The Listerdale Mystery and Eleven Other Stories

by Agatha Christie

A very peculiar smile came over Gerald Martin's face.

  "I've changed my mind, he said quietly. "I shall not do any photography tonight."

  A woman's mind is a curious thing. When she went to bed that Thursday night, Alix's mind was contented and at rest. Her momentarily assailed happiness reasserted itself, triumphant as of yore.

  But by the evening of the following day, she realised that some subtle forces were at work undermining it. Dick Windyford had not rung up again, nevertheless, she felt what she supposed to be his influence at work. Again and again those words of his recurred to her. "The man's a perfect stranger. You know nothing about him." And with them came the memory of her husband's face, photographed clearly on her brain as she said: "'Do you think it wise, Alix, this - Bluebeard's chamber business?" Why had he said that?

  There had been warning in them - a hint of menace. It was as though he had said in effect - "You had better not pry into my life, Alix. You may get a nasty shock if you do." True, a few minutes later, he had sworn to her that there had been no woman in his life that mattered - but Alix tried in vain to recapture her sense of his sincerity: Was he not bound to swear that?

  By Friday morning, Alix had convinced herself that there had been a woman in Gerald's life - a Bluebeard's chamber that he had sedulously sought to conceal from her. Her jealousy, slow to awaken, was now rampant.

  Was it a woman he had been going to meet that night, at 9 p.m.? Was his story of photographs to develop a lie invented upon the spur of the moment?

  Three days ago she would have sworn that she knew her husband through and through. Now it seemed to her that he was a stranger of whom she knew nothing. She remembered his unreasonable anger against old George, so at variance with his usual good-tempered manner. A small thing, perhaps, but it showed her that she did not really know the man who was her husband.

  There were several little things required on Friday from the village to carry them over the week-end. In the afternoon Alix suggested that she should go for them whilst Gerald remained in the garden, but somewhat to her surprise he opposed this plan vehemently, and insisted on going himself whilst she remained at home. Alix was forced to give way to him, but his insistence surprised and alarmed her. Why was he so anxious to prevent her going to the village?

  Suddenly an explanation suggested itself to her which made the whole thing clear. Was it not possible that, whilst saying nothing to her, Gerald had indeed come across Dick Windyford? Her own jealousy, entirely dormant at the time of their marriage, had only developed afterwards. Might it not be the same with Gerald? Might he not be anxious to prevent her seeing Dick Windyford again? This explanation was so consistent with the facts, and so comforting to Alix's perturbed mind, that she embraced it eagerly.

  Yet when tea-time had come and past, she was restless and ill at ease. She was struggling with a temptation that had assailed her ever since Gerald's departure. Finally, pacifying her conscience with the assurance that the room did need a thorough tidying, she went upstairs to her husband's dressing room. She took a duster with her to keep up the pretence of housewifery.

  "If I were only sure," she repeated to herself. "If I could only be sure."

  In vain she told herself that anything compromising would have been destroyed ages ago. Against that she argued that men do sometimes keep the most damning piece of evidence through an exaggerated sentimentality.

  In the end Alix succumbed. Her cheeks burning with the shame of her action, she hunted breathlessly through packets of letters and documents, turned out the drawers, even went through the pockets of her husband's clothes. Only two drawers eluded her - the lower drawer of the chest of drawers and the small right-hand drawer of the writing desk were both locked. But Alix was by now lost to all shame. In one of those drawers she was convinced that she would find evidence of this imaginary woman of the past who obsessed her.

  She remembered that Gerald had left his keys lying carelessly on the sideboard downstairs. She fetched them and tried them one by one. The third key fitted the writing-table drawer. Alix pulled it open eagerly. There was a cheque-book and a wallet well stuffed with notes, and at the back of the drawer a packet of letters tied up with a piece of tape.

  Her breath coming unevenly, Alix untied the tape. Then a deep burning blush overspread her face, and she dropped the letters back into the drawer, closing and relocking it. For the letters were her own, written to Gerald Martin before she married him.

