) or else it was extremely complex-that is to say, we were contending against a mind capable of intricate and ingenious inventions, so that every time we seemed to be heading for the truth, we were actually being led on a trail that twisted away from the truth and led us to a point which -ended in nothingness. This apparent futility, this continual barrenness, is not real -it is artificial, it is planned. A very subtle and ingenious mind is plotting against us the whole time-and succeeding."

  "Well?" said Henrietta. "What has that to do with me?"

  "The mind that is plotting against us is a creative mind. Mademoiselle."

  "I see-that's where I come in?"

  She was silent, her lips set together bitterly.

  From her jacket pocket she had taken a pencil and now she was idly drawing the outline of a fantastic tree on the white painted wood of the bench, frowning down as she did so.

  Poirot watched her. Something stirred in his mind-standing in Lady Angkatel's drawing-room on the afternoon of the crime, looking down at a pile of bridge markers, standing by a painted iron table in the pavilion the next morning and a question that he had put to Gudgeon.

  He said:

  "That is what you drew on your bridge marker-a tree."

  "Yes." Henrietta seemed suddenly aware of what she was doing. "Ygdrasil, M. Poirot." She laughed.

  "Why do you call it Ygdrasil?"

  She explained the origin of Ygdrasil.

  "And so-when you 'doodle' (that is the word,s is it not?)-it is always Ygdrasil you draw?"

  "Yes. Doodling is a funny thing, isn't it?"

  "Here on the seat… on the bridge marker on Saturday evening… in the pavilion on Sunday morning…"

  The hand that held the pencil stiffened and stopped. She said in a tone of careless amusement:

  "In the pavilion?"

  "Yes, on the round iron table there."

  "Oh, that must have been on-on Saturday afternoon."

  "It was not on Saturday afternoon. When Gudgeon brought the glasses out to the pavilion about twelve o'clock on Sunday morning, there was nothing drawn on the table.

  I asked him and he is quite definite about that."

  "Then it must have been"-she hesitated for just a moment-"of course, on Sunday afternoon."

  But, still smiling pleasantly, Hercule Poirot shook his head.

  "I think not. Grange's men were at the pool all Sunday afternoon, photographing the body, getting the revolver out of the water. They did not leave until dusk. They would have seen anyone go into the pavilion."

  Henrietta said slowly:

  "I remember now-I went along there quite late in the evening-after dinner-"

  Poirot's voice came sharply:

  "People do not 'doodle' in the dark, Miss Savernake. Are you telling me that you went into the pavilion at night and stood by a table and drew a tree without being able to see what you were drawing?"

  Henrietta said calmly:

  "I am telling you the truth. Naturally, you don't believe it. You have your own ideas-What is your idea, by the way?"

  "I am suggesting that you were in the pavilion on Sunday morning after twelve o'clock when Gudgeon brought the glasses out. That you stood by that table watching someone, or waiting for someone, and unconsciously took out a pencil and drew Ygdrasil without being fully aware of what you were doing."

  "I was not in the pavilion on Sunday morning. I sat out on the terrace for a while, then I got the gardening basket and went up to the dahlia border and cut off heads and tied up some of the Michaelmas daisies that were untidy. Then, just on one o'clock, I went along to the pool. I've been through it all with Inspector Grange. I never came near the pool until one o'clock, just after John had been shot."

  "That," said Hercule Poirot, "is your story. But Ygdrasil, Mademoiselle, testifies against you."

  "I was in the pavilion and I shot John, that's what you mean?"

  "You were there and you shot Dr. Christow, or you were there and you saw who shot Dr. Christow-or someone else was there who knew about Ygdrasil and deliberately drew it on the table to put suspicion on you."

  Henrietta got up. She turned on him with her chin lifted.

  "You still think that I shot John Christow.

  You think that you can prove I shot him.

  Well, I will tell you this. You will never prove it. Never!"

  "You think that you are cleverer than I am?"

  "You will never prove it," said Henrietta, and turning, she walked away down the winding path that led to the swimming pool.

  Chapter XXVI

  Grange came into Resthaven to drink a cup of tea with Hercule Poirot. The tea was exactly what he had had apprehensions it might be-extremely weak and China tea at that.

  "These foreigners," thought Grange, "don't know how to make tea-you can't teach 'em." But he did not mind much. He was in a condition of pessimism when one more thing that was unsatisfactory actually afforded him a kind of grim satisfaction.

  He said, "The adjourned inquest's the day after tomorrow and where have we got? Nowhere at all. What the hell, that gun must be somewhere! It's this damned country-miles of woods. It would take an army to search them properly. Talk of a needle in a haystack. It may be anywhere. The fact is, we've got to face up to it-we may never find that gun."

  "You will find it," said Poirot confidently.

  "Well, it won't be for want of trying!"

  "You will find it, sooner or later. And I should say sooner. Another cup of tea?"

  "I don't mind if I do-no, no hot water."

  "It is not too strong?"

  "Oh, no, it's not too strong." The Inspector was conscious of understatement.

