Towards Zero. Агата Кристи
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Battle was stroking his chin.
‘I see.’
‘You do understand?’
‘No, Sylvia, I don’t understand, because I’m not made that way. If anyone tried to make me say I’d done something I hadn’t I’d feel more like giving them a sock on the jaw. But I see how it came about in your case—and that gimlet-eyed Amp of yours has had as pretty an example of unusual psychology shoved under her nose as any half-baked exponent of misunderstood theories could ask for. The thing to do now is clear up this mess. Where’s Miss Amphrey?’
Miss Amphrey was hovering tactfully near at hand. Her sympathetic smile froze on her face as Superintendent Battle said bluntly:
‘In justice to my daughter, I must ask that you call in your local police over this.’
‘But, Mr Battle, Sylvia herself—’
‘Sylvia has never touched a thing that didn’t belong to her in this place.’
‘I quite understand that, as a father—’
‘I’m not talking as a father, but as a policeman. Get the police to give you a hand over this. They’ll be discreet. You’ll find the things hidden away somewhere and the right set of fingerprints on them, I expect. Petty pilferers don’t think of wearing gloves. I’m taking my daughter away with me now. If the police find evidence—real evidence—to connect her with the thefts, I’m prepared for her to appear in court and take what’s coming to her, but I’m not afraid.’
As he drove out of the gate with Sylvia beside him some five minutes later, he asked:
‘Who’s the girl with fair hair, rather fuzzy, very pink cheeks and a spot on her chin, blue eyes far apart? I passed her in the passage.’
‘That sounds like Olive Parsons.’
‘Ah, well, I shouldn’t be surprised if she were the one.’
‘Did she look frightened?’
‘No, looked smug! Calm smug look I’ve seen in the police court hundreds of times! I’d bet good money she’s the thief—but you won’t find her confessing—not much!’
Sylvia said with a sigh:
‘It’s like coming out of a bad dream. Oh Daddy, I am sorry! Oh, I am sorry! How could I be such a fool, such an utter fool? I do feel awful about it.’
‘Ah, well,’ said Superintendent Battle, patting her on the arm with a hand he disengaged from the wheel, and uttering one of his pet forms of trite consolation. ‘Don’t you worry. These things are sent to try us. Yes, these things are sent to try us. At least, I suppose so. I don’t see what else they can be sent for …’
April 19th
The sun was pouring down on Nevile Strange’s house at Hindhead.
It was an April day such as usually occurs at least once in a month, hotter than most of the June days to follow.
Nevile Strange was coming down the stairs. He was dressed in white flannels and held four tennis racquets under his arm.
If a man could have been selected from amongst other Englishmen as an example of a lucky man with nothing to wish for, a Selection Committee might have chosen Nevile Strange. He was a man well known to the British public, a first-class tennis player and all-round sportsman. Though he had never reached the finals at Wimbledon, he had lasted several of the opening rounds and in the mixed doubles had twice reached the semi-finals. He was, perhaps, too much of an all-round athlete to be a Champion tennis player. He was scratch at golf, a fine swimmer and had done some good climbs in the Alps. He was thirty-three, had magnificent health, good looks, plenty of money, an extremely beautiful wife whom he had recently married and, to all appearances, no cares or worries.
Nevertheless as Nevile Strange went downstairs this fine morning a shadow went with him. A shadow perceptible, perhaps, to no eyes but his. But he was aware of it, the thought of it furrowed his brow and made his expression troubled and indecisive.
He crossed the hall, squared his shoulders as though definitely throwing off some burden, passed through the living-room and out on to a glass-enclosed verandah where his wife, Kay, was curled up amongst cushions drinking orange juice.
Kay Strange was twenty-three and unusually beautiful. She had a slender but subtly voluptuous figure, dark red hair, such a perfect skin that she used only the slightest make-up to enhance it, and those dark eyes and brows which so seldom go with red hair and which are so devastating when they do.
Her husband said lightly:
‘Hullo, Gorgeous, what’s for breakfast?’
Kay replied: ‘Horribly bloody-looking kidneys for you—and mushrooms—and rolls of bacon.’
‘Sounds all right,’ said Nevile.
He helped himself to the aforementioned viands and poured out a cup of coffee. There was a companionable silence for some minutes.
‘Oo,’ said Kay, voluptuously wriggling bare toes with scarlet manicured nails. ‘Isn’t the sun lovely? England’s not so bad after all.’
They had just come back from the South of France.
Nevile, after a bare glance at the newspaper headlines, had turned to the Sports page and merely said ‘Um …’
Then, proceeding to toast and marmalade, he put the paper aside and opened his letters.
There were a good many of these, but most of them he tore across and chucked away. Circulars, advertisements, printed matter.
Kay said: ‘I don’t like my colour scheme in the living-room. Can I have it done over, Nevile?’
‘Anything you like, beautiful.’
‘Peacock blue,’ said Kay dreamily, ‘and ivory satin cushions.’
‘You’ll have to throw in an ape,’ said Nevile.
‘You can be the ape,’ said Kay.
Nevile opened another letter.
‘Oh, by the way,’ said Kay. ‘Shirty has asked us to go to Norway on the yacht at the end of June. Rather sickening we can’t.’
She looked cautiously sideways at Nevile and added wistfully: ‘I would love it so.’
Something, some cloud, some uncertainty, seemed hovering on Nevile’s face.
Kay said rebelliously:
‘Have we got to go to dreary old Camilla’s?’
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