The Listerdale Mystery and Eleven Other Stories

by Agatha Christie

  And at once she saw that she had struck the right note. Again his attention was arrested, held. Seeing that, her nerve came back to her. She felt mistress of the situation once more.

  "You had better sit down again," she said quietly.

  She herself crossed the room to her old chair and sat down. She even stooped and picked up her needlework. But behind her calmness she was thinking and inventing feverishly. For the story she invented must hold his interest until help arrived.

  "I told you," she said, "that I had been a short-hand-typist for fifteen years. That was not entirely true. There were two intervals. The first occurred when I was twenty-two. I came across a man, an elderly man with a little property. He fell in love with me and asked me to marry him. I accepted." She paused. "I induced him to insure his life in my favour."

  She saw a sudden keen interest spring up in her husband's face, and went on with renewed assurance.

  "During the war I worked for a time in a Hospital Dispensary. There I had the handling of all kinds of rare drugs and poisons. Yes, poisons."

  She paused reflectively. He was keenly interested now, not a doubt of it. The murderer is bound to have an interest in murder. She had gambled on that, and succeeded. She stole a glance at the clock. It was five and twenty to nine.

  "There is one poison - it is a little white powder. A pinch of it means death. You know something about poisons perhaps?"

  She put the question in some trepidation. If he did, she would have to be careful.

  "No," said Gerald, "I know very little about them."

  She drew a breath of relief.

  "You have heard of hyoscine, of course? This is a drug that acts much the same way, but it is absolutely untraceable. Any doctor would give a certificate of heart failure. I stole a small quantity of this drug and kept it by me."

  She paused, marshalling her forces.

  "Go on," said Gerald.

  "No. I'm afraid. I can't tell you. Another time."

  "Now," he said impatiently. "I want to hear."

  "We had been married a month. I was very good to my elderly husband, very kind and devoted. He spoke in praise of me to all the neighbours. Everyone knew what a devoted wife I was. I always made his coffee myself every evening. One evening, when we were alone together, I put a pinch of the deadly alkaloid in his cup - "

  Alix paused, and carefully re-threaded her needle. She, who had never acted in her life, rivalled the greatest actress in the world at this moment. She was actually living the part of the cold-blooded poisoner.

  "It was very peaceful. I sat watching him. Once he gasped a little and asked for air. I opened the window. Then he said he could not move from his chair. Presently he died."

  She stopped, smiling. It was a quarter to nine. Surely they would come soon.

  "How much," said Gerald, "was the insurance money?"

  "About two thousand pounds. I speculated with it, and lost it. I went back to my office work. But I never meant to remain there long. Then I met another man. I had stuck to my maiden name at the office. He didn't know I had been married before. He was a younger man, rather good-looking, and quite well off. We were married quietly in Sussex. He didn't want to insure his life, but of course he made a will in my favour. He liked me to make his coffee myself also, just as my first husband had done."

  Alix smiled reflectively, and added simply, "I make very good coffee."

  Then she went on.

  "I had several friends in the village where we were living. They were very sorry for me, with my husband dying suddenly of heart failure one evening after dinner. I didn't quite like the doctor. I don't think he suspected me, but he was certainly very surprised at my husband's sudden death. I don't quite know why I drifted back to the office again. Habit, I suppose. My second husband left about four thousand pounds. I didn't speculate with it this time. I invested it. Then, you see - "

  But she was interrupted. Gerald Martin, his face suffused with blood, half-choking, was pointing a shaking forefinger at her.

  "The coffee - my God! the coffee!"

  She stared at him.

  "I understand now why it was bitter. You devil! You've been up to your tricks again."

  His hands gripped the arms of his chair. He was ready to spring upon her.

  "You've poisoned me."

  Alix had retreated from him to the fireplace. Now, terrified, she opened her lips to deny - and then paused. In another minute he would spring upon her. She summoned all her strength. Her eyes held his steadily, compellingly.