  She turned now to the chest of drawers, more with a wish to feel that she had left nothing undone, than from any expectation of finding what she sought.

  To her annoyance none of the keys on Gerald's bunch fitted the drawer in question. Not to be defeated, Alix went into the other rooms and brought back a selection of keys with her. To her satisfaction, the key of the spare room wardrobe also fitted the chest of drawers. She unlocked the drawer and pulled it open. But there was nothing in it but a roll of newspaper clippings already dirt and discoloured with age.

  Alix breathed a sigh of relief. Nevertheless she glanced at the clippings, curious to know what subject had interested Gerald so much that he had taken the trouble to keep the dusty roll. They were nearly all American papers, dated some seven years ago, and dealing with the trail of the notorious swindler and bigamist, Charles Lemaitre. Lemaitre had been suspected of doing away with his women victims. A skeleton had been found beneath the floor of one of the houses he had rented, and most of the women he had "married" had never been heard of again.

  He had defended himself from the charge with consummate skill, aided by some of the best legal talent in the United States. The Scottish verdict of "Non proven" might perhaps have stated the case best. In its absence, eh was found Not Guilty on the capital charge, though sentenced to a long term of imprisonment on the other charges preferred against him.

  Alix remembered the excitement caused by the case at the time, and also the sensation aroused by the escape of Lemaitre some three years later. He had never been recaptured. The personality of the man and his extraordinary power over women had been discussed at great length in the English papers at the time, together with an account of his excitability in court, his passionate protestations, and his occasional sudden physical collapses, due to the fact that he had a weak heart, though the ignorant accredited it to his dramatic powers.

  There was a picture of him in one of the clippings Alix held, and she studied it with some interest - a long-bearded scholarly-looking gentleman.

  Who was it the face reminded her of? Suddenly, with a shock, she realised that it was Gerald himself. The eyes and brows bore a strong resemblance to him. Perhaps he had kept the cutting for that reason. Her eyes went on to the paragraph beside the picture. Certain dates, it seemed, had been entered in the accused's pocket-book, and it was contended that these were dates when he had done away with his victims. Then a woman gave evidence and identified the prisoner positively by the fact that he had a mole on his left wrist, just below the palm of the left hand.

  Alix dropped the papers from a nerveless hand, and swayed as she stood. On his left wrist, just below the palm, Gerald had a small scar ...

  The room whirled round her. Afterwards it struck her as strange that she should have leaped at once to such absolute certainty. Gerald Martin was Charles Lemaitre! She knew it and accepted it in a flash. Disjointed fragments whirled through her brain, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle fitting into place.

  The money paid for the house - her money - her money only; the bearer bonds she had entrusted to his keeping. Even her dream appeared in its true significance. Deep down in her, her subconscious self had always feared Gerald Martin and wished to escape from him. And it was to Dick Windyford this self of hers had looked for help. That, too, was why she was able to accept the truth so easily, without doubt or hesitation. She was to have been another of Lemaitre's victims. Very soon, perhaps ...

  A half cry escaped her as she remembered something. Wednesday 9 p.m. The cellar, with the flagstones that were so eas
ily raised! Once before, he had buried one of his victims in a cellar. It had been all planned for Thursday night. But to write it down beforehand in that methodical manner - insanity! No, it was logical. Gerald always made a memorandum of his engagements - murder was, to him, a business proposition like any other.

  But what had saved her? What could possibly have saved her? Had she relented at the last minute? No - in a flash the answer came to her. Old George.

  She understood now her husband's uncontrollable anger. Doubtless he had paved the way by telling everyone he met that they were going to London the next day. Then George had come to work unexpectedly, had mentioned London to her, and she had contradicted the story. Too risky to do away with her that night, with old George repeating that conversation. But what an escape! If she had not happened to mention that trivial matter - Alix shuddered.

  And then she stayed motionless as though frozen to stone. She had heard the creak of the gate into the road. Her husband had returned.

