The Hollow Read online

  Inspector Grange said:

  “Yes, it’s possible.”

  “And another possibility, not envisaged at the time. Someone could have come along the path from the lane, could have shot John Christow, and could have gone back the same way, unseen.”

  Grange said: “You’re dead right. There are two other possible suspects besides Gerda Christow. We’ve got the same motive—jealousy. It’s definitely a crime passionel. There were two other women mixed up with John Christow.”

  He paused and said:

  “Christow went over to see Veronica Cray that morning. They had a row. She told him that she’d make him sorry for what he’d done, and she said she hated him more than she believed she could hate anyone.”

  “Interesting,” murmured Poirot.

  “She’s straight from Hollywood—and by what I read in the papers they do a bit of shooting each other out there sometimes. She could have come along to get her furs, which she’d left in the pavilion the night before. They could have met—the whole thing could have flared up—she fired at him—and then, hearing someone coming, she could have dodged back the way she came.”

  He paused a moment and added irritably:

  “And now we come to the part where it all goes haywire. That damned gun! Unless,” his eyes brightened, “she shot him with her own gun and dropped one that she’d pinched from Sir Henry’s study so as to throw suspicion on the crowd at The Hollow. She mightn’t know about our being able to identify the gun used from the marks on the rifling.”

  “How many people do know that, I wonder?”

  “I put the point to Sir Henry. He said he thought quite a lot of people would know—on account of all the detective stories that are written. Quoted a new one, The Clue of the Dripping Fountain, which he said John Christow himself had been reading on Saturday and which emphasized that particular point.”

  “But Veronica Cray would have had to have got the gun somehow from Sir Henry’s study.”

  “Yes, it would mean premeditation.” The inspector took another tug at his moustache, then he looked at Poirot. “But you’ve hinted yourself at another possibility, M. Poirot. There’s Miss Savernake. And here’s where your eyewitness stuff, or rather I should say, earwitness stuff, comes in again. Dr. Christow said: ‘Henrietta’ when he was dying. You heard him—they all heard him, though Mr. Angkatell doesn’t seem to have caught what he said.”

  “Edward Angkatell did not hear? That is interesting.”

  “But the others did. Miss Savernake herself says he tried to speak to her. Lady Angkatell says he opened his eyes, saw Miss Savernake, and said: ‘Henrietta.’ She doesn’t, I think, attach any importance to it.”

  Poirot smiled. “No—she would not attach importance to it.”

  “Now, M. Poirot, what about you? You were there—you saw—you heard. Was Dr. Christow trying to tell you all that it was Henrietta who had shot him? In short, was that word an accusation?”

  Poirot said slowly:

  “I did not think so at the time.”

  “But now, M. Poirot? What do you think now?”

  Poirot sighed. Then he said slowly:

  “It may have been so. I cannot say more than that. It is an impression only for which you are asking me, and when the moment is past there is a temptation to read into things a meaning which was not there at the time.”

  Grange said hastily:

  “Of course, this is all off the record. What M. Poirot thought isn’t evidence—I know that. It’s only a pointer I’m trying to get.”

  “Oh, I understand you very well—and an impression from an eyewitness can be a very useful thing. But I am humiliated to have to say that my impressions are valueless. I was under the misconception, induced by the visual evidence, that Mrs. Christow had just shot her husband; so that when Dr. Christow opened his eyes and said ‘Henrietta’ I never thought of it as being an accusation. It is tempting now, looking back, to read into that scene something that was not there.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Grange. “But it seems to me that since ‘Henrietta’ was the last word Christow spoke, it must have meant one of two things. It was either an accusation of murder or else it was—well, purely emotional. She’s the woman he’s in love with and he’s dying. Now, bearing everything in mind, which of the two did it sound like to you?”

  Poirot sighed, stirred, closed his eyes, opened them again, stretched out his hands in acute vexation. He said:

  “His voice was urgent—that is all I can say—urgent. It seemed to me neither accusing nor emotional—but urgent, yes! And of one thing I am sure. He was in full possession of his faculties. He spoke—yes, he spoke like a doctor—a doctor who has, say, a sudden surgical emergency on his hands—a patient who is bleeding to death, perhaps.” Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “That is the best I can do for you.”

