The Mirror Crack'd: from Side to Side (19 page)

I

F
rank Cornish replaced the receiver.

“Miss Brewster is out of London for the day,” he announced.

“Is she now?” said Craddock.

“Do you think she—”

“I don't know. I shouldn't think so, but I don't know. Ardwyck Fenn?”

“Out. I left word for him to ring you. And Margot Bence, Personality Photographer, has got an assignment somewhere in the country. Her pansy partner didn't know where—or said he didn't. And the butler's hooked it to London.”

“I wonder,” said Craddock thoughtfully, “if the butler has hooked it for good. I always suspect dying relatives. Why was he suddenly anxious to go to London today?”

“He could have put the cyanide in the atomizer easily enough before he left.”

“Anybody could.”

“But I think he's indicated. It could hardly be someone from outside.”

“Oh, yes, it could. You'd have to judge your moment. You could leave a car in one of the side drives, wait until everyone is in the dining room, say, and slip in through a window and upstairs. The shrubberies come close up to the house.”

“Damn' risky.”

“This murderer doesn't mind taking risks, you know. That's been apparent all along.”

“We've had a man on duty in the grounds.”

“I know. One man wasn't enough. So long as it was a question of these anonymous letters I didn't feel so much urgency. Marina Gregg herself is being well guarded. It never occurred to me that anyone else was in danger. I—”

The telephone rang. Cornish took the call.

“It's the Dorchester. Mr. Ardwyck Fenn is on the line.”

He proffered the receiver to Craddock who took it.

“Mr. Fenn? This is Craddock here.”

“Ah, yes. I heard you had rung me. I have been out all day.”

“I am sorry to tell you, Mr. Fenn, that Miss Zielinsky died this morning—of cyanide poisoning.”

“Indeed? I am shocked to hear it. An accident? Or not an accident?”

“Not an accident. Prussic acid had been put in an atomizer she was in the habit of using.”

“I see. Yes, I see…” There was a short pause. “And why, may I ask, should you ring me about this distressing occurrence?”

“You knew Miss Zielinsky, Mr. Fenn?”

“Certainly I knew her. I have known her for some years. But she was not an intimate friend.”

“We hoped that you could, perhaps, assist us?”

“In what way?”

“We wondered if you could suggest any motive for her death. She is a stranger in this country. We know very little about her friends and associates and the circumstances of her life.”

“I would suggest that Jason Rudd is the person to question about that.”

“Naturally. We have done so. But there might be an off-chance that you might know something about her that he does not.”

“I'm afraid that is not so. I know next to nothing about Ella Zielinsky except that she was a most capable young woman, and first-class at her job. About her private life I know nothing at all.”

“So you have no suggestions to make?”

Craddock was ready for the decisive negative, but to his surprise it did not come. Instead there was a pause. He could hear Ardwyck Fenn breathing rather heavily at the other end.

“Are you still there, Chief-Inspector?”

“Yes, Mr. Fenn. I'm here.”

“I have decided to tell you something that may be of assistance to you. When you hear what it is, you will realize that I have every reason to keep it to myself. But I judge that in the end that might be unwise. The facts are these. A couple of days ago I received a telephone call. A voice spoke to me in a whisper. It said—I am quoting now—
I saw you… I saw you put the tablets in the glass… You didn't know there had been an eyewitness, did you? That's all for now—very soon you will be told what you have to do
.”

Craddock uttered an ejaculation of astonishment.

“Surprising, was it not, Mr. Craddock? I will assure you categorically that the accusation was entirely unfounded. I did
not
put tablets in anybody's glass. I defy anyone to prove that I did. The suggestion is utterly absurd. But it would seem, would it not, that Miss Zielinsky was embarking on blackmail.”

“You recognized her voice?”

“You cannot recognize a whisper. But it was Ella Zielinsky all right.”

“How do you know?”

“The whisperer sneezed heavily before ringing off. I knew that Miss Zielinsky suffered from hay fever.”

“And you think—what?”

“I think that Miss Zielinsky got hold of the wrong person at her first attempt. It seems to me possible that she was more successful later. Blackmail can be a dangerous game.”