  "Yes," she said, "I poisoned you. Already the poison is working. At this minute you can't move from your chair - you can't move - "

  If she could him three - even a few minutes ...

  Ah! what was that? Footsteps on the road. The creak of the gate. Then footsteps on the path outside. The outer door opening.

  "You can't move," she said again.

  Then she slipped past him and fled headlong from the room to fall, half fainting, into Dick Windyford's arms.

  "My God! Alix!" he cried.

  Then he turned to the man with him, a tall stalwart figure in policeman's uniform.

  "Go and see what's been happening in that room."

  He laid Alix carefully down on a couch and bent over her.

  "My little girl," he murmured. "My poor little girl. What have they been doing to you?"

  Her eyelids fluttered and her lips just murmured his name.

  Dick was aroused from tumultuous thoughts by the policeman's touching him on the arm.

  "There's nothing in that room, sir, but a man sitting in a chair. Looks as though he'd had some kind of bad fright, and - "

  "Yes?"

  "Well, sir, he's - dead."

  They were startled by hearing Alix's voice. She spoke as though in some kind of dream, her eyes still closed.

  "And presently," she said, almost as though she were quoting from something, "he died - "

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  The Listerdale Mystery

  The Girl in the Train

  "And that's that!" observed George Rowland ruefully, as he gazed up at the imposing smoke-grimed facade of the building he had just quitted.

  It might be said to represent very aptly the power of Money - and Money, in the person of William Rowland, uncle to the aforementioned George, had just spoken its mind very freely. In the course of a brief ten minutes, from being the apple of his uncle's eye, the heir to his wealth, and a young man with a promising business career in front of him, George had suddenly become one of the vast army of the

  unemployed.

  "And in these clothes they won't even give me the dole," reflected Mr. Rowland gloomily, "and as for writing poems and selling them at the door at twopence (or 'what you care to give, lydy') I simply haven't got the brains."

  It was true that George embodied a veritable triumph of the tailor's art. He was exquisitely and beautifully arrayed. Solomon and the lilies of the field were simply not in it with George. But man cannot live by clothes alone - unless he has had some considerable training in the art - and Mr. Rowland was painfully aware of the fact.

  "And all because of that rotten show last night," he reflected sadly.

  The rotten show last night had been a Covent Garden Ball. Mr. Rowland had returned from it at a somewhat late - or rather early - hour - as a matter of fact, he could not strictly say that he remembered returning at all. Rogers, his uncle's butler, was a helpful fellow, and could doubtless give more details on the matter. A splitting head, a cup of strong tea, and an arrival at the office at five minutes to twelve instead of half-past nine had precipitated the catastrophe Mr. Rowland, senior, who for twenty-four years had condoned and paid up as a tactful relative should, had suddenly abandoned these tactics
and revealed himself in a totally new light. The inconsequence of George's replies (the young man's head was still opening and shutting like some mediæval instrument of the Inquisition) had displeased him still further. William Rowland was nothing if not thorough. He cast his nephew adrift upon the world in a few short succinct words, and then settled down to his interrupted survey of some oil fields in Peru.

  George Rowland shook the dust of his uncle's office from off his feet, and stepped out into the City of London. George was a practical fellow. A good lunch, he considered, was essential to a review of the situation. He had it. Then he retraced his steps to the family mansion. Rogers opened the door. His well-trained face expressed no surprise at seeing George at this unusual hour.

  "Good afternoon, Rogers. Just pack up my things for me, will you? I'm leaving here."

  "Yes, sir. Just for a short visit, sir?"

  "For good, Rogers. I am going to the colonies this afternoon."

  "Indeed, sir?"

  "Yes. That is, if there is a suitable boat. Do you know anything about the boats, Rogers?"

  "Which colony were you thinking of visiting, sir?"

  "I'm not particular. Any of 'em will do. Let's say Australia. What do you think of the idea, Rogers?"