  “Medical, eh?” said the inspector. “Well, yes, that is a third way of looking at it. He was shot, he suspected he was dying, he wanted something done for him quickly. And if, as Lady Angkatell says, Miss Savernake was the first person he saw when his eyes opened, then he would appeal to her. It’s not very satisfactory, though.”

  “Nothing about this case is satisfactory,” said Poirot with some bitterness.

  A murder scene, set and staged to deceive Hercule Poirot—and which had deceived him! No, it was not satisfactory.

  Inspector Grange was looking out of the window.

  “Hallo,” he said, “here’s Clark, my sergeant. Looks as though he’s got something. He’s been working on the servants—the friendly touch. He’s a nice looking chap, got a way with women.”

  Sergeant Clark came in a little breathlessly. He was clearly pleased with himself, though subduing the fact under a respectful official manner.

  “Thought I’d better come and report, sir, since I knew where you’d gone.”

  He hesitated, shooting a doubtful glance at Poirot, whose exotic foreign appearance did not commend itself to his sense of official reticence.

  “Out with it, my lad,” said Grange. “Never mind M. Poirot here. He’s forgotten more about this game than you’ll know for many years to come.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s this way, sir. I got something out of the kitchen maid—”

  Grange interrupted. He turned to Poirot triumphantly.

  “What did I tell you? There’s always hope where there’s a kitchen maid. Heaven help us when domestic staffs are so reduced that nobody keeps a kitchen maid any more. Kitchen maids talk, kitchen maids babble. They’re so kept down and in their place by the cook and the upper servants that it’s only human nature to talk about what they know to someone who wants to hear it. Go on, Clark.”

  “This is what the girl says, sir. That on Sunday afternoon she saw Gudgeon, the butler, walking across the hall with a revolver in his hand.”

  “Gudgeon?”

  “Yes, sir.” Clark referred to a notebook. “These are her own words. ‘I don’t know what to do, but I think I ought to say what I saw that day. I saw Mr. Gudgeon, he was standing in the hall with a revolver in his hand. Mr. Gudgeon looked very peculiar indeed.’

  “I don’t suppose,” said Clark, breaking off, “that the part about looking peculiar means anything. She probably put that in out of her head. But I thought you ought to know about it at once, sir.”

  Inspector Grange rose, with the satisfaction of a man who sees a task ahead of him which he is well-fitted to perform.

  “Gudgeon?” he said. “I’ll have a word with Mr. Gudgeon right away.”

  Twenty

  Sitting once more in Sir Henry’s study, Inspector Grange stared at the impassive face of the man in front of him.

  So far, the honours lay with Gudgeon.

  “I am very sorry, sir,” he repeated. “I suppose I ought to have mentioned the occurrence, but it had slipped my memory.”

  He looked apologetically from the inspector to Sir Henry.

  “It was about 5:30 if I remember rightly, sir. I was cro
ssing the hall to see if there were any letters for the post when I noticed a revolver lying on the hall table. I presumed it was from the master’s collection, so I picked it up and brought it in here. There was a gap on the shelf by the mantelpiece where it had come from, so I replaced it where it belonged.”

  “Point it out to me,” said Grange.

  Gudgeon rose and went to the shelf in question, the inspector close behind him.

  “It was this one, sir.” Gudgeon’s finger indicated a small Mauser pistol at the end of the row.

  It was a .25—quite a small weapon. It was certainly not the gun that had killed John Christow.

  Grange, with his eyes on Gudgeon’s face, said:

  “That’s an automatic pistol, not a revolver.”

  Gudgeon coughed.

  “Indeed, sir? I’m afraid that I am not at all well-up in firearms. I may have used the term revolver rather loosely, sir.”

  “But you are quite sure that that is the gun you found in the hall and brought in here?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, there can be no possible doubt about that.”