Craddock pulled himself together.

“I must thank you for your statement, Mr. Fenn. As a matter of form, I shall have to check upon your movements today.”

“Naturally. My chauffeur will be able to give you precise information.”

Craddock rang off and repeated what Fenn had said. Cornish whistled.

“Either that lets him out completely. Or else—”

“Or else it's a magnificent piece of bluff. It could be. He's the kind of man who has the nerve for it. If there's the least chance that Ella Zielinsky left a record of her suspicions, then this taking of the bull by the horns is a magnificent bluff.”

“And his alibi?”

“We've come across some very good faked alibis in our time,” said Craddock. “He could afford to pay a good sum for one.”

II

It was past midnight when Giuseppe returned to Gossington. He took a taxi from Much Benham, as the last train on the branch line to St. Mary Mead had gone.

He was in very good spirits. He paid off the taxi at the gate, and took a short cut through the shrubbery. He opened the back door with his key. The house was dark and silent. Giuseppe shut and bolted the door. As he turned to the stair which led to his own comfortable suite of bed and bath, he noticed that there was a draught. A window open somewhere, perhaps. He decided not to bother. He went upstairs smiling and fitted a key into his door. He always kept his suite locked. As he turned the key and pushed the door open, he felt the pressure of a hard round ring in his back. A voice said, “Put your hands up and don't scream.”

Giuseppe threw his hands up quickly. He was taking no chances. Actually there was no chance to take.

The trigger was pressed—once—twice.

Giuseppe fell forward….

III

Bianca lifted her head from her pillow.

Was that a shot… She was almost sure she had heard a shot… She waited some minutes. Then she decided she had been mistaken and lay down again.

I

“I
t's too dreadful,” said Miss Knight. She put down her parcels and gasped for breath.

“Something has happened?” asked Miss Marple.

“I really don't like to tell you about it, dear, I really don't. It might be a shock to you.”

“If you don't tell me,” said Miss Marple, “somebody else will.”

“Dear, dear, that's true enough,” said Miss Knight. “Yes, that's terribly true. Everybody talks too much, they say. And I'm sure there's a lot in that. I never repeat anything myself. Very careful I am.”

“You were saying,” said Miss Marple, “that something rather terrible had happened?”

“It really quite bowled me over,” said Miss Knight. “Are you sure you don't feel the draught from that window, dear?”

“I like a little fresh air,” said Miss Marple.

“Ah, but we mustn't catch cold, must we?” said Miss Knight
archly. “I'll tell you what. I'll just pop out and make you a nice eggnog. We'd like that, wouldn't we?”

“I don't know whether
you
would like it,” said Miss Marple. “
I
should be delighted for you to have it if you would like it.”

“Now, now,” said Miss Knight, shaking her finger, “so fond of our joke, aren't we?”

“But you were going to tell me something,” said Miss Marple.

“Well, you mustn't worry about it,” said Miss Knight, “and you mustn't let it make you nervous in anyway, because I'm sure it's nothing to do with
us
. But with all these American gangsters and things like that, well I suppose it's nothing to be surprised about.”

“Somebody else has been killed,” said Miss Marple, “is that it?”

“Oh, that's very sharp of you, dear. I don't know what should put such a thing into your head.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully, “I've been expecting it.”

“Oh, really!” exclaimed Miss Knight.

“Somebody always sees something,” said Miss Marple, “only sometimes it takes a little while for them to realize what it is they have seen. Who is it who's dead?”

“The Italian butler. He was shot last night.”

“I see,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “Yes, very likely, of course, but I should have thought that he'd have realized before now the importance of what he saw—”

“Really!” exclaimed Miss Knight. “You talk as though you knew all about it. Why should he have been killed?”

“I expect,” said Miss Marple, thoughtfully, “that he tried to blackmail somebody.”

“He went to London yesterday, they say.”

“Did he now,” said Miss Marple, “that's very interesting, and suggestive too, I think.”