  For a moment Alix stayed as though petrified, then she crept on tiptoe to the window, looking out from behind the shelter of the curtain.

  Yes, it was her husband. He was smiling to himself and humming a little tune. In his hand he held an object which almost made the terrified girl's heart stop beating. It was a brand-new spade.

  Alix leaped to a knowledge born of instinct. It was to be tonight ...

  But there was still a chance. Gerald, still humming his little tune, went round to the back of the house.

  Without hesitating a moment, she ran down the stairs and out of the cottage. But just as she emerged from the door, her husband came round the other side of the house.

  "Hallo," he said. "Where are you running off to in such a hurry?"

  Alix strove desperately to appear calm and as usual. Her chance was gone for the moment, but if she was careful not to arouse his suspicions, it would come again later. Even now, perhaps ...

  "I was going to walk to the end of the lane and back," she said, in a voice that sounded weak and uncertain to her own ears.

  "Right," said Gerald, "I'll come with you."

  "No - please, Gerald. I'm - nervy, headachy - I'd rather go alone."

  He looked at her attentively. She fancied a momentary suspicion gleamed in his eye.

  "What's the matter with you, Alix? You're pale - trembling."

  "Nothing," she forced herself to be brusque - smiling. "I've got a headache, that's all. A walk will do me good."

  "Well, it's no good you're saying you don't want me," declared Gerald with his easy laugh. "I'm coming whether you want me or not."

  She dared not protest further. If he suspected that she knew ...

  With an effort she managed to regain something of her normal manner. Yet she had an uneasy feeling that he looked at her sideways every now and then, as though not quite satisfied. She felt that his suspicions were not completely allayed.

  When they returned to the house, he insisted on her lying down, and brought some eau-de-Cologne to bathe her temples. He was, as ever, the devoted husband, yet Alix felt herself as helpless as though bound hand and foot in a trap.

  Not for a minute would he leave her alone. He went with her into the kitchen and helped her to bring in the simple cold dishes she had already prepared. Supper was a meal that choked her, yet she forced herself to eat, and even to appear gay and natural. She knew now that she was fighting for her life. She was alone with this man, miles from help, absolutely at his mercy. Her only chance was so to lull his suspicions that he would leave her alone for a few moments - long enough for her to get to the telephone in the hall and summon assistance. That was her only hope now.

  A momentary hope flashed over her as she remembered how he had abandoned his plan before. Suppose she told him that Dick Windyford was coming up to see them that evening?

  The words trembled on her lips - then she rejected them hastily. This man would not be balked a second time. There was a determination, an elation underneath his calm bearing that sickened her. She would only precipitate the crime. He would murder her there and then, and calmly ring up Dick Windyford with a tale of having been suddenly called away. Oh! if only Dick Windyford were coming to the house this evening. If Dick ...

  A sudden idea flashed into her mind. She looked sharply sideways at her husband as though she feared that he might read her mind. With the forming of a plan, her courage was reinforced. She became so completely natural in manner that she marvelled at herself.

  She made the coffee and took it out to the porch where they often sat on fine evenings.

  "By the way," said George suddenly, "we'll do those photographs later."

  Alix felt a shiver run through her, but she replied nonchalantly, "Can't you manage alone? I'm rather tired tonight."

  "It won't take long." He smiled to himself. "And I can promise you you won't be tired afterwards."

  The words seemed to amuse him. Alix shuddered. Now or never was the time to carry out her plan.

  She rose to her feet.

  "I'm just going to telephone to the butcher," she announced nonchalantly. "Don't you bother to move."

  "To the butcher? At this time of night?"

  "His shop's shut, of course, silly. But he's in his house all right. And tomorrow's Saturday, and I want him to bring me some veal cutlets early, before someone else grabs them from him. The old dear will do anything for me."

  She passed quickly into the house, closing the door behind her. She heard Gerald say, "Don't shut the door," and was quick with her light reply. "It keeps the moths out. I hate moths. Are you afraid I'm going to make love to the butcher, silly?"