  Rogers coughed discreetly.

  "Well, sir, I've certainly heard it said that there's room out there for anyone who really wants to work."

  Mr. Rowland gazed at him with interest and admiration.

  "Very neatly put, Rogers. Just what I was thinking myself. I shan't go to Australia - not today, at any rate. Fetch me an A.B.C., will you? We will select something nearer at hand."

  Rogers brought the required volume. George opened it at random and turned the pages with a rapid hand.

  "Perth - too far away - Putney Bridge - too near at hand. Ramsgate? I think not. Reigate also leaves me cold. Why - what an extraordinary thing! There's actually a place called Rowland's Castle. Ever heard of it, Rogers?"

  "I fancy, sir, that you go there from Waterloo."

  "What an extraordinary fellow you are, Rogers. You know everything. Well, well, Rowland's Castle! I wonder what sort of a place it is."

  "Not much of a place, I should say, sir."

  "All the better; there'll be less competition. These quiet little country hamlets have a lot of the old feudal spirit knocking about. The last of the original Rowlands ought to meet with instant appreciation. I shouldn't wonder if they elected me mayor in a week."

  He shut up the A.B.C. with a bang.

  "The die is cast. Pack me a small suitcase, will you, Rogers? Also my compliments to the cook, and will she oblige me with a loan of the cat. Dick Whittington, you know. When you set out to become a Lord Mayor, a cat is essential."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but the cat is not available at the present moment."

  "How is that?"

  "A family of eight, sir. Arrived this morning."

  "You don't say so. I thought its name was Peter."

  "So it is, sir. A great surprise to alt of us."

  "A case of careless christening and the deceitful sex, eh? Well, well, I shall have to go catless. Pack up those things at once, will you?"

  "Very good, sir."

  Rogers withdrew, to reappear ten minutes later.

  "Shall I call a taxi, sir?"

  "Yes, please."

  Rogers hesitated, then advanced a little farther into the room.

  "You'll excuse the liberty, sir, but if I was you, I shouldn't take too much notice of anything Mr. Rowland said this morning. He was at one of those city dinners last night and - "

  "Say no more," said George. "I understand."

  "And being inclined to gout - "

  "I know, I know. Rather a strenuous evening for you, Rogers, with two of us, eh? But I've set my heart on distinguishing myself at Rowland's Castle - the cradle of my historic race - that would go well in a speech, wouldn't it? A wire to me there, or a discreet advertisement in the morning papers, will recall me at any time if a fricassée of veal is in preparation. And now - to Waterloo! - as Wellington said on the eve of the historic battle."

  Waterloo station was not at its brightest and best that afternoon. Mr. Rowland eventually discovered a train that would take him to his destination, but it was an undistinguished train, an unimposing train - a train that nobody seemed anxious to travel by. Mr. Rowland had a first-class carriage to himself, up in the front of the train. A fog was descending in an indeterminate way over the metropolis, now it lifted, now it descended. The platform was deserted, and only the asthmatic breathing of the engine broke the silence.

  And then, all of a sudden, things began to happen with bewildering rapidity.

  A girl happened first. She wrenched open the door and jumped in, rousing Mr. Rowland from something perilously near a nap, exclaiming as she did so: "Oh! Hide me - oh! please hide me."

  George was essentially a man of action - his not to reason why, but to do and die, etc. There is only one place to hide in a railway carriage - under the seat. In seven seconds the girl was stowed there, and George's suit-case, negligently standing on end, covered her retreat. None too soon. An infuriated face appeared at the carriage window.

  "My niece! You have her here. I want my niece."

  George, a little breathless, was reclining in the corner, deep in the sporting column of the evening paper, one-thirty edition. He laid it aside with the air of a man recalling himself from far away.

  "I beg your pardon, sir?" he said politely.

  "My niece - what have you done with her?"

  Acting on the policy attack is always better than defence, George leaped into action.

