Three Blind Mice Read online

"What?" Trotter swung round.

  The sharp alarm in his voice impressed them all. "Dead? Since when?"

  "Major Metcalf tried it just before you came."

  "But it was all right before that. You got Superintendent Hogben's message?"

  "Yes. I suppose - since then - the line's down - with the snow."

  But Trotter's face remained grave. "I wonder," he said. "It may have been - cut."

  Molly stared. "You think so?"

  "I'm going to make sure."

  He hurried out of the room. Giles hesitated, then went after him.

  Molly exclaimed, "Good heavens! Nearly lunch time, I must get on - or we'll have nothing to eat."

  As she rushed from the room, Mrs Boyle muttered, "Incompetent chit! What a place. I shan't pay seven guineas for this kind of thing."

  Sergeant Trotter bent down, following the wires. He asked Giles, "Is there an extension?" "Yes, in our bedroom upstairs. Shall I go up and see there?"

  "If you please."

  Trotter opened the window and leaned out, brushing snow from the sill. Giles hurried up the stairs.

  Mr Paravicini was in the big drawing-room. He went across to the grand piano and opened it. Sitting on the music stool, he picked out a tune softly with one finger.

  Three Blind Mice, See how they run...

  Christopher Wren was in his bedroom. He moved about it, whistling briskly. Suddenly the whistle wavered and died. He sat down on the edge of the bed He buried his face in his hands and began to sob. He murmured childishly, "I can't go on."

  Then his mood changed. He stood up, squared his shoulders. "I've got to go on," he said. "I've got to go through with it."

  Giles stood by the telephone in his and Molly's room. He bent down toward the skirting. One of Molly's gloves lay there. He picked it up. A pink bus ticket dropped out of it. Giles stood looking down at it as it fluttered to the ground. Watching it, his face changed. It might have been a different man who walked slowly, as though in a dream, to the door, opened it, and stood a moment peering along the corridor toward the head of the stairs.

  Molly finished the potatoes, threw them into the pot, and set the pot on the fire. She glanced into the oven. Everything was all set, going according to plan.

  On the kitchen table was the two-day-old copy of the Evening Standard. She frowned as she looked at it. If she could only just remember -

  Suddenly her hands went to her eyes. "Oh, no," said Molly. "Oh, no!"

  Slowly she took her hands away. She looked round the kitchen like someone looking at a strange place. So warm and comfortable and spacious, with its faint savory smell of cooking.

  "Oh, no," she said again under her breath.

  She moved slowly, like a sleepwalker, toward the door into the hall. She opened it. The house was silent except for someone whistling.

  That tune -

  Molly shivered and retreated. She waited a minute or two, glancing once more round the familiar kitchen. Yes, everything was in order and progressing. She went once more toward the kitchen door.

  Major Metcalf came quietly down the back stairs. He waited a moment or two in the hall, then he opened the big cupboard under the stairs and peered in. Everything seemed quiet. Nobody about. As good a time as any to do what he had set out to do -

  Mrs Boyle, in the library, turned the knobs of the radio with some irritation.

  Her first attempt had brought her into the middle of a talk on the origin and significance of nursery rhymes. The last thing she wanted to hear. Twirling impatiently, she was informed by a cultured voice: "The psychology of fear must be thoroughly understood. Say you are alone in a room. A door opens softly behind you -"

  A door did open.

  Mrs Boyle, with a violent start, turned sharply.

  "Oh, it's you," she said with relief. "Idiotic programs they have on this thing. I can't find anything worth listening to!"

  "I shouldn't bother to listen, Mrs Boyle."

  Mrs Boyle snorted. "What else is there for me to do?" she demanded. "Shut up in a house with a possible murderer - not that I believe that melodramatic story for a moment -"

  "Don't you, Mrs Boyle?" "Why - what do you mean -"

  The belt of the raincoat was slipped round her neck so quickly that she hardly realized its significance. The knob of the radio amplifier was turned higher. The lecturer on the psychology of fear shouted his learned remarks into the room and drowned what incidental noises there were attendant on Mrs Boyle's demise.

  But there wasn't much noise. The killer was too expert for that.

