The Hollow hp-24 Read online

  "And you started at once," said Poirot grimly.

  "Yes, the first thing I could think of was to get the revolver away from her and drop it in the pool. That would obscure the fingerprint business. When I discovered later that he had been shot with a different gun, I went out to look for it, and naturally found it at once because I knew just the sort of place Gerda would have put it- I was only a minute or two ahead of Inspector Grange's men."

  She paused and then went on: "I kept it with me in that satchel bag of mine until I could take it up to London.

  Then I hid it in the studio until I could bring it back, and put it where the police would find it."

  "The clay horse," murmured Poirot.

  "How did you know? Yes, I put it in a sponge bag and wired the armature round it and then slapped up the clay model round it. After all, the police couldn't very well destroy an artist's masterpiece, could they?

  What made you know where it was?"

  "The fact that you chose to model a horse.

  The horse of Troy was the unconscious association in your mind. But the fingerprints-How did you manage the fingerprints?"

  "An old blind man who sells matches in the street. He didn't know what it was I asked him to hold for a moment while I got some money out!"

  Poirot looked at her for a moment.

  "C'est formidable!" he murmured. "You are one of the best antagonists, Mademoiselle, that I have ever had."

  "It's been dreadfully tiring always trying to keep one move ahead of you!"

  "I know. I began to realize the truth as soon as I saw that the pattern was always designed not to implicate any one person but to implicate everyone-other than Gerda Christow. Every indication always pointed away from her. You deliberately planted Ygdrasil to catch my attention and bring yourself under suspicion. Lady Angkatell, who knew perfectly what you were doing, amused herself by leading poor Inspector Grange in one direction after another.

  David, Edward, herself.

  "Yes, there is only one thing to do if you want to clear a person from suspicion who is actually guilty. You must suggest guilt elsewhere but never localize it. That is why every clue looked promising and then petered out and ended in nothing."

  Henrietta looked at the figure huddled pathetically in the chair. She said, "Poor Gerda."

  "Is that what you have felt all along?"

  "I think so… Gerda loved John terribly-but she didn't want to love him for what he was. She built up a pedestal for him and attributed every splendid and noble and unselfish characteristic to him. And if you cast down an idol, there's nothing left…" She paused and then went on. "But John was something much finer than an idol on a pedestal.

  He was a real, living, vital human being. He was generous and warm and alive, and he was a great doctor-yes, a great doctor!

  And he's dead, and the world has lost a very great man. And I have lost the only man I shall ever love…"

  Poirot put his hand gently on her shoulder.

  He said:

  "But you are of those who can live with a sword in their hearts-who can go on and smile-"

  Henrietta looked up at him. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. "That's a little melodramatic, isn't it?"

  "It is because I am a foreigner and I like to use fine words."

  Henrietta said suddenly:

  "You have been very kind to me…"

  "That is because I have admired you always very much."

  "M. Poirot, what are we going to do?

  About Gerda, I mean."

  Poirot drew the raffia workbag towards him. He turned out its contents, scraps of brown suede and other coloured leathers.

  There were three fragments of thick, shiny brown leather. Poirot fitted them together.

  "The holster. I take this. And poor Madame Christow, she was overwrought, her husband's death was too much for her. It will be brought in that she took her life whilst of unsound mind-"

  Henrietta said slowly:

  "And no one will ever know what really happened?"

  "I think one person will know. Dr. Christow's son. I think that one day he will come to me and ask me for the truth."

  "But you won't tell him," cried Henrietta.

  "Yes, I shall tell him."

  "Oh, no!"

  "You do not understand. To you it is unbearable that anyone should be hurt. But to some minds there is something more unbearable still-not to know. You heard that poor woman just a little while ago say, Terry always has to know…'To the scientific mind, truth comes first. Truth, however bitter, can be accepted, and woven into a design for living."

  Henrietta got up.

  "Do you want me here, or had I better go?"

  "It would be better if you went, I think."

  She nodded. Then she said, more to herself than to him:

  "Where shall I go? What shall I do-without John?"

  "You are speaking like Gerda Christow.

  You will know where to go and what to do."

