Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?. Agatha ChristieЧитать онлайн книгу.
wasn’t in the train. You said that at the station,’ said Bobby feebly.
‘Same thing.’
‘But why –’
‘Darling – it’s obvious. Why should anyone want to put you out of the way? You’re not the heir to a fortune or anything.’
‘I may be. Some great aunt I’ve never heard of in New Zealand or somewhere may have left me all her money.’
‘Nonsense. Not without knowing you. And if she didn’t know you, why leave money to a fourth son? Why, in these hard times even a clergyman mightn’t have a fourth son! No, it’s all quite clear. No one benefits by your death, so that’s ruled out. Then there’s revenge. You haven’t seduced a chemist’s daughter, by any chance?’
‘Not that I can remember,’ said Bobby with dignity.
‘I know. One seduces so much that one can’t keep count. But I should say offhand that you’ve never seduced anyone at all.’
‘You’re making me blush, Frankie. And why must it be a chemist’s daughter, anyway?’
‘Free access to morphia. It’s not so easy to get hold of morphia.’
‘Well, I haven’t seduced a chemist’s daughter.’
‘And you haven’t got any enemies that you know of?’
Bobby shook his head.
‘Well, there you are,’ said Frankie triumphantly. ‘It must be the man who was pushed over the cliff. What do the police think?’
‘They think it must have been a lunatic.’
‘Nonsense. Lunatics don’t wander about with unlimited supplies of morphia looking for odd bottles of beer to put it into. No, somebody pushed Pritchard over the cliff. A minute or two later you come along and he thinks you saw him do it and so determines to put you out of the way.’
‘I don’t think that will hold water, Frankie.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, to begin with, I didn’t see anything.’
‘Yes, but he didn’t know that.’
‘And if I had seen anything, I should have said so at the inquest.’
‘I suppose that’s so,’ said Frankie unwillingly.
She thought for a minute or two.
‘Perhaps he thought you’d seen something that you didn’t think was anything but which really was something. That sounds pure gibberish, but you get the idea?’
Bobby nodded.
‘Yes, I see what you mean, but it doesn’t seem very probable, somehow.’
‘I’m sure that cliff business had something to do with this. You were on the spot – the first person to be there –’
‘Thomas was there, too,’ Bobby reminded her. ‘And nobody’s tried to poison him.’
‘Perhaps they’re going to,’ said Frankie cheerfully. ‘Or perhaps they’ve tried and failed.’
‘It all seems very far-fetched.’
‘I think it’s logical. If you get two out of the way things happening in a stagnant pond like Marchbolt – wait – there’s a third thing.’
‘What?’
‘That job you were offered. That, of course, is quite a small thing, but it was odd, you must admit. I’ve never heard of a foreign firm that specialized in seeking out undistinguished ex-Naval officers.’
‘Did you say undistinguished?’
‘You hadn’t got into the BMJ, then. But you see my point. You’ve seen something you weren’t meant to see – or so they (whoever they are) think. Very well. They first try to get rid of you by offering you a job abroad. Then, when that fails, they try to put you out of the way altogether.’
‘Isn’t that rather drastic? And anyway a great risk to take?’
‘Oh! but murderers are always frightfully rash. The more murders they do, the more murders they want to do.’
‘Like The Third Bloodstain,’ said Bobby, remembering one of his favourite works of fiction.
‘Yes, and in real life, too – Smith and his wives and Armstrong and people.’
‘Well, but, Frankie, what on earth is it I’m supposed to have seen?’
‘That, of course, is the difficulty,’ admitted Frankie. ‘I agree that it can’t have been the actual pushing, because you would have told about that. It must be something about the man himself. Perhaps he had a birthmark or double-jointed fingers or some strange physical peculiarity.’
‘Your mind is running on Dr Thorndyke, I see. It couldn’t be anything like that because whatever I saw the police would see as well.’
‘So they would. That was an idiotic suggestion. It’s very difficult, isn’t it?’
‘It’s a pleasing theory,’ said Bobby. ‘And it makes me feel important, but all the same, I don’t believe it’s much more than a theory.’
‘I’m sure I’m right.’ Frankie rose. ‘I must be off now. Shall I come and see you again tomorrow?’
‘Oh! Do. The arch chatter of the nurses gets very monotonous. By the way, you’re back from London very soon?’
‘My dear, as soon as I heard about you, I tore back. It’s most exciting to have a romantically poisoned friend.’
‘I don’t know whether morphia is so very romantic,’ said Bobby reminiscently.
‘Well, I’ll come tomorrow. Do I kiss you or don’t I?’
‘It’s not catching,’ said Bobby encouragingly.
‘Then I’ll do my duty to the sick thoroughly.’
She kissed him lightly.
‘See you tomorrow.’
The nurse came in with Bobby’s tea as she went out.
‘I’ve seen her pictures in the papers often. She’s not so very like them, though. And, of course, I’ve seen her driving about in her car, but I’ve never seen her before close to, so to speak. Not a bit haughty, is she?’
‘Oh, no!’ said Bobby. ‘I should never call Frankie haughty.’
‘I said to Sister, I said, she’s as natural as anything. Not a bit stuck up. I said to Sister, she’s just like you or me, I said.’
Silently dissenting violently from this view, Bobby returned no reply. The nurse, disappointed by his lack of response, left the room.
Bobby was left to his own thoughts.
He finished his tea. Then he went over in his mind the possibilities of Frankie’s amazing theory, and ended by deciding reluctantly against it. He then cast about for other distractions.
His eye was caught by the vases of lilies. Frightfully sweet of Frankie to bring him all these flowers, and of course they were lovely, but he wished it had occurred to her to bring him a few detective stories instead. He cast his eye over the table beside him. There was a novel of Ouida’s and a copy of John Halifax, Gentleman and last week’s Marchbolt Weekly Times. He picked up John Halifax, Gentleman.
After five minutes he put it down. To a mind nourished on The Third Bloodstain, The Case of the Murdered Archduke and The Strange Adventure of the Florentine Dagger, John Halifax, Gentleman, lacked pep.
With a sigh he picked up last week’s Marchbolt Weekly