  They were all huddled in the kitchen. On the gas cooker the potatoes bubbled merrily. The savory smell from the oven of steak and kidney pie was stronger than ever.

  Four shaken people stared at each other, the fifth, Molly, white and shivering, sipped at the glass of whisky that the sixth, Sergeant Trotter, had forced her to drink.

  Sergeant Trotter himself, his face set and angry, looked round at the assembled people. Just five minutes had elapsed since Molly's terrified screams had brought him and the others racing to the library.

  "She'd only just been killed when you got to her, Mrs Davis," he said. "Are you sure you didn't see or hear anybody as you came across the hall?"

  "Whistling," said Molly faintly. "But that was earlier. I think - I'm not sure -1 think I heard a door shut - softly, somewhere - just as I - as I - went into the library."

  "Which door?"

  "I don't know."

  "Think, Mrs Davis - try and think - upstairs - downstairs - right, left?"

  "I don't know, I tell you," cried Molly. "I'm not even sure I heard anything."

  "Can't you stop bullying her?" said Giles angrily. "Can't you see she's all in?"

  "I'm investigating a murder, Mr Davis -1 beg your pardon - Commander Davis."

  "I don't use my war rank, Sergeant."

  "Quite so, sir." Trotter paused, as though he had made some subtle point. "As I say, I'm investigating a murder. Up to now nobody has taken this thing seriously. Mrs Boyle didn't. She held out on me with information. You all held out on me. Well, Mrs Boyle is dead. Unless we get to the bottom of this - and quickly, mind, there may be another death."

  "Another? Nonsense. Why?"

  "Because," said Sergeant Trotter gravely, "there were three little blind mice."

  Giles said incredulously, "A death for each of them? But there would have to be a connection -1 mean another connection with the case."

  "Yes, there would have to be that." "But why another death here?"

  "Because there were only two addresses in the notebook. There was only one possible victim at Seventy-Four Culver Street. She's dead. But at Monkswell Manor there is a wider field."

  "Nonsense, Trotter. It would be a most unlikely coincidence that there should be two people brought here by chance, both of them with a share in the Longridge Farm case."

  "Given certain circumstances, it wouldn't be so much of a coincidence. Think it out, Mr Davis." He turned toward the others. "I've had your accounts of where you all were when Mrs Boyle was killed. I'll check them over. You were in your room, Mr Wren, when you heard Mrs Davis scream?"

  "Yes, Sergeant."

  "Mr Davis, you were upstairs in your bedroom examining the telephone extension there?"

  "Yes," said Giles.

  "Mr Paravicini was in the drawing-room playing tunes on the piano. Nobody heard you, by the way, Mr Paravicini?"

  "I was playing very, very softly, Sergeant, just with one finger." "What tune was it?"

  '"Three Blind Mice,' Sergeant." He smiled. "The same tune that Mr Wren was whistling upstairs. The tune that's running through everybody's head."

  "It's a horrid tune," said Molly.

  "How about the telephone wire?" asked Metcalf. "Was it deliberately cut?"

  "Yes, Major Metcalf. A section had been cut out just outside the dining-room window -1 had just located the break when Mrs Davis screamed."

  "But it's crazy. How can he hope to get away with it?"
demanded Christopher shrilly. The sergeant measured him carefully with his eye.

  "Perhaps he doesn't very much care about that," he said. "Or again, he may be quite sure he's too clever for us. Murderers get like that." He added, "We take a psychology course, you know, in our training. A schizophrenic's mentality is very interesting."

  "Shall we cut out the long words?" said Giles.

  "Certainly, Mr Davis. Two six-letter words are all that concern us at the moment. One's 'murder' and the other's 'danger.' That's what we've got to concentrate upon. Now, Major Metcalf, let me be quite clear about your movements. You say you were in the cellar -Why?"

  "Looking around," said the major. "I looked in that cupboard place under the stairs and then I noticed a door there and I opened it and saw a flight of steps, so I went down there. Nice cellar you've got," he said to Giles. "Crypt of an old monastery, I should say."

  "We're not engaged in antiquarian research, Major Metcalf. We're investigating a murder. Will you listen a moment, Mrs Davis? I'll leave the kitchen door open." He went out; a door shut with a faint creak. "Is that what you heard, Mrs Davis?" he asked as he reappeared in the open doorway.