  Gloomily he sipped at the pale straw-coloured beverage.

  "This case is making a monkey of me, M. Poirot-a monkey of me! I can't get the hang of these people. They seem helpful-but everything they tell you seems to lead you away on a wild-goose chase."

  "Away?" said Poirot. A startled look came into his eyes. "Yes, I see. Away…"

  The Inspector was developing his grievance.

  "Take the gun now. Christow was shot-according to the medical evidence-only a minute or two before your arrival. Lady Angkatell had that egg basket. Miss Savernake had a gardening basket full of dead flower heads, and Edward Angkatell was wearing a loose shooting coat with large pockets stuffed with cartridges. Any one of them could have carried the revolver away with them. It wasn't hidden anywhere near the pool-my men have raked the place, so that's definitely out."

  Poirot nodded. G
range went on:

  "Gerda Christow was framed-by whom? That's where every clue I follow seems to vanish into thin air."

  "Their stories of how they spent the morning are satisfactory?"

  "The stories are all right. Miss Savernake was gardening. Lady Angkatell was collecting eggs. Edward Angkatell and Sir Henry were shooting and separated at the end of the morning-Sir Henry coming back to the house and Edward Angkatell coming down here through the woods. The young fellow was up in his bedroom reading. (Funny place to read on a nice day, but he's the indoor bookish kind.) Miss Hardcastle took a book down to the orchard. All sounds very natural and likely 3 and there's no means of checking up on it. Gudgeon took a tray of glasses out to the pavilion about twelve o'clock. He can't say where any of the house party were or what they were doing. In a way, you know, there's something against almost all of them?"

  "Really?"

  "Of course, the most obvious person is Veronica Cray; she had quarrelled with Christow, she hated his guts, she's quite likely to have shot him-but I can't find the least iota of proof that she did shoot him. No evidence as to her having had any opportunity to pinch the revolvers from Sir Henry's collection, no one who saw her going to or from the pool that day. And the missing revolver definitely isn't in her possession now."

  "Ah, you have made sure of that?"

  "What do you think? The evidence would have justified a search warrant but there was no need. She was quite gracious about it. It's not anywhere in that tin-pot bungalow. After the inquest was adjourned, we made a show of letting up on Miss Cray and Miss Savernake, and we've had a tail on them to see where they went and what they'd do. We've had a man on at the film studios, watching Veronica-no sign of her trying to ditch the gun there."

  "And Henrietta Savernake?"

  "Nothing there either. She went straight back to Chelsea and we've kept an eye on her ever since. The revolver isn't in her studio or in her possession. She was quite pleasant about the search-seemed amused.

  Some of her fancy stuff gave our man quite I a turn. He said it beat him why people wanted to do that kind of thing-statues all lumps and swellings, bits of brass and aluminum twisted into fancy shapes, horses that you wouldn't know were horses-"

  Poirot stirred a little.

  "Horses, you say?"

  "Well, a horse. If you'd call it a horse! If people want to model a horse why don't they go and look at a horse!"

  "A horse," repeated Poirot.

  Grange turned his head.

  "What is there about that that interests you so, M. Poirot? I don't get it."

  "Association-a point of the psychology."

  "Word association? Horse and cart. Rocking horse? Clothes-horse. No, I don't get it. Anyway, after a day or two, Miss Savernake packs up and comes down here again. You know that?"

  "Yes, I have talked with her and I have seen her walking in the woods."

  "Restless, yes. Well, she was having an affair with the doctor all right, and his saying 'Henrietta' as he died is pretty near to an accusation. But it's not quite near enough, M. Poirot."

  "No," said Poirot thoughtfully, "it is not near enough."

  Grange said heavily:

  "There's something in the atmosphere here-it gets you all tangled up! It's as though they all knew something. Lady Angkatell now-she's never been able to put out a decent reason why she took out a gun with her that day. It's a crazy thing to do-sometimes I think she is crazy."

  Poirot shook his head very gently.

  "No," he said, "she is not crazy."

  "Then there's Edward Angkatell. I thought I was getting something on him. Lady Angkatell said-no, hinted-that he'd been in love with Miss Savernake for years.

  Well, that gives him a motive. And now I find it's the other girl-Miss Hardcastle-that he's engaged to. So bang goes the case against him." Poirot gave a sympathetic murmur.

  "Then there's the young fellow," pursued the Inspector. "Lady Angkatell let slip something about him-his mother, it seems, died in an asylum-persecution mania-thought everybody was conspiring to kill her. Well, you can see what that might mean.

  If the boy had inherited that particular strain of insanity, he might have got ideas into his head about Dr. Christow-might have fancied the doctor was planning to certify him.

  Not that Christow was that kind of doctor.

  Nervous affections of the alimentary canal and diseases of the Super-Super-something-that was Christow's line. But if the boy was a bit touched, he might imagine Christow was here to keep him under observation.

  He's got an extraordinary manner, that young fellow, nervous as a cat."

