Crooked House. Agatha Christie

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      Suddenly all emotion was wiped away as though by a sponge and, turning to me, she asked in a businesslike tone:

      ‘Don’t you think that would be the way to play Edith Thompson?’

      I said I thought that would be exactly the way to play Edith Thompson. At the moment I could only remember very vaguely who Edith Thompson was, but I was anxious to start off well with Sophia’s mother.

      ‘Rather like Brenda, really, wasn’t she?’ said Magda. ‘D’you know, I never thought of that. It’s very interesting. Shall I point that out to the inspector?’

      The man behind the desk frowned very slightly.

      ‘There’s really no need, Magda,’ he said, ‘for you to see him at all. I can tell him anything he wants to know.’

      ‘Not see him?’ Her voice went up. ‘But of course I must see him! Darling, darling, you’re so terribly unimaginative! You don’t realize the importance of details. He’ll want to know exactly how and when everything happened, all the little things one noticed and wondered about at the time—’

      ‘Mother,’ said Sophia, coming through the open door, ‘you’re not to tell the inspector a lot of lies.’

      ‘Sophia—darling …’

      ‘I know, precious, that you’ve got it all set and that you’re ready to give a most beautiful performance. But you’ve got it wrong. Quite wrong.’

      ‘Nonsense. You don’t know—’

      ‘I do know. You’ve got to play it quite differently, darling. Subdued—saying very little—holding it all back—on your guard—protecting the family.’

      Magda Leonides’ face showed the naïve perplexity of a child.

      ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘do you really think—’

      ‘Yes, I do. Throw it away. That’s the idea.’

      Sophia added, as a little pleased smile began to show on her mother’s face:

      ‘I’ve made you some chocolate. It’s in the drawing-room.’

      ‘Oh—good—I’m starving—’

      She paused in the doorway.

      ‘You don’t know,’ she said, and the words appeared to be addressed either to me or to the bookshelf behind my head, ‘how lovely it is to have a daughter!’

      On this exit line she went out.

      ‘God knows,’ said Miss de Haviland, ‘what she will say to the police!’

      ‘She’ll be all right,’ said Sophia.

      ‘She might say anything.’

      ‘Don’t worry,’ said Sophia. ‘She’ll play it the way the producer says. I’m the producer!’

      She went out after her mother, then wheeled back to say:

      ‘Here’s Chief Inspector Taverner to see you, Father. You don’t mind if Charles stays, do you?’

      I thought that a very faint air of bewilderment showed on Philip Leonides’ face. It well might! But his incurious habit served me in good stead. He murmured:

      ‘Oh certainly—certainly,’ in a rather vague voice.

      Chief Inspector Taverner came in, solid, dependable, and with an air of businesslike promptitude that was somehow soothing.

      ‘Just a little unpleasantness,’ his manner seemed to say, ‘and then we shall be out of the house for good—and nobody will be more pleased than I shall. We don’t want to hang about, I can assure you …’

      I don’t know how he managed, without any words at all, but merely by drawing up a chair to the desk, to convey what he did, but it worked. I sat down unobtrusively a little way off.

      ‘Yes, Chief Inspector?’ said Philip.

      Miss de Haviland said abruptly:

      ‘You don’t want me, Chief Inspector?’

      ‘Not just at the moment, Miss de Haviland. Later, if I might have a few words with you—’

      ‘Of course. I shall be upstairs.’

      She went out, shutting the door behind her.

      ‘Well, Chief Inspector?’ Philip repeated.

      ‘I know you’re a very busy gentleman and I don’t want to disturb you for long. But I may mention to you in confidence that our suspicions are confirmed. Your father did not die a natural death. His death was the result of an overdose of physostigmine—more usually known as eserine.’

      Philip bowed his head. He showed no particular emotion.

      ‘I don’t know whether that suggests anything to you?’ Taverner went on.

      ‘What should it suggest? My own view is that my father must have taken the poison by accident.’

      ‘You really think so, Mr Leonides?’

      ‘Yes, it seems to me perfectly possible. He was close on ninety, remember, and with very imperfect eyesight.’

      ‘So he emptied the contents of his eyedrop bottle into an insulin bottle. Does that really seem to you a credible suggestion, Mr Leonides?’

      Philip did not reply. His face became even more impassive.

      Taverner went on:

      ‘We have found the eyedrop bottle, empty—in the dustbin, with no fingerprints on it. That in itself is curious. In the normal way there should have been fingerprints. Certainly your father’s, possibly his wife’s, or the valet …’

      Philip Leonides looked up.

      ‘What about the valet?’ he said. ‘What about Johnson?’

      ‘You are suggesting Johnson as the possible criminal? He certainly had opportunity. But when we come to motive it is different. It was your father’s custom to pay him a bonus every year—each year the bonus was increased. Your father made it clear to him that this was in lieu of any sum that he might otherwise have left him in his will. The bonus now, after seven years’ service, has reached a very considerable sum every year and is still rising. It was obviously to Johnson’s interest that your father should live as long as possible. Moreover, they were on excellent terms, and Johnson’s record of past service is unimpeachable—he is a thoroughly skilled and faithful valet attendant.’ He paused. ‘We do not suspect Johnson.’

      Philip replied tonelessly: ‘I see.’

      ‘Now, Mr Leonides, perhaps you will give me a detailed account of your own movements on the day of your father’s СКАЧАТЬ