  "I - it does sound like it."

  "That was the cupboard under the stairs. It could be, you know, that after killing Mrs Boyle, the murderer, retreating across the hall, heard you coming out of the kitchen, and slipped into the cupboard, pulling the door to after him."

  "Then his fingerprints will be on the inside of the cupboard," cried Christopher. "Mine are there already," said Major Metcalf.

  "Quite so," said Sergeant Trotter. "But we've a satisfactory explanation for those, haven't we?" he added smoothly.

  "Look here, Sergeant," said Giles, "admittedly you're in charge of this affair. But this is my house, and in a certain degree I feel responsible for the people staying in it. Oughtn't we to take precautionary measures?"

  "Such as, Mr Davis?"

  "Well, to be frank, putting under restraint the person who seems pretty clearly indicated as the chief suspect."

  He looked straight at Christopher Wren.

  Christopher Wren sprang forward, his voice rose, shrill and hysterical. "It's not true! It's not true! You're all against me. Everyone's always against me. You're going to frame me for this. It's persecution - persecution -"

  "Steady on, lad," said Major Metcalf.

  "It's all right, Chris." Molly came forward. She put her hand on his arm. "Nobody's against you. Tell him it's all right," she said to Sergeant Trotter.

  "We don't frame people," said Sergeant Trotter. "Tell him you're not going to arrest him."

  "I'm not going to arrest anyone. To do that, I need evidence. There's no evidence - at present."

  Giles cried out, "I think you're crazy, Molly. And you, too, Sergeant. There's only one person who fits the bill, and-"

  "Wait, Giles, wait -" Molly broke in. "Oh, do be quiet. Sergeant Trotter, can I - can I speak to you a minute?"

  "I'm staying," said Giles. "No, Giles, you, too, please."

  Giles's face grew as dark as thunder. He said, "I don't know what's come over you, Molly." He followed the others out of the room, banging the door behind him. "Yes, Mrs Davis, what is it?"

  "Sergeant Trotter, when you told us about the Longridge Farm case, you seemed to think that it must be the eldest boy who is - responsible for all this. But you don't know that?"

  "That's perfectly true, Mrs Davis. But the probabilities lie that way - mental instability, desertion from the army, psychiatrist's report."

  "Oh, I know, and therefore it all seems to point to Christopher. But I don't believe it is Christopher. There must be other - possibilities. Hadn't those three children any relations -parents, for instance?"

  "Yes. The mother was dead. But the father was serving abroad." "Well, what about him? Where is he now?"

  "We've no information. He obtained his demobilization papers last year." "And if the son was mentally unstable, the father may have been, too." "That is so."

  "So the murderer may be middle-aged or old. Major Metcalf, remember, was frightfully upset when I told him the police had rung up. He really was."

  Sergeant Trotter said quietly, "Please believe me, Mrs Davis, I've had all the possibilities in mind since the beginning. The boy, Jim - the father - even the sister. It could have been a woman, you know. I haven't overlooked anything. I may be pretty sure in my own mind -but I don't know - yet. It's very hard really to know about anything or anyone - especially in these days. You'd be surprised what we see in the police force. With marriages, especially. Hasty marriages - war marriages. There's no background, you see. No families or relations to meet. People accept each other's word. Fellow says he's a fighter pilot or an army major - the girl believes him implicitly. Sometimes she doesn't find out for a year or two that he's an absconding bank clerk with a wife and family, or an army-deserter."

  He paused and went on.

  "I know quite well what's in your mind, Mrs Davis. There's just one thing I'd like to say to you. The murderer's enjoying himself. That's the one thing I'm quite sure of."

  He went toward the door.

  Molly stood very straight and still, a red flush burning in her cheeks. After standing rigid for a moment or two, she moved slowly toward the stove, knelt down, and opened the oven door. A savory, familiar smell came toward her. Her heart lightened. It was as though suddenly she had been wafted back into the dear, familiar world of everyday things. Cooking, housework, homemaking, ordinary prosaic living.

  So, from time immemorial women had cooked food for their men. The world of danger -of madness, receded. Woman, in her kitchen, was safe - eternally safe.