  Once inside she snatched down the telephone receiver and gave the number of the Traveller's Arms. She was put through at once.

  "Mr. Windyford? Is he still there? May I speak to him?"

  Then her heart gave a sickening thump. The door was pushed open and her husband came into the hall.

  "Do go away, Gerald," she said pettishly. "I hate anyone listening when I'm telephoning."

  He merely laughed and threw himself into a chair.

  "Sure it really is the butcher you're telephoning to?" he quizzed.

  Alix was in despair. Her plan had failed. In a minute Dick Windyford would come to the phone. Should she risk all and cry out an appeal for help?

  And then, as she nervously depressed and released the little key in the receiver she was holding, which permits the voice to be heard or not heard at the other end, another plan flashed into her head.

  "It will be difficult," she thought. "It means keeping my head, and thinking of the right words, and not faltering for a moment, but I believe I could do it. I must do it."

  And at that minute she heard Dick Windyford's voice at the other end of the phone.

  Alix drew a deep breath. Then she depressed the key firmly and spoke.

  "Mrs. Martin speaking - from Philomel Cottage. Please come(she released the key) tomorrow morning with six nice veal cutlets (she released the key again) It's very important (she released the key) Thank you so much, Mr. Hexworthy: you don't mind my ringing you up so late, I hope, but those veal cutlets are really a matter of (she depressed the key again) life or death (she released it) Very well - tomorrow morning - (she depressed it) as soon as possible."

  She replaced the receiver on the hook and turned to face her husband, breathing hard.

  "So that's how you talk to your butcher, is it?" said Gerald.

  "It's the feminine touch," said Alix lightly.

  She was simmering with excitement. He had suspected nothing. Surely Dick, even if he didn't understand, would come.

  She passed into the sitting room and switched on the electric light. Gerald followed her.

  "You seem very full of spirits now," he said, watching her curiously.

  "Yes," said Alix, "my headache's gone."

  She sat down in her usual seat and smiled at her husband, as he sank into his own chair opposite her. She was saved. It was only five and twenty past
eight. Long before nine o'clock Dick would have arrived.

  "I didn't think much of that coffee you gave me," complained Gerald. "It tasted very bitter."

  "It's a new kind I was trying. We won't have it again if you don't like it, dear."

  Alix took up a piece of needlework and began to stitch. Gerald read a few pages of his book. Then he glanced up at the clock and tossed the book away.

  "Half-past eight. Time to go down to the cellar and start work."

  The sewing slipped from Alix's fingers.

  "Oh, not yet. Let us wait until nine o'clock."

  "No, my girl - half-past eight. That's the time I fixed. You'll be able to get to bed all the earlier."

  "But I'd rather wait until nine."

  "You know when I fix a time, I always stick to it. Come along, Alix. I'm not going to wait a minute longer."

  Alix looked up at him, and in spite of herself she felt a wave of terror slide over her. The mask had been lifted. Gerald's hands were twitching; his eyes were shining with excitement; he was continually passing his tongue over his dry lips. He no longer cared to conceal his excitement.

  Alix thought: "It's true - he can't wait - he's like a madman."

  He strode over to her, and jerked her onto her feet with a hand on her shoulder.

  "Come on, my girl - or I'll carry you there."

  His tone was gay, but there was an undisguised ferocity behind it that appalled her. With a supreme effort se jerked herself free and clung cowering against the wall. She was powerless. She couldn't get away - she couldn't do anything - and he was coming towards her.

  "Now, Alix - "

  "No - no."

  She screamed, her hands held out impotently to ward him off.

  "Gerald - stop - I've got something to tell you, something to confess - "

  He did stop.

  "To confess?" he said curiously.

  "Yes, to confess." She went on desperately, seeking to hold his arrested attention.

  A look of contempt swept over his face. The spell was broken.

  "A former lover, I suppose," he sneered.

  "No," said Alix. "Something else. You'd call it, I expect - yes, you'd call it a crime."