'I wonder. I might go there and snatch off that rug affair and see if this atrophied limbs business is true or false!'
'We've looked into all that -'
'Wait. I ran into that little chemist chap, Osborne, down in Much Deeping. I want to repeat to you what he suggested to me.'
I outlined to him Osborne's theory of impersonation.
'That man's got a bee in his bonnet,' said Corrigan. 'He's the kind of man who has always got to be right.'
'But, Corrigan, tell me, couldn't it be as he said? It's possible, isn't it?'
After a moment or two Corrigan said slowly:
'Yes. I have to admit it's possible… but several people would have to be in the know – and would have to be paid very heavily for holding their tongues.'
'What of that? He's rolling in money, isn't he? Has Lejeune found out yet how he's made all that money?'
'No. Not exactly… I'll admit this to you. There's something wrong about the fellow. He's got a past of some kind. The money's all very cleverly accounted for, in a lot of ways. It isn't possible to check up on it all without an investigation which might take years. The police have had to do that before – when they've been up against a financial crook who has covered his traces by a web of infinite complexity. I believe the Inland Revenue has been smelling around Venables for some time. But he's clever. What do you see him as – the head of the show?'
'Yes, I do. I think he's the man who plans it all.'
'Perhaps. He sounds as though he'd have the kind of brains for that, I agree. But surely he wouldn't have done anything so crude as killing Father Gorman himself!'
'He might have if there was sufficient urgency. Father Gorman might have had to be silenced before he could pass on what he had learned from that woman about the activities of the Pale Horse. Besides -'
I stopped short.
'Hallo – you still there?'
'Yes, I was thinking… just an idea that occurred to me…'
'What was it?'
'I've not got it clear yet… just that real safety could only be achieved one way. I haven't worked it out yet. Anyway, I must go now. I've got a rendez-vous at a coffee bar.'
'Didn't know you were in the Chelsea coffee bar set!'
'I'm not. My coffee bar is in Tottenham Court Road, as a matter of fact.'
I rang off and glanced at the clock.
I started for the door when the telephone rang.
I hesitated. Ten to one, it was Jim Corrigan again, ringing back to know more about my idea.
I didn't want to talk to Jim Corrigan just now.
I moved towards the door while the telephone rang on persistently, naggingly.
Of course, it might be the hospital – Ginger -
I couldn't risk that. I strode across impatiently and jerked the receiver off its hook.
'Hallo?'
'Is that you, Mark?'
'Yes, who is it?'
'It's me, of course,' said the voice reproachfully. 'Listen, I want to tell you something.'
'Oh, it's you.' I recognized the voice of Mrs Oliver. 'Look here, I'm in a great hurry, got to go out. I'll ring you back later.'
'That won't do at all,' said Mrs Oliver, firmly. 'You've got to listen to me now. It's important.'
'Well, you'll have to be quick. I've got an appointment. '
'Pooh,' said Mrs Oliver. 'You can always be late for an appointment. Everybody is. They'll think all the more of you.'
'No, really, I've got to-'
'Listen, Mark. This is important. I'm sure it is. It must be!'
I curbed my impatience as best I could, glancing at the clock.
'Well?'
'My Milly had tonsillitis. She was quite bad and she's gone to the country – to her sister -'
I gritted my teeth.
'I'm frightfully sorry about that, but really -'
'Listen. I've not begun yet. Where was I? Oh yes. Milly had to go to the country and so I rang up the agency I always go to – the Regency – such a silly name I always think – like a cinema -'
'I really must -'
'And said what could they send? And they said it was very difficult just now – which they always say as a matter of fact – but they'd do what they could -'
Never had I found my friend Ariadne Oliver so maddening.
'- And so, this morning a woman came along, and who do you think she turned out to be?'
'I can't imagine. Look -'
'A woman called Edith Binns – comic name, isn't it? – and you actually know her.'
'No, I don't. I never heard of a woman called Edith Binns.'
'But you do know her and you saw her not very long ago. She had been with that godmother of yours for years. Lady Hesketh-Dubois.'
'Oh, with her!'
'Yes. She saw you the day you came to collect some pictures.'
'Well, that's all very nice and I expect you're very lucky to find her. I believe she's most trustworthy and reliable and all that. Aunt Min said so. But really – now -'
'Wait, can't you? I haven't got to the point. She sat and talked a great deal about Lady Hesketh-Dubois and her last illness, and all that sort of thing, because they do love illnesses and death and then she said it.'
'Said what?'
'The thing that caught my attention. She said something like: 'Poor dear lady, suffering like she did. That nasty thing on her brain, a growth, they say, and she in quite good health up to just before. And pitiful it was to see her in the nursing home and all her hair, nice thick white hair it was, and always blued regular once a fortnight, to see it coming out all over the pillow. Coming out in handfuls. And then, Mark, I thought of Mary Delafontaine, that friend of mine. Her hair came out. And I remembered what you told me about some girl you'd seen in a Chelsea coffee place fighting with another girl, and getting her hair all pulled out in handfuls. Hair doesn't come out as easily as that, Mark. You try – just try to pull your own hair, just a little bit of it, out by the roots! Just try it! You'll see. It's not natural, Mark, for all these people to have hair that comes out by the roots. It's not natural. It must be some special kind of new illness – it must mean something.'
I clutched the receiver and my head swam. Things, half-remembered scraps of knowledge, drew together. Rhoda and her dogs on the lawn – an article I had read in a medical journal in New York – Of course… of course!
I was suddenly aware that Mrs Oliver was still quacking happily.
'Bless you,' I said. 'You're wonderful!'
I slammed back the receiver, then took it off again. I dialed a number and was lucky enough this time to get Lejeune straight away.
'Listen,' I said, 'is Ginger's hair coming out by the roots in handfuls?'
'Well – as a matter of fact I believe it is. High fever, I suppose.'
'Fever my foot,' I said. 'What Ginger's suffering from, what they've all suffered from, is thallium poisoning. Please God, we may be in time…'
