Agatha Christie - Hercule Poirot 32 - Dead Man's Folly (1956) by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie [Christie, Agatha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Adult, Classics
ISBN: 0425174735
Amazon: B000FCK9CM
Publisher: William Morrow Paperbacks
Published: 2005-07-05T05:00:00+00:00

II

Further conversation was brought to an end as the door opened and a tall vague-looking young man entered. He was wearing a neat grey flannel suit, but his shirt collar was crumpled and his tie askew and his hair stood up on end in an unruly fashion.

“Mr. Alec Legge?” said the inspector, looking up.

“No,” said the young man, “I’m Michael Weyman. You asked for me, I understand.”

“Quite true, sir,” said Inspector Bland. “Won’t you take a chair?” He indicated a chair at the opposite side of the table.

“I don’t care for sitting,” said Michael Weyman, “I like to stride about. What are all you police doing here anyway? What’s happened?”

Inspector Bland looked at him in surprise.

“Didn’t Sir George inform you, sir?” he asked.

“Nobody’s ‘informed me,’ as you put it, of anything. I don’t sit in Sir George’s pocket all the time. What has happened?”

“You’re staying in the house, I understand?”

“Of course I’m staying in the house. What’s that got to do with it?”

“Simply that I imagined that all the people staying in the house would by now have been informed of this afternoon’s tragedy.”

“Tragedy? What tragedy?”

“The girl who was playing the part of the murder victim has been killed.”

“No!” Michael Weyman seemed exuberantly surprised. “Do you mean really killed? No fakery-pokery?”

“I don’t know what you mean by fakery-pokery. The girl’s dead.”

“How was she killed?”

“Strangled with a piece of cord.”

Michael Weyman gave a whistle.

“Exactly as in the scenario? Well, well, that does give one ideas.” He strode over to the window, turned rapidly about, and said, “So we’re all under suspicion, are we? Or was it one of the local boys?”

“We don’t see how it could possibly have been one of the local boys, as you put it,” said the inspector.

“No more do I really,” said Michael Weyman. “Well, Inspector, many of my friends call me crazy, but I’m not that kind of crazy. I don’t roam around the countryside strangling underdeveloped spotty young women.”

“You are down here, I understand, Mr. Weyman, designing a tennis pavilion for Sir George?”

“A blameless occupation,” said Michael. “Criminally speaking, that is. Architecturally, I’m not so sure. The finished product will probably represent a crime against good taste. But that doesn’t interest you, Inspector. What does interest you?”

“Well, I should like to know, Mr. Weyman, exactly where you were between quarter past four this afternoon and say five o’clock.”

“How do you tape it down to that—medical evidence?”

“Not entirely, sir. A witness saw the girl alive at a quarter past four.”

“What witness—or mayn’t I ask?”

“Miss Brewis. Lady Stubbs asked her to take down a tray of creamy cakes with some fruitade to the girl.”

“Our Hattie asked her that? I don’t believe it for a moment.”

“Why don’t you believe it, Mr. Weyman?”

“It’s not like her. Not the sort of thing she’d think of or bother about. Dear Lady Stubbs’ mind revolves entirely round herself.”

“I’m still waiting, Mr. Weyman, for your answer to my question.”

“Where I was between four fifteen and five o’clock? Well, really, Inspector, I can’t say offhand.

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