Chapter 17 Chapter Seventeen

The next morning, Slack Pudu came to see me.I think his attitude towards me is softening.As time went on, he probably forgot about the alarm clock. "Oh, sir," he greeted me, "I've tracked down that call you got." "Really?" I asked eagerly. "It was very strange. The call was from the north gatehouse of the 'old house' this time. Now, the porterhouse is empty, the porter has received his annuity and retired, and the new porter has not yet moved in.The place was empty and convenient—a door at the back of the house was open.No fingerprints on the phone - it has been wiped clean.It's intriguing. "

"What do you mean?" "I mean, that call was made on purpose to get you out of the way. So it was well planned. If it had been a harmless joke, the fingerprints wouldn't have been so carefully removed." "No. I understand that." "It also shows that the murderer was well acquainted with the 'Old House' and its surroundings. It was not Mrs. Protheroe who called. I can tell what she was doing at intervals that afternoon. Six servants swore, She stayed at home until half past five. Then the car came and took Colonel Protheroe and her to the village.The colonel went to see Quinton, a veteran, to talk about horses.Mrs. Protheroe had done some shopping at the grocery and fish shop, and from there she came straight back by the back lane, where Miss Marple had seen her.Everyone in the store said she didn't have a bag with her.The old lady was right. "

"She's usually right," I said mildly. "And Miss Protheroe was at March Burnham at five-thirty." "Exactly," I said, "my nephew is there too." "That rules her out. The maid seems normal--a little hysterical and restless, but what do you expect? Of course, I've got my eye on the butler--he's the one who announces visitors and whatnot. But I Don't think he knew everything about it." "It appears that your inquiry turned out to be very unsatisfactory, Inspector." "The result is unsatisfactory and satisfactory, sir. I have discovered a very curious thing--something quite unexpected, as it were."

"yes?" "You remember your neighbor, Mrs. Price Ridley, being so rowdy and furious yesterday morning? It was about the anonymous phone call." "How?" I said. "Oh, we tracked down that call just to tell her not to make a fuss. Do you know where the damn call came from?" "Telephone exchange?" I guessed. "No, Mr. Claremont. The call was from the residence of Mr. Laurence Redding." "What?" I exclaimed in surprise. "Yes. Kind of strange, isn't it? Mr Redding has nothing to do with the matter. At six-thirty, he is on his way to the Blue Boar with Dr. Stone, and the whole village can see him." ...but therein lies the problem. Intriguing, hello? Someone walked into that vacant residence and used the phone. Who was that? Two weird calls in one day. It makes you think that the difference between the two There is some kind of connection between them. If the two calls were not made by the same person, my last name is not Slack."

"But from what motive?" "Oh, that's what we have to find out. There doesn't seem to be a particular motive for the second call, but there must be. Do you see the trick? Mr. Redding's room was used for the telephone, and Mr Ding's pistol, all of which implicates Mr Redding in the case." "Especially if the first call was made from his residence. I countered. "Ah, but I've figured this out. What does Mr. Redding do most afternoons? He goes to the 'Old House' to paint Miss Protheroe. And, he rides his motorcycle from the residence, past the North Gatehouse. Now, You see the reason for the call from there. The murderer didn't know about the quarrel, or that Mr Redding doesn't go to the 'Old House' any more."

I pondered for a moment to understand the Inspector's reasoning.To me, this reasoning seems logical and unassailable. "Are there any fingerprints on the handset of Mr. Redding's house telephone?" I asked. "No," said the Inspector brusquely, "that damned old woman who did his housework went in there yesterday morning and wiped the fingerprints off." He was angrily silent for a while. "She was a stupid old woman, after all. Can't remember when she last saw the pistol. It might or might not have been there the morning of the murder.' She was sure, she couldn't tell.' It wasn't the same thing ?"

"As a matter of routine, I went to see Dr. Stone," he went on, "and I must say he was pleasant enough about it. Yesterday, about half-past two, he and Miss Crumb went to the mound—or The grave—whatever you call it, was there all afternoon. Dr. Stone came back first alone, she later. He said he didn't hear the gunfire, but admitted he was absent-minded. But, all of this All confirmed our judgment.” "It's just that you haven't caught the murderer yet," I said. "Well," said the Inspector, "you heard a woman's voice on the phone. It was quite possible that Mrs. Price Ridley had also heard a woman's voice.If only that shot hadn't happened to go off at the end of the call - oh, then I'd know where to start. "

"where?" "Ah! That's best kept secret, sir." I have the cheek to suggest a glass of port.I have some very tasty vintage Porto.Eleven in the morning isn't usually the time to drink porto, but I guess that doesn't matter to Inspector Slack.Of course, that's wasteful for vintage Porto, but one needn't stick to such things. As Inspector Slack finished his second drink, he became approachable and amiable.That's the potency of this unique Porto wine. "I don't think it matters to tell you, sir," said he, "that you will keep it a secret? Don't let it get out in the parish."

