Mrs. McGinty's Dead: Hercule Poirot Investigates (Hercule Poirot series Book 28) by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie [Christie, Agatha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780061749865
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-03-16T23:00:00+00:00

Thirteen

Mrs. Oliver, glass in hand, approached Hercule Poirot towards the end of the Carpenters’ party. Up till that moment they had each of them been the centre of an admiring circle. Now that a good deal of gin had been consumed, and the party was going well, there was a tendency for old friends to get together and retail local scandal, and the two outsiders were able to talk to each other.

“Come out on the terrace,” said Mrs. Oliver, in a conspirator’s whisper.

At the same time she pressed into his hand a small piece of paper.

Together they stepped out through the French windows and walked along the terrace. Poirot unfolded the piece of paper.

“Dr. Rendell,” he read.

He looked questioningly at Mrs. Oliver. Mrs. Oliver nodded vigorously, a large plume of grey hair falling across her face as she did so.

“He’s the murderer,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“You think so? Why?”

“I just know it,” said Mrs. Oliver. “He’s the type. Hearty and genial, and all that.”

“Perhaps.”

Poirot sounded unconvinced.

“But what would you say was his motive?”

“Unprofessional conduct,” said Mrs. Oliver. “And Mrs. McGinty knew about it. But whatever the reason was, you can be quite sure it was him. I’ve looked at all the others, and he’s the one.”

In reply, Poirot remarked conversationally:

“Last night somebody tried to push me on to the railway line at Kilchester station.”

“Good gracious. To kill you, do you mean?”

“I have no doubt that was the idea.”

“And Dr. Rendell was out on a case, I know he was.”

“I understand—yes—that Dr. Rendell was out on a case.”

“Then that settles it,” said Mrs. Oliver with satisfaction.

“Not quite,” said Poirot. “Both Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter were in Kilchester last night and came home separately. Mrs. Rendell may have sat at home all the evening listening to her wireless or she may not—no one can say. Miss Henderson often goes to the pictures in Kilchester.”

“She didn’t last night. She was at home. She told me so.”

“You cannot believe all you are told,” said Poirot reprovingly. “Families hang together. The foreign maid, Frieda, on the other hand, was at the pictures last night, so she cannot tell us who was or was not at home at Hunter’s Close! You see, it is not so easy to narrow things down.”

“I can probably vouch for our lot,” said Mrs. Oliver. “What time did you say this happened?”

“At nine thirty-five exactly.”

“Then at any rate Laburnums has got a clean bill of health. From eight o’clock to half past ten, Robin, his mother, and I were playing poker patience.”

“I thought possibly that you and he were closeted together doing the collaboration?”

“Leaving Mamma to leap on a motor bicycle concealed in the shrubbery?” Mrs. Oliver laughed. “No, Mamma was under our eye.” She sighed as sadder thoughts came to her. “Collaboration,” she said bitterly. “The whole thing’s a nightmare! How would you like to see a big black moustache stuck on to Superintendent Battle and be told it was you.”

Poirot blinked a little.

“But it is a nightmare, that suggestion!”

“Now you know what I suffer.

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