  "What the devil do you mean?" he cried, with a very credible imitation of his uncle's manner.

  The other paused a minute, taken aback by this sudden fierceness. He was a fat man, still panting a little as though he had run some way. His hair was cut en brosse, and he had a moustache of the Hohenzollern persuasion. His accents were decidedly guttural, and the stiffness of his carriage denoted that he was more at home in uniform than out of it. George had the trueborn Briton's prejudice against foreigners - and an especial distaste for German-looking foreigners.

  "What the devil do you mean, sir? he repeated angrily.

  "She came in here," said the other. "I saw her. What have you done with her?"

  George flung aside the paper and thrust his head and shoulders through the window.

  "So that's it, is it?" he roared. "Blackmail. But you've tried it on the wrong person. I read all about you in the Daily Mail this morning. Here, guard, guard!"

  Already attracted from afar by the altercation, that functionary came hurrying up.

  "Here, guard," said Mr. Rowland, with that air of authority which the lower classes so adore. "This fellow is annoying me. I'll give him in charge for attempted blackmail if necessary. Pretends I've got his niece hidden in here. There's a regular gang of these foreigners trying this sort of thing on. It ought to be stopped. Take him away, will you? Here's my card if you want it."

  The guard looked from one to the other. His mind was soon made up. His training led him to despise foreigners and to respect and admire well-dressed gentlemen who travelled first-class.

  He laid his hand on the shoulder of the intruder.

  "Here," he said, "you come out of this."

  At this crisis the stranger's English failed him, and he plunged into passionate profanity in his native tongue.

  "That's enough of that," said the guard. "Stand away, will you? She's due out."

  Flags were waved and whistles were blown. With an unwilling jerk the train drew out of the station.

  George remained at his observation post until they were clear of the platform. Then he drew in his head, and picking up the suitcase tossed it into the rack.

  "It's quite all right. You can come out," he said reassuringly.

  The gift crawled out.

  "Oh!" she gasped. "How can I thank you?"

  "That's quite all right. It's
been a pleasure, I assure you," returned George nonchalantly.

  He smiled at her reassuringly. There was a slightly puzzled look in her eyes. She seemed to be missing something to which she was accustomed. At that moment, she caught sight of herself in the narrow glass opposite, and gave a heartfelt gasp.

  Whether the carriage cleaners do, or do not, sweep under the seats every day is doubtful. Appearances were against their doing so, but it may be that every particle of dirt and smoke finds its way there like a homing bird. George had hardly had time to take in the girl's appearance, so sudden had been her arrival, and so brief the space of time before she crawled into hiding, but it was certainly a trim and well-dressed young woman who had disappeared under the seat. Now her little red hat was crushed and dented, and her face was disfigured with long streaks of dirt.

  "Oh!" said the girl.

  She fumbled for her bag. George, with the tact of a true gentleman, looked fixedly out of the window and admired the streets of London south of the Thames.

  "How can I thank you?" said the girl again.

  Taking this as a hint that conversation might now be resumed, George withdrew his gaze and made another polite disclaimer, but this time with a good deal of added warmth in his manner.

  The girl was absolutely lovely! Never before, George told himself, had he seen such a lovely girl. The ernpressernent of his manner became even more marked.

  "I think it was simply splendid of you," said the girl with enthusiasm.

  "Not at all. Easiest thing in the world. Only too pleased been of use," mumbled George.

  "Splendid," she reiterated emphatically.

  It is undoubtedly pleasant to have the loveliest girl you have ever seen gazing into your eyes and telling you how splendid you are. George enjoyed it as much as anyone would.

  Then there came a rather difficult silence. It seemed to dawn upon the girl that further explanation might be expected She flushed a little.

  "The awkward part of it is," she said nervously, "that I'm afraid I can't explain."

  She looked at him with a piteous air of uncertainty.

  "You can't explain?''

  "No."

  "How perfectly splendid!" said Mr. Rowland with enthusiasm.