The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

"No," I said. "That's where you're wrong. You wouldn't see her--not if she were dressed as a chambermaid." I let it sink in, then I went on, "You were engrossed in your work--out of the tail of your eye you saw a chambermaid come in, go into your wife's room, come back and go out. It was the same dress--but not the same woman. That's what the people having coffee saw--a chambermaid go in and a chambermaid come

out. The electrician did the same. I daresay if a

chambermaid were very pretty a gentleman might notice her face--human nature being what it is --but if she were just an ordinary middle-aged woman--well--it would be the chambermaid's dressyou would see--not the woman herself."

Mr. Rhodes cried: "Who was she?"

140 Agatha Christie

"Well," I said, "that is going to be a little dif-ficult. It must be either Mrs. Granby or Miss Car-ruthers. Mrs. Granby sounds as though she might wear a wig normally--so she could wear her own hair as a chambermaid. On the other hand, Miss Carruthers with her close-cropped mannish head might easily put on a wig to play her part: I daresay you will find out easily enough which of them it is. Personally, I incline myself to think it will be Miss Carruthers."

And really, my dears, that is the end of the

story. Carruthers was a false name, but she was the woman all right. There was insanity in her family. Mrs. Rhodes, who was a most reckless and dangerous driver, had run over her little girl, and it had driven the poor woman off her head. She concealed her madness very cunningly except for writing distinctly insane letters to her intended vic-tim. She had been following her about for some time, and she laid her plans very cleverly. The false hair and maid's dress she posted in a parcel first thing the next morning. When taxed with the truth she broke down and confessed at once. The poor thing is in Broadmoor now. Completely un-balanced, of course, but a very cleverly planned crime.

Mr. Petherick came to me afterwards and brought me a very nice letter from Mr. Rhodes--really, it made me blush. Then my old friend said to me: "Just one thing--why did you think it was more likely to be Carruthers than Granby? You'd never seen either of them."

"Well," I said. "It was the g's. You said she dropped her g's. Now, that's done a lot by hunting MISS MARPLE TELLS A STORY

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people in books, but I don't know many people who do it in reality--and certainly no one under sixty. You said this woman was forty. Those dropped g's sounded to me like a woman who was playing a part and overdoing it."

I shan't tell you what Mr. Petherick said to that --but he was very complimentary--and I really couldn't help feeling just a teeny weeny bit pleased with myself.

And it's extraordinary how things turn out for the best in this world. Mr. Rhodes has married again--such a nice, sensible girl--and they've got a dear little baby andmwhat do you think?tthey asked me to be godmother. Wasn't it nice of them?

Now I do hope you don't think I've been run-ning

on too long ....

Hercule Poirot gave the house a steady appraising glance. His eyes wandered a moment to its sur-roundings, the shops, the big factory building on the right, the blocks of cheap mansion flats op-posite.

Then once more his eyes returned to Northway House, relic of an earlier age--an age of space and leisure, when green fields had surrounded its well-bred arrogance. Now it was an anachronism, sub-merged and forgotten in the hectic sea of modern London, and not one man in fifty could have told you where it stood.

Furthermore, very few people could have told you to whom it belonged, though its owner's name would have been recognized as one of the world's richest men. But money can quench publicity as well as flaunt it. Benedict Farley, that eccentric

145 146 Agatha Christie

millionaire, chose not to advertise his choice of residence. He himself was rarely seen, seldom making a public appearance. From time to time he appeared at board meetings, his lean figure, beaked nose, and rasping voice easily dominating the assembled directors. Apart from that, he was just a well-known figure of legend. There were his strange meannesses, his incredible generosities, as well as more personal detailsmhis famous patch-work dressing-gown, now reputed to be twenty-eight years old, his invariable diet of cabbage soup and aviare, his hatred of cats. All these things the public knew.

Hercule Poirot knew them also. t was all he did know of the man he was about to visit. The letter which was in his coat pocket told him little more.

After surveying this melancholy landmark of a past age for a minute or two in silence, he walked up the steps to the front door and pressed the bell,

glancing as he did so at theneat wrist-watch which

had at last replaced an earlier favoritemthe large turnip-faced watch of earlier days. Yes, it was ex-actly nine-thirty. As ever, Hercule Poirot was ex-act to the minute.