Читаем The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories полностью

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

"Yes." A hopeless "yes"--dark, smoldering eyes that saw no light anywhere.

Poirot patted her shoulder. "Be of good cour-age,

mademoiselle. There may yet be freedom--yes, and moneyma life of ease."

She looked at him suspiciously.

As he went out Sims said to him, "I didn't quite get what you said through the telephone--some-thing about the girl having a friend."

"She has one. Me!" said Hercule Poirot, and had left the police station before the inspector could pull his wits together.

At the Green Cat tearooms, Miss Lemon did not keep her employer waiting. She went straight to the point.

"The man's name is Rudge, in the High Street, and you were quite right. A dozen and a half ex-actly. I've made a note of what he said." She handed it to him.

"Arrr." It was a deep, rich sound like the purr

of a cat.

Hercule Poirot betook himself to Rosebank. As he stood in the front garden, the sun setting be-hind him, Mary Delafontaine came out to him.

HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW? 75

"M. Poirot?" Her voice sounded surprised. "You have come back?"

"Yes, I have come back." He paused and then said, "When I first came here, madame, the children's nursery rhyme came into my head:

Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With cockle-shells, and silver bells, And pretty maids all in a row.

Only they are not cockle shells, are they, madame? They are oyster shells." His hand pointed.

He heard her catch her breath and then stay very still. Her eyes asked a question.

He nodded. "Mais, oui, I know! The maid left the dinner ready--she will swear and Katrina will swear that that is all you had. Only you and your husband know that you brought back a dozen and a half oysters--a little treat pour la bonne tante. So easy to put the strychnine in an oyster. It is swallowed--comme qa.t But there remain the shells--they must not go in the bucket. The maid would see them. And so you thought of making an edging of them to a bed. But there were not enough--the edging is not complete. The effect is bad--it spoils the symmetry of the otherwise charming garden. Those few oyster shells struck an alien note--they displeased my eye on my first visit."

Mary Delafontaine said, "I suppose you guessed from the letter.' I knew she had written --but I didn't know how much she'd said."

Poirot answered evasively, "I knew at least that

Agatha Christie

it was a family matter. If it had been a question of Katrina there would have been no point in hushing things up. I understand that you or your husband handled Miss Barrowby's securities to your own profit, and that she found out--"

Mary Delafontaine nodded. "We've done it for years--a little here and there. I never realized she was sharp enough to find out. And then I learned she had sent for a detective; and I found out, too, that she was leaving her money to Katrina--that miserable little creature!"

"And so the strychnine was put in Katrina's bedroom? I comprehend. You save yourself and your husband from what I may discover, and you saddle an innocent child with murder. Had you no pity, madame?"

Mary Delafontaine shrugged her shouldersm

her blue forget-me-not eyes looked into Poirot's. He remembered the perfection of her acting the first day he had come and the bungling attempts of her husband. A woman above the averagefbut inhuman.

She said, "Pity? For that miserable intriguing little rat?" Her contempt rang out.

Hercule Poirot said slowly, "I think, madame, that you have cared in your life for two things

only. One is your husband."

He saw her lips tremble.

"And the other--is your garden."

He looked round him. His glance seemed to apologize to the flowers for that which he had done and was about to do.

at Pollensa Bay The steamer from Barcelona to Majorca landed Mr. Parker Pyne at Palma in the early hours of the morning--and straightaway he met with disillusionment. The hotels were full! The best that could be done for him was an airless cupboard overlooking an inner court in a hotel in the center of the town--and with that Mr. Parker Pyne was not prepared to put up. The proprietor of the hotel was indifferent to his disappointment. "What will you?" he observed with a shrug. Palma was popular now! The exchange was favorable! Everyone--the English, the Americans--they all came to Majorca in the winter. The whole place was crowded. It was doubtful if the English gentleman would be able to get in anywhere--except perhaps at Formentor where the prices were so ruinous that even foreigners blenched at them. Mr. Parker Pyne partook of some coffee and a roll and went out to view the cathedral, but found