  Grange sat unhappily for a moment or two.

  "You see what I mean? All vague suspicions-leading nowhere." Poirot stirred again. He murmured softly:

  "Away-not towards. From, not to. Nowhere instead of somewhere… Yes, of course, that must be it."

  Grange stared at him. He said:

  "They're queer, all these Angkatells. I'd swear, sometimes, that they know all about it."

  Poirot said quietly:

  "They do."

  "You mean, they know, all of them, who did it?" the Inspector asked incredulously.

  Poirot nodded.

  "Yes-they know. I have thought so for some time. I am quite sure now."

  "I see." The Inspector's face was grim. "And they're hiding it up among them? Well, I'll beat them yet. I'm going to find that gun"

  It was, Poirot reflected, quite the Inspector's theme song.

  Grange went on with rancour:

  "I'd give anything to get even with them-"

  "With-"

  "All of them! Muddling me up! Suggesting things! Hinting! Helping my men-helping them! All gossamer and spiders' webs; nothing tangible. What I want is a good solid fact!"

  Hercule Poirot had been staring out of the window for some moments. His eye had been attracted by an irregularity in the symmetry of his domain.

  He said now:

  "You want a solid fact? Eh bien, unless I am much mistaken there is a solid fact in the hedge by my gate."

  They went down the garden path. Grange went down on his knees, coaxed the twigs apart till he disclosed more fully the thing that had been thrust between them. He drew a deep sigh as something black and steel was revealed.

  He said: "It's a revolver all right."

  Just for a moment his eye rested doubtfully on Poirot.

  "No, no, my friend," said Poirot. "I did not shoot Dr. Christow and I did not put the revolver in my own hedge."

  "Of course you didn't, M. Poirot! Sorry!

  Well, we've got it. Looks like the one missing from Sir Henry's study. We can verify that as soon as we get the number. Then we'll see if it was the gun that shot Christow.

  Easy does it now."

  With infinite care and the use of a silk handkerchief, he eased the gun out of the hedge.

  "To give us a break, we want fingerprints.

  I've a feeling, you know, that our luck's changed at last."

  "Let me know-"

  "Of course I will, M. Poirot. I'll ring you up."

  Poirot received two telephone calls. The first came through that same evening.

  The Inspector was jubilant.

  "That you, M. Poirot? Well, here's the dope. It's the gun all right. The gun missing from Sir Henry's collection and the gun that shot John Christow! That's definite. And there is a good set of prints on it. Thumb, first finger, part of the middle finger. Didn't I tell you our luck had changed?"

  "You have identified the fingerprints?"

  "Not yet. They're certainly not Mrs. Christow's. We took hers. They look more like a man's than a woman's for size. Tomorrow I'm going along to The Hollow to speak my little piece and get a sample from everyone. And then, M. Poirot, we shall know where we are!"

  "I hope so, I am sure," said Poirot, politely.

  The second telephone call came through on the following day and the voice that spoke was no longer jubilant. In tones of unmitigated glo
om. Grange said:

  "Want to hear the latest? Those fingerprints aren't the prints of anybody connected with the case! No, sir! They're not Edward Angkatell's, nor David's, nor Sir Henry's.

  They're not Gerda Christow's, nor the Savernake's, nor our Veronica's, nor her ladyship's, nor the little dark girl's! They're not even the kitchen maid's-let alone any of the other servants!"

  Poirot made condoling noises. The sad voice of Inspector Grange went on:

  "So it looks as though, after all, it was an outside job. Someone, that is to say, who had a down on Dr. Christow, and who we don't know anything about! Someone invisible and inaudible who pinched the guns from the study, and who went away after the shooting by the path to the lane. Someone who put the gun in your hedge and then vanished into thin air!"

  "Would you like my finger-prints, my friend?"

  "I don't mind if I do! It strikes me, M. Poirot, that you were on the spot, and that taking it all round you're far and away the most suspicious character in the case!"

  Chapter XXVII

  The coroner cleared his throat and looked expectantly at the foreman of the jury.

  The latter looked down at the piece of paper he held in his hand. His Adam's apple wagged up and down excitedly. He read out in a careful voice:

  "We find that the deceased came to his death by wilful murder by some person or persons unknown."

  Poirot nodded his head quietly in his corner by the wall.

  There could be no other possible verdict.

  Outside, the Angkatells stopped a moment to speak to Gerda and her sister. Gerda was wearing the same black clothes as before.

  Her face had the same dazed, unhappy expression. This time there was no Daimler.

  The train service, Elsie Patterson explained, was really very good. A fast train to Waterloo and they could easily catch the 1:20 to Bexhill.

  Lady Angkatell, clasping Gerda's hand, murmured:

  "You must keep in touch with us, my dear. A little lunch, perhaps, one day in London?

  I expect you'll come up to do shopping occasionally?"

  "I-I don't know," said Gerda.

  Elsie Patterson said:

  "We must hurry, dear, our train," and Gerda turned away with an expression of relief.