  The kitchen door opened. She turned her head as Christopher Wren entered. He was a little breathless.

  "My dear," he said. "Such ructions! Somebody's stolen the sergeant's skis!" "The sergeant's skis? But why should anyone want to do that?"

  "I really can't imagine. I mean, if the sergeant decided to go away and leave us, I should imagine that the murderer would be only too pleased. I mean, it really doesn't make sense, does it?"

  "Giles put them in the cupboard under the stairs."

  "Well, they're not there now. Intriguing, isn't it?" He laughed gleefully. "The sergeant's awfully angry about it. Snapping like a turtle. He's been pitching into poor Major Metcalf. The old boy sticks to it that he didn't notice whether they were there or not when he looked into the cupboard just before Mrs Boyle was murdered. Trotter says he must have noticed. If you ask me," Christopher lowered his voice and leaned forward, "this business is beginning to get Trotter down."

  "It's getting us all down," said Molly.

  "Not me. I find it most stimulating. It's all so delightfully unreal."

  Molly said sharply, "You wouldn't say that if - if you'd been the one to find her. Mrs Boyle, I mean. I keep thinking of it -1 can't forget it. Her face - all swollen and purple -"

  She shivered. Christopher came across to her. He put a hand on her shoulder. "I know. I'm an idiot. I'm sorry. I didn't think."

  A dry sob rose in Molly's throat. "It seemed all right just now - cooking - the kitchen," she spoke confusedly, incoherently. "And then suddenly - it was all back again - like a nightmare."

  There was a curious expression on Christopher Wren's face as he stood there looking down on her bent head.

  "I see," he said. "I see." He moved away. "Well, I'd better clear out and - not interrupt you."

  Molly cried, "Don't go!" just as his hand was on the door handle.

  He turned round, looking at her questioningly. Then he came slowly back.

  "Do you really mean that?"

  "Mean what?"

  "You definitely don't want me to - go?"

  "No, I tell you. I don't want to be alone. I'm afraid to be alone."

  Christopher sat down by the table. Molly bent to the oven, lifted the pie to a higher shelf, shut the oven door, and came and joined him.

  "That's very interesting," said Christopher in a
level voice.

  "What is?"

  "That you're not afraid to be - alone with me. You're not, are you?"

  She shook her head. "No, I'm not."

  "Why aren't you afraid, Molly?"

  "I don't know - I'm not."

  "And yet I'm the only person who - fits the bill. One murderer as per schedule."

  "No," said Molly. "There are - other possibilities, I've been talking to Sergeant Trotter about them."

  "Did he agree with you?"

  "He didn't disagree," said Molly slowly.

  Certain words sounded over and over again in her head. Especially that last phrase: 'I know exactly what's in your mind, Mrs Davis.' But did he? Could he possibly know? He had said, too, 'that the murderer was enjoying himself.' Was that true?

  She said to Christopher, "You're not exactly enjoying yourself, are you? In spite of what you said just now."

  "Good God, no," said Christopher, staring. "What a very odd thing to say."

  "Oh, I didn't say it. Sergeant Trotter did. I hate that man! He - he puts things into your head - things that aren't true - that can't possibly be true."

  She put her hands to her head, covering her eyes with them. Very gently Christopher took those hands away.

  "Look here, Molly/' he said, "what is all this?"

  She let him force her gently into a chair by the kitchen table. His manner was no longer hysterical or childish.

  "What's the matter, Molly?" he said.

  Molly looked at him - a long appraising glance. She asked irrelevantly, "How long have I known you, Christopher? Two days?"

  "Just about. You're thinking, aren't you, that though it's such a short time, we seem to know each other rather well."

  "Yes - it's odd, isn't it?"

  "Oh, I don't know. There's a kind of sympathy between us. Possibly because we've both -been up against it."

  It was not a question. It was a statement. Molly let it pass. She said very quietly, and again it was a statement rather than a question, "Your name isn't really Christopher Wren, is it."

  "No"

  "No."

  "Why did you -"

  "Choose that? Oh, it seemed rather a pleasant whimsy. They used to jeer at me and call me Christopher Robin at school. Robin - Wren - association of ideas, I suppose."