  Grange stopped him as he was about to stretch out a hand.

  “Don’t touch it, please. I must examine it for fingerprints and to see if it is loaded.”

  “I don’t think it is loaded, sir. None of Sir Henry’s collection is kept loaded. And, as for fingerprints, I polished it over with my handkerchief before replacing it, sir, so there will only be my fingerprints on it.”

  “Why did you do that?” asked Grange sharply.

  But Gudgeon’s apologetic smile did not waver.

  “I fancied it might be dusty, sir.”

  The door opened and Lady Angkatell came in. She smiled at the inspector.

  “How nice to see you, Inspector Grange! What is all this about a revolver and Gudgeon? That child in the kitchen is in floods of tears. Mrs. Medway has been bullying her—but of course the girl was quite right to say what she saw if she thought she ought to do so. I always find right and wrong so bewildering myself—easy, you know, if right is unpleasant and wrong is agreeable, because then one knows where one is—but confusing when it is the other way about—and I think, don’t you, Inspector, that everyone must do what they think right themselves. What have you been telling them about that pistol, Gudgeon?”

  Gudgeon said with respectful emphasis:

  “The pistol was in the hall, my lady, on the centre table. I have no idea where it came from. I brought it in here and put it away in its proper place. That is what I have just told the inspector and he quite understands.”

  Lady Angkatell shook her head. She said gently:

  “You really shouldn’t have said that, Gudgeon. I’ll talk to the inspector myself.”

  Gudgeon made a slight movement, and Lady Angkatell said very charmingly:

  “I do appreciate your motives, Gudgeon. I know how you always try to save us trouble and annoyance.” She added in gentle dismissal: “That will be all now.”

  Gudgeon hesitated, threw a fleeting glance towards Sir Henry and then at the inspector, then bowed and moved towards the door.

  Grange made a motion as though to stop him, but for some reason he was not able to define to himself, he let his arm fall again. Gudgeon went out and closed the door.

  Lady Angkatell dropped into a chair and smiled at the two men. She said conversationally:

  “You know, I really do think that was very charming of Gudgeon. Quite feudal, if you know what I mean. Yes, feudal is the right word.”

  Grange said stiffly:

  “Am I to understand, Lady Angkatell, that you yourself have some further knowledge about the matter?”

  “Of course. Gudgeon didn’t find it in the hall at all. He found it when he took the eggs out.”

  “The eggs?” Inspector Grange stared at her.

  “Out of the basket,” said Lady Angkatell.

  She seemed to think that everything was now quite clear. Sir Henry said gently:

  “You must tell us a little more, my dear. Inspector Grange and I are still at sea.”

  “Oh.” Lady Angkatell set herself to be explicit. “The pistol, you see, was in the basket, under the eggs.”

  “What basket and what eggs, Lady Angkatell?”

  “The basket I took down to the farm. The pistol was in it, and then I put the eggs in on top of the pistol and forgot all about it. And when we found poor John Christow dead by the pool, it was such a shock I let go of the basket and Gudgeon just caught it in time (because of the eggs, I mean. If I’d dropped it they would have been broken). And he brought it back to the house. And later I asked him about writing the date on the eggs—a thing I always do—otherwise one eats the fresher eggs sometimes before the older ones—and he said all that had been attended to—and now that I remember, he was rather emphatic about it. And that is what I mean by being feudal. He found the pistol and put it back in here—I suppose really because there were police in the house. Servants are always so worried by police, I find. Very nice and loyal—but also quite stupid, because of course, Inspector, it’s the truth you want to hear, isn’t it?”

  And Lady Angkatell finished up by giving the inspector a beaming smile.

  “The truth is what I mean to get,” said Grange rather grimly.

  Lady Angkatell sighed.

