Molly stared at the object he held. ‘I always thought the police didn’t carry revolvers,’ she said.
‘The police don’t,’ said the young man. He went on, ‘But you see, Mrs Davis, I’m not a policeman. I’m Jim. I’m Georgie’s brother. You thought I was a policeman because I rang up from the call box in the village and said that Sergeant Trotter was on his way. Then I cut the telephone wires outside the house when I got here, so that you shouldn’t be able to ring back to the police station.’
Molly stared at him. The revolver was pointing at her now.
‘Don’t move, Mrs Davis—and don’t scream—or I pull the trigger at once.’
He was still smiling. It was, Molly realized with horror, a child’s smile. And his voice, when he spoke, was becoming a child’s voice.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m Georgie’s brother. Georgie died at Longridge Farm. That nasty woman sent us there, and the farmer’s wife was cruel to us, and you wouldn’t help us—three little blind mice. I said then I’d kill you all when I grew up. I meant it. I’ve thought of it ever since.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘They bothered me a lot in the army—that doctor kept asking me questions—I had to get away. I was afraid they’d stop me doing what I wanted to do. But I’m grown up now. Grown-ups can do what they like.’
Molly pulled herself together. Talk to him, she said to herself. Distract his mind.
‘But, Jim, listen,’ she said. ‘You’ll never get safely away.’
His face clouded over. ‘Somebody’s hidden my skis. I can’t find them.’ He laughed. ‘But I daresay it will be all right. It’s your husband’s revolver. I took it out of his drawer. I daresay they’ll think he shot you. Anyway—I don’t much care. It’s been such fun—all of it. Pretending! That woman in London, her face when she recognized me. That stupid woman this morning!’
He nodded his head.
Clearly, with eerie effect, came a whistle. Someone whistling the tune of ‘Three Blind Mice.’
Trotter started, the revolver wavered—a voice shouted, ‘Down, Mrs Davis.’
Molly dropped to the floor as Major Metcalf, rising from behind the concealment of the sofa by the door flung himself upon Trotter. The revolver went off—and the bullet lodged in one of the somewhat mediocre oil paintings dear to the heart of the late Miss Emory.
A moment later, all was pandemonium—Giles rushed in, followed by Christopher and Mr Paravicini.
Major Metcalf, retaining his grasp of Trotter, spoke in short explosive sentences.
‘Came in while you were playing—slipped behind the sofa—I’ve been on to him from the beginning—that’s to say, I knew he wasn’t a police officer. I’m a police officer—Inspector Tanner. We arranged with Metcalf I should take his place. Scotland Yard thought it advisable to have someone on the spot. Now, my lad—’ He spoke quite gently to the now docile Trotter. ‘You come with me. No one will hurt you. You’ll be all right. We’ll look after you.’
In a piteous child’s voice the bronzed young man asked, ‘Georgie won’t be angry with me?’
Metcalf said, ‘No. Georgie won’t be angry.’
He murmured to Giles as he passed him, ‘Mad as a hatter, poor devil.’
They went out together. Mr Paravicini touched Christopher Wren on the arm.
‘You, also, my friend,’ he said, ‘come with me.’
Giles and Molly, left alone, looked at each other. In another moment they were in each other’s arms.
‘Darling,’ said Giles, ‘you’re sure he didn’t hurt you?’
‘No, no, I’m quite all right. Giles, I’ve been so terribly mixed up. I almost thought you—why did you go to London that day?’
‘Darling, I wanted to get you an anniversary present, for tomorrow. I didn’t want you to know.’
‘How extraordinary! I went to London to get you a present and I didn’t want you to know.’
‘I was insanely jealous of that neurotic ass. I must have been mad. Forgive me, darling.’
The door opened, and Mr Paravicini skipped in in his goatlike way. He was beaming.
‘Interrupting the reconciliation—Such a charming scene—But, alas, I must bid you adieu. A police jeep has managed to get through. I shall persuade them to take me with them.’ He bent and whispered mysteriously in Molly’s ear, ‘I may have a few embarrassments in the near future—but I am confident I can arrange matters, and if you should receive a case—with a goose, say, a turkey, some tins of foie gras, a ham—some nylon stockings, yes? Well, you understand, it will be with my compliments to a very charming lady. Mr Davis, my check is on the hall table.’
He kissed Molly’s hand and skipped to the door.
‘Nylons?’ murmured Molly, ‘Foie gras? Who is Mr Paravicini? Santa Claus?’
‘Black-market style, I suspect,’ said Giles.
Christopher Wren poked a diffident head in. ‘My dears,’ he said, ‘I hope I’m not intruding, but there’s a terrible smell of burning from the kitchen. Ought I to do something about it?’
With an anguished cry of ‘My pie!’ Molly fled from the room.
The Chocolate Box
It was a wild night. Outside, the wind howled malevolently, and the rain beat against the windows in great gusts.
Poirot and I sat facing the hearth, our legs stretched out to the cheerful blaze. Between us was a small table. On my side of it stood some carefully brewed hot toddy; on Poirot’s was a cup of thick, rich chocolate which I would not have drunk for a hundred pounds! Poirot sipped the thick brown mess in the pink china cup, and sighed with contentment.
‘Quelle belle vie!’ he murmured.
‘Yes, it’s a good old world,’ I agreed. ‘Here am I with a job, and a good job too! And here are you, famous—’
‘Oh, mon ami!’ protested Poirot.
‘But you are. And rightly so! When I think back on your long line of successes, I am positively amazed. I don’t believe you know what failure is!’
‘He would be a droll kind