Miss Knight departed to the kitchen intent on the concoction of nourishing beverages. Miss Marple remained sitting thoughtfully till disturbed by the loud aggressive humming of the vacuum cleaner, assisted by Cherry's voice singing the latest favourite ditty of the moment, “I Said to You and You Said to Me.”

Miss Knight popped her head round the kitchen door.

“Not quite so much noise, please, Cherry,” she said. “You don't want to disturb Miss Marple, do you? You mustn't be thoughtless, you know.”

She shut the kitchen door again as Cherry remarked, either to herself or the world at large, “And who said you could call me Cherry, you old jelly-bag?” The vacuum continued to whine while Cherry sang in a more subdued voice. Miss Marple called in a high clear voice:

“Cherry, come here a minute.”

Cherry switched off the vacuum and opened the drawing room door.

“I didn't mean to disturb you by singing, Miss Marple.”

“Your singing is much pleasanter than the horrid noise that vacuum makes,” said Miss Marple, “but I know one has to go with the times. It would be no use on earth asking any of you young people to use the dustpan and brush in the old-fashioned way.”

“What, get down on my knees with a dustpan and brush?” Cherry registered alarm and surprise.

“Quite unheard of, I know,” said Miss Marple. “Come in and shut the door. I called you because I wanted to talk to you.”

Cherry obeyed and came towards Miss Marple looking inquiringly at her.

“We've not much time,” said Miss Marple. “That old— Miss Knight I mean—will come in any moment with an egg drink of some kind.”

“Good for you, I expect. It'll pep you up,” said Cherry encouragingly.

“Had you heard,” asked Miss Marple, “that the butler at Gossington Hall was shot last night?”

“What, the wop?” demanded Cherry.

“Yes. His name is Giuseppe, I understand.”

“No,” said Cherry, “I hadn't heard
that
. I heard that Mr. Rudd's secretary had a heart attack yesterday, and somebody said she was actually dead—but I suspect that was just a rumour. Who told you about the butler?”

“Miss Knight came back and told me.”

“Of course I haven't seen anyone to speak to this morning,” said Cherry, “not before coming along here. I expect the news has only just got round. Was he bumped off?” she demanded.

“That seems to be assumed,” said Miss Marple, “whether rightly or wrongly I don't quite know.”

“This is a wonderful place for talk,” said Cherry. “I wonder if Gladys got to see him or not,” she added thoughtfully.

“Gladys?”

“Oh, a sort of friend of mine. She lives a few doors away. Works in the canteen at the studios.”

“And she talked to you about Giuseppe?”

“Well, there was something that struck her as a bit funny and
she was going to ask him what he thought about it. But if you ask me it was just an excuse—she's a bit sweet on him. Of course he's quite handsome and Italians do have a way with them— I told her to be careful about him, though. You know what Italians are.”

“He went to London yesterday,” said Miss Marple, “and only returned in the evening I understand.”

“I wonder if she managed to get to see him before he went.”

“Why did she want to see him, Cherry?”

“It was just something which she felt was a bit funny,” said Cherry.

Miss Marple looked at her inquiringly. She was able to take the word “funny” at the valuation it usually had for the Gladyses of the neighbourhood.

“She was one of the girls who helped at the party there,” explained Cherry. “The day of the fête. You know, when Mrs. Badcock got hers.”

“Yes?” Miss Marple was looking more alert than ever, much as a fox terrier might look at a waiting rat hole.

“And there was something that she saw that struck her as a bit funny.”

“Why didn't she go to the police about it?”

“Well, she didn't really think it meant anything, you see,” explained Cherry. “Anyway she thought she'd better ask Mr. Giuseppe first.”

“What was it that she saw that day?”

“Frankly,” said Cherry, “what she told me seemed nonsense! I've wondered, perhaps, if she was just putting me off—and what she was going to see Mr. Giuseppe about was something quite different.”

“What
did
she say?” Miss Marple was patient and pursuing.

Cherry frowned. “She was talking about Mrs. Badcock and the cocktail and she said she was quite near her at the time. And she said she did it herself.”

“Did what herself?”

“Spilt her cocktail all down her dress, and ruined it.”