  "Shall I? I'm so tired, M. Poirot, so tired…"

  He said gently:

  "Go, my child. Your place is with the living.

  I will stay here with the dead…"

  Chapter XXX

  As she drove towards London, the two phrases echoed through Henrietta's mind-What shall I do? Where shall I go?

  For the last few weeks she had been strung up, excited, never relaxing for a moment.

  She had had a task to perform-a task laid on her by John. But now that was over-had she failed-or succeeded? One could look at it either way… But however one looked at it, the task was over. And she experienced the terrible weariness of the reaction.

  Her mind went back to the words she had spoken to Edward that night on the terrace -the night of John's death-the night when she had gone along to the pool and into the pavilion and had deliberately, by the light of a match, drawn Ygdrasil upon the iron table. Purposeful, planning-not yet able to sit down and mourn-mourn for her dead.

  "I should like," she had said to Edward, "to grieve for John…"

  But she had not dared to relax then-not dared to let sorrow take command over her…

  But now she could grieve… Now she had all the time there was…

  She said under her breath, "John…

  John…"

  Bitterness and black rebellion broke over her…

  She thought, I wish I'd drunk that cup of tea…

  Driving the car soothed her, gave her strength for the moment… But soon she would be in London. Soon she would put the car in the garage and go along to the empty studio… Empty since John would never sit there again bullying her, being angry with her, loving her more than he wanted to love her, telling her eagerly about Ridgeway's Disease-about his triumphs and despairs, about Mrs. Crabtree and St. Christopher's …

  And suddenly, with a lifting of the dark pall that lay over her mind, she said aloud:

  "Of course. That's where I will go. To St. Christopher's…"

  Lying in her narrow hospital bed, old Mrs. Crabtree peered up at her visitor out of rheumy twinkling eyes.

  She was exactly as John had described her, and Henrietta felt a sudden warmth, a lifting of the spirit. This was real-this would last!

  Here, for a little space, she had found John again…

  "The pore doctor. Orful, ain't it?" Mrs. Crabtree was saying. There was relish in her voice as well as regret, for Mrs. Crabtree loved life; and sudden deaths, particularly murders or deaths in childbed, were the richest parts of the tapestry of life. "Getting 'imself bumped off like that! Turned my stomach right over it did, when I 'eard. I read all about it in the papers-Sister let me 'ave all she could get 'old of-reely nice about it, she was. There was pictures and everythink … That swimming pool and all. Ts wife leaving the inquest, pore thing, and that Lady Angkatell what the swimming pool belonged to! Lots of pictures. Real mystery the 'ole thing, weren't it?"

  Henrietta was not repelled by her ghoulish enjoyment. She liked it because she knew that John hi
mself would have liked it. If he had to die he would much prefer old Mrs. Crabtree to get a kick out of it, than to sniff and shed tears.

  "All I 'ope is that they catch 'ooever done it and 'ang 'im," continued Mrs. Crabtree vindictively. "They don't 'ave 'angings in public like they used to once-more's the pity. I've always thought I'd like to go to an 'anging… And I'd go double quick, if you understand me, to see 'ooever killed the doctor 'anged! Real wicked, 'e must 'ave been.

  Why, the doctor was one in a thousand! Ever so clever, 'e was! And a nice way with 'im!

  Got you laughing whether you wanted to or not. The things 'e used to say sometimes!

  I'd 'ave done anythink for the doctor, I would!"

  "Yes," said Henrietta. "He was a very clever man. He was a great man."

  "Think the world of 'im in the 'orspital, they do! All them nurses. And 'is patients!

  Always felt you were going to get well when 'e'd been along."

  "So you are going to get well," said Henrietta.

  The little shrewd eyes clouded for a moment.

  "I'm not so sure about that, ducky. I've got that mealy-mouthed young fellow with the spectacles now. Quite different to Dr. Christow. Never a laugh! 'E was a one. Dr. Christow was-always up to 'is jokes! Given me some norful times, 'e 'as, with this. treatment of 'is. 'I carn't stand any more of it, doctor,' I'd say to 'im and, 'Yes, you can, Mrs. Crabtree,' 'e'd say to me. 'You're tough, you are. You can take it. Going to make medical 'istory, you and I are.' And 'e'd jolly me along like. Do anythink for the doctor, I would 'ave! Expected a lot of you, 'e did, but you felt you couldn't let 'im down, if you know what I mean."