I promise him it will be done. "Given that the whole thing happened in your home, it seems like you have a right to know." "I see it that way myself," I said. "Oh, sir, how about the lady who went to see Colonel Protheroe the night before the murder?" "Mrs. Lestrands!" I cried, my voice loud with surprise. The inspector threw me a reproachful glance. "Don't shout so loudly, sir. Mrs. Lestrands is the woman I'm after. Do you remember what I told you—blackmail?" "That hardly justifies murder. Wouldn't that be killing the goose and taking the egg? Even if your conjecture is correct, I don't at all admit that it would be the case."

The Inspector winked at me the way people always do. "Ah! She's the kind of woman men always stand up for. Look, sir. Suppose she's successfully blackmailed the old gentleman in the past. Years go by, and she hears of him again, and comes here. Wanted to get it again. However, by this time the situation had changed. The law had taken a different stand. Today, denunciators of blackmail are given all sorts of conveniences—their names are not to be published in the newspapers. Imagine Colonel Protheroe taking She found a new way to deal with it, saying that he was going to let the law punish her, and she would be in a bad position. They have a heavy sentence for racketeering. So, the opposite is true. The only way to save herself is to get rid of it cleanly. Drop him."

I was silent.I must admit that the Inspector's deduction of the case seemed plausible.There is only one thing in my head that makes this inference unacceptable--the too large a personality of Lestrands. "I don't agree with you, Inspector," I said. "I don't think Mrs. Lestrands would be a potential blackmailer. She's—oh, she's a lady, as the old saying goes." He cast a pitying look at me. "Ah! Well, sir," he said patiently, "you're a clergyman. You don't know half of reality. She's a lady! You'd be surprised if you knew something I know. " "I don't mean only social status. I even imagine that Mrs. Lestrands belongs to the lower classes. I mean a question of personal cultivation." "You don't see her the way I do, sir. I'm a man, but I'm also a police officer. They can't fool me with their personalities. Well, this woman can put a knife in you, and the eye Don't blink." Oddly enough, I am more apt to believe that Mrs. Lestrands can murder than to believe that Mrs. Lestrands can blackmail. "But of course she couldn't have telephoned the old lady next door and shot Colonel Protheroe at the same time," continued the inspector. He slapped his thigh suddenly and said a few words. "I borrowed it," he shouted, "what was the purpose of that call, another alibi. Know we'll link it to the first call. I'll look into it. She may have bribed some village The lad in the house called for her. It never occurred to the lad that the call could have anything to do with murder." The inspector hurried away. "Miss Marple wants to see you," said Griselda, sticking her head through the door. "She sent an incoherent note - all spidery handwriting and underlining. I couldn't make out most of it. Apparently she couldn't leave the house by herself. Hurry over to see her and see what's going on.Those old ladies of mine will be coming in a minute, and I'll be there too.I hate old ladies who tell you about their leg problems and sometimes insist on showing you.It was great to have a trial this afternoon!Forget going to a cricket match at the Choir Club. " I hurried on, wondering why Miss Marple wanted me to go. I found Miss Marple flustered.She blushed and was a little incoherent. "My nephew," she explained, "my nephew, Raymond West, the writer, he's here today. It's been quite a panic. I've got to take care of everything myself. You can't Count on a maid to make the bed properly, and of course we're going to have a meat meal tonight. Men need that much meat, don't they? And drinks - of course there must be some in the house, and straws." "If I could do something—" I began. "Oh, that's very kind of you. But that's not what I mean. There's still plenty of time. He brought his own pipe and cigarettes, which I was glad because it spared me the trouble of knowing what kind of cigarettes to buy to suit his taste.But it's also a pity because it takes a long time for the smell of smoke to dissipate.Of course, I open the windows every morning to let the smell out.Raymond got up late, as I think writers often do.I think he's written a well-conceived book, but people aren't as unpleasant as he makes them out to be.Bright young people have a superficial understanding of life, don't you think? " "Would you like to take him to dinner at the vicarage?" I asked, still wondering why I had been called. "Oh! no, thank you," said Miss Marple. "It's very kind of you!" she repeated. "I think you want to see me—what—is there something?" I finally blurted out. "Oh! Of course. In the midst of this excitement, I forgot about it." She broke off abruptly, and called to her maid: "Emily—Emily. It's not the sheets. It's the ornaments." The ones with the monogram, don't put them too close to the fire." She closed the door, then tiptoed back to me. "It was a very curious thing that happened last night," she explained, "and I think you'd like to hear about it, though it doesn't explain anything at the moment. I didn't sleep last night—wonder over this sad thing." .So I got up and looked out the window. Guess what I saw?" I looked at her, wondering what was going on. "Gladys Crumb," Miss Marple snapped out, "indeed, went into the woods with a suitcase." "suitcase?" "Isn't that unusual? What was she doing in the woods with her suitcase in the middle of the night?" "You see," said Miss Marple, "I dare say it has nothing to do with murder. But it is a curious thing. It is precisely in the present circumstances that we all feel that we must watch for strange things." "That's amazing," I said. "Is she going to—er—happen to sleep in the cemetery?" "Anyway, she didn't," said Miss Marple, "because she came back a short time later without her suitcase."