  “It all seems such a fuss, doesn’t it?” she said. “I mean, all this hounding people down. I don’t suppose whoever it was who shot John Christow really meant to shoot him—not seriously, I mean. If it was Gerda, I’m sure she didn’t. In fact, I’m really surprised that she didn’t miss—it’s the sort of thing that one would expect of Gerda. And she’s really a very nice kind creature. And if you go and put her in prison and hang her, what on earth is going to happen to the children? If she did shoot John, she’s probably dreadfully sorry about it now. It’s bad enough for children to have a father who’s been murdered—but it will make it infinitely worse for them to have their mother hanged for it. Sometimes I don’t think you policemen think of these things.”

  “We are not contemplating arresting anyone at present, Lady Angkatell.”

  “Well, that’s sensible at any rate. But I have thought all along, Inspector Grange, that you were a very sensible sort of man.”

  Again that charming, almost dazzling smile.

  Inspector Grange blinked a little. He could not help it, but he came firmly to the point at issue.

  “As you said just now, Lady Angkatell, it’s the truth I want to get at. You took the pistol from here—which gun was it, by the way?”

  Lady Angkatell nodded her head towards the shelf by the mantelpiece. “The second from the end. The Mauser .25.” Something in the crisp, technical way she spoke jarred on Grange. He had not, somehow, expected Lady Angkatell, whom up to now he had labelled in his own mind as “vague” and “just a bit batty,” to describe a firearm with such technical precision.

  “You took the pistol from here and put it in your basket. Why?”

  “I knew you’d ask me that,” said Lady Angkatell. Her tone, unexpectedly, was almost triumphant. “And of course there must be some reason. Don’t you think so, Henry?” She turned to her husband. “Don’t you think I must have had a reason for taking a pistol out that morning?”

  “I should certainly have thought so, my dear,” said Sir Henry stiffly.

  “One does things,” said Lady Angkatell, gazing thoughtfully in front of her, “and then one doesn’t remember why one has done them. But I think, you know, Inspector, that there always is a reason if one can only get at it. I must have had some idea in my head when I put the Mauser into my egg basket.” She appealed to him. “What do you think it can have been?”

  Grange stared at her. She displayed no embarrassment—just a childlike eagerness. It beat him. He had never yet met anyone like Lucy Angkatell, and just for the moment he didn’t know what to do about it.

  “My wife,” said Sir Henry, “is extremely absentminded, Inspector.”

  “So it see
ms, sir,” said Grange. He did not say it very nicely.

  “Why do you think I took that pistol?” Lady Angkatell asked him confidentially.

  “I have no idea, Lady Angkatell.”

  “I came in here,” mused Lady Angkatell. “I had been talking to Simmons about the pillowcases—and I remember dimly crossing over to the fireplace—and thinking we must get a new poker—the curate, not the rector—”

  Inspector Grange stared. He felt his head going round.

  “And I remember picking up the Mauser—it was a nice handy little gun, I’ve always liked it—and dropping it into the basket—I’d just got the basket from the flower room. But there were so many things in my head—Simmons, you know, and the bindweed in the Michaelmas daisies—and hoping Mrs. Medway would make a really rich Nigger in his Shirt—”

  “A nigger in his shirt?” Inspector Grange had to break in.

  “Chocolate, you know, and eggs—and then covered with whipped cream. Just the sort of sweet a foreigner would like for lunch.”

  Inspector Grange spoke fiercely and brusquely, feeling like a man who brushes away fine spiders’ webs which are impairing his vision.

  “Did you load the pistol?”

  He had hoped to startle her—perhaps even to frighten her a little, but Lady Angkatell only considered the question with a kind of desperate thoughtfulness.

  “Now did I? That’s so stupid. I can’t remember. But I should think I must have, don’t you, Inspector? I mean, what’s the good of a pistol without ammunition? I wish I could remember exactly what was in my head at the time.”

  “My dear Lucy,” said Sir Henry. “What goes on or does not go on in your head has been the despair of everyone who knows you well for years.”

  She flashed him a very sweet smile.

  “I am trying to remember, Henry dear. One does such curious things. I picked up the telephone receiver the other morning and found myself looking down at it quite bewildered. I couldn’t imagine what I wanted with it.”