  "I know," said Henrietta.

  The little sharp eyes peered at her.

  "Excuse me, dearie, you're not the doctor's wife by any chance?"

  "No," said Henrietta, "I'm just a friend."

  "I see," said Mrs. Crabtree.

  Henrietta thought that she did see.

  "What made you come along if you don't mind me arsking?"

  "The doctor used to talk to me a lot about you-and about his new treatment. I wanted to see how you were."

  "I'm slipping back-that's what I'm doing."

  Henrietta cried:

  "But you mustn't slip back! You've got to get well."

  Mrs. Crabtree grinned.

  «I don't want to peg out, don't you think it!"

  "Well, fight then! Dr. Christow said you were a fighter."

  "Did 'e now?" Mrs. Crabtree lay still a minute, then she said slowly:

  "'Ooever shot 'im it's a wicked shame! There aren't many of 'is sort…"

  We shall not see his like again… the words passed through Henrietta's mind. Mrs. Crabtree was regarding her keenly.

  "Keep your pecker up, dearie," she said.

  She added, " 'E 'ad a nice funeral, I 'ope."

  "He had a lovely funeral," said Henrietta obligingly.

  "Ar! Wish I could of gorn to it!"

  Mrs. Crabtree sighed.

  "Be going to me own funeral next, I expect."

  "No," cried Henrietta. "You mustn't let go. You said just now that Dr. Christow told you that you and he were going to make medical history. Well, you've got to carry on by yourself. The treatment's just the same. You've got to have the guts for two -you've got to make medical history by yourself-for him."

  Mrs. Crabtree looked at her for a moment or two.

  "Sounds a bit grand! I'll do my best, ducky. Carn't say more than that."

  Henrietta got up and took her hand.

  "Good-bye. I'll come and see you again if I may."

  "Yes, do. It'll do me good to talk about the doctor a bit." The bawdy twinkle came into her eye again. "Proper man in every kind of way. Dr. Christow."

  "Yes," said Henrietta. "He was…"

  The old woman said:

  "Don't fret, ducky-what's gorn's gorn.

  You can't 'ave it back…"

  Mrs. Crabtree and Hercule Poirot, Henrietta thought, expressed the same idea in different language.

  She drove back to Chelsea, put away the car in the garage and walked slowly to the studio.

  Now, she thought, it has come. The moment I have been dreading-the moment when I am alone…

  Now I can put it off no longer… Now grief is here with me.

  What had she said to Edward? "I should like to grieve for John…"

  She dropped down on a chair and pushed back the hair from her face.

  Alone-empty-destitute…

  This awful emptiness.

  The tears pricked at her eyes, flowed slowly down her cheeks.

  Grief, she thought, grief for John…

  Oh, John-John…

  Remembering-remembering… His voice, sharp with pain: If I were dead, the first thing you'd do, with the tears streaming down your face, would be to start modelling some damned mourning woman or some figure of grief.

  She stirred uneasily… Why had that thought come into her head?

  Grief… Grief… A veiled figure… its outline barely perceptible-its head cowled…

  Alabaster…

  She could see the lines of it-tall, elongated … its sorrow hidden, revealed only by the long mournful lines of the drapery …

  Sorrow, emerging from clear transparent alabaster.

  If I were dead…

  And suddenly bitterness came over her full tide!

  She thought, That's what I am! John was right. I cannot love-I cannot mourn-not with the whole of me… It's Midge, it's people like Midge who are the salt of the earth.

  Midge and Edward at Ainswick…

  That was reality-strength-warmth…

  But I, she thought, am not a whole person.

  I belong not to myself, but to something outside me…

  I cannot grieve for my dead…

  Instead I must take my grief and make it into a figure of alabaster…

  "Exhibit N. 58 Grief, Alabaster. Miss Henrietta Savernake."

  She said under her breath:

  "John, forgive me… forgive me… for what I can't help doing…"

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