“You mean it was clumsiness?”

“No, not clumsiness. Gladys said she did it on
purpose
—that she
meant
to do it. Well, I mean, that doesn't make sense, does it, however you look at it?”

Miss Marple shook her head, perplexed. “No,” she said. “Certainly not—no, I can't see any sense in that.”

“She'd got on a new dress too,” said Cherry. “That's how the subject came up. Gladys wondered whether she'd be able to buy it. Said it ought to clean all right but she didn't like to go and ask Mr. Badcock herself. She's very good at dressmaking, Gladys is, and she said it was lovely stuff. Royal blue artificial taffeta; and she said even if the stuff
was
ruined where the cocktail stained it, she could take out a seam—half a breadth say—because it was one of those full skirts.”

Miss Marple considered this dressmaking problem for a moment and then set it aside.

“But you think your friend Gladys might have been keeping something back?”

“Well, I just wondered because I don't see if that's all she saw— Heather Badcock deliberately spilling her cocktail over herself— I don't see that there'd be anything to ask Mr. Giuseppe
about,
do you?”

“No, I don't,” said Miss Marple. She sighed. “But it's always in
teresting when one doesn't see,” she added. “If you don't see what a thing means you must be looking at it wrong way round, unless of course you haven't got full information. Which is probably the case here.” She sighed. “It's a pity she didn't go straight to the police.”

The door opened and Miss Knight bustled in holding a tall tumbler with a delicious pale yellow froth on top.

“Now here you are, dear,” she said, “a nice little treat. We're going to enjoy this.”

She pulled forward a little table and placed it beside her employer. Then she turned a glance on Cherry. “The vacuum cleaner,” she said coldly, “is left in a most difficult position in the hall. I nearly fell over it.
Anyone
might have an accident.”

“Right-ho,” said Cherry. “I'd better get on with things.”

She left the room.

“Really,” said Miss Knight, “that Mrs. Baker! I'm continually having to speak to her about something or other. Leaving vacuum cleaners all over the place and coming in here chattering to you when you want to be quiet.”

“I called her in,” said Miss Marple. “I wanted to speak to her.”

“Well, I hope you mentioned the way the beds are made,” said Miss Knight. “I was quite shocked when I came to turn down your bed last night. I had to make it all over again.”

“That was very kind of you,” said Miss Marple.

“Oh, I never grudge being helpful,” said Miss Knight. “That's why I'm here, isn't it. To make a certain person we know as comfortable and happy as possible. Oh dear, dear,” she added, “you've pulled out a lot of your knitting again.”

Miss Marple leaned back and closed her eyes. “I'm going to have
a little rest,” she said. “Put the glass here—thank you. And please don't come in and disturb me for at least three-quarters of an hour.”

“Indeed I won't, dear,” said Miss Knight. “And I'll tell that Mrs. Baker to be very quiet.”

She bustled out purposefully.

II

The good-looking young American glanced round him in a puzzled way.

The ramifications of the housing estate perplexed him.

He addressed himself politely to an old lady with white hair and pink cheeks who seemed to be the only human being in sight.

“Excuse me, ma'am, but could you tell me where to find Blenheim Close?”

The old lady considered him for a moment. He had just begun to wonder if she was deaf, and had prepared himself to repeat his demand in a louder voice, when she spoke.

“Along here to the right, then turn left, second to the right again, and straight on. What number do you want?”

“No. 16.” He consulted a small piece of paper. “Gladys Dixon.”

“That's right,” said the old lady. “But I believe she works at the Hellingforth Studios. In the canteen. You'll find her there if you want her.”

“She didn't turn up this morning,” explained the young man. “I want to get hold of her to come up to Gossington Hall. We're very shorthanded there today.”

“Of course,” said the old lady. “The butler was shot last night, wasn't he?”

The young man was slightly staggered by this reply.

“I guess news gets round pretty quickly in these parts,” he said.

“It does indeed,” said the old lady. “Mr. Rudd's secretary died of some kind of seizure yesterday, too, I understand.” She shook her head. “Terrible. Quite terrible. What are we coming to?”