Murder in the mews by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie
Language: pt
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery, Classics, Mystery & Detective, Classic crime, Political, General, Hercule (Fictitious character), Suspense, Traditional British, Crime & Thriller, Fiction, Short stories, Poirot
ISBN: 9780007120888
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2002-07-15T07:54:44+00:00

Chapter 4

‘Well?’ said Major Riddle.

It was twenty minutes later. The chief constable’s interrogative ‘Well?’ was addressed to the police surgeon, a lank elderly man with grizzled hair.

The latter shrugged his shoulders.

‘He’s been dead over half an hour—but not more than an hour. You don’t want technicalities, I know, so I’ll spare you them. The man was shot through the head, the pistol being held a few inches from the right temple. Bullet passed right through the brain and out again.’

‘Perfectly compatible with suicide?’

‘Oh, perfectly. The body then slumped down in the chair, and the pistol dropped from his hand.’

‘You’ve got the bullet?’

‘Yes.’ The doctor held it up.

‘Good,’ said Major Riddle. ‘We’ll keep it for comparison with the pistol. Glad it’s a clear case and no difficulties.’

Hercule Poirot asked gently:

‘You are sure there are no difficulties, Doctor?’

The doctor replied slowly:

‘Well, I suppose you might call one thing a little odd. When he shot himself he must have been leaning slightly over to the right. Otherwise the bullet would have hit the wall below the mirror, instead of plumb in the middle.’

‘An uncomfortable position in which to commit suicide,’ said Poirot.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

‘Oh, well—comfort—if you’re going to end it all—’ He left the sentence unfinished.

Major Riddle said:

‘The body can be moved now?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve done with it until the P.-M.’

‘What about you, Inspector?’ Major Riddle spoke to a tall impassive-faced man in plain clothes.

‘O.K., sir. We’ve got all we want. Only the deceased’s fingerprints on the pistol.’

‘Then you can get on with it.’

The mortal remains of Gervase Chevenix-Gore were removed. The chief constable and Poirot were left together.

‘Well,’ said Riddle, ‘everything seems quite clear and aboveboard. Door locked, window fastened, key of door in dead man’s pocket. Everything according to Cocker—but for one circumstance.’

‘And what is that, my friend?’ inquired Poirot.

‘You!’ said Riddle bluntly. ‘What are you doing down here?’

By way of reply, Poirot handed to him the letter he had received from the dead man a week ago, and the telegram which had finally brought him there.

‘Humph,’ said the chief constable. ‘Interesting. We’ll have to get to the bottom of this. I should say it had a direct bearing upon his suicide.’

‘I agree.’

‘We must check up on who is in the house.’

‘I can tell you their names. I have just been making inquiries of Mr Trent.’

He repeated the list of names.

‘Perhaps you, Major Riddle, know something about these people?’

‘I know something of them, naturally. Lady Chevenix-Gore is quite as mad in her own way as old Sir Gervase. They were devoted to each other—and both quite mad. She’s the vaguest creature that ever lived, with an occasional uncanny shrewdness that strikes the nail on the head in the most surprising fashion. People laugh at her a good deal. I think she knows it, but she doesn’t care. She’s absolutely no sense of humour.’

‘Miss Chevenix-Gore is only their adopted daughter, I understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘A very handsome young lady.’

‘She’s a devilishly attractive girl. Has played havoc with most of the young fellows round here.

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