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Craddock uttered an ejaculation of astonishment.
“Surprising, was it not, Mr. Craddock? I will assure you categorically that the accusation was entirely unfounded. I did not put tablets in anybody’s glass. I defy anyone to prove that I did. The suggestion is utterly absurd. But it would seem, would it not, that Miss Zielinsky was embarking on blackmail.”
“You recognized her voice?”
“You cannot recognize a whisper. But it was Ella Zielinsky all right.”
“How do you know?”
“The whisperer sneezed heavily before ringing off. I knew that Miss Zielinsky suffered from hay fever.”
“And you think—what?”
“I think that Miss Zielinsky got hold of the wrong person at her first attempt. It seems to me possible that she was more successful later. Blackmail can be a dangerous game.”
Craddock pulled himself together.
“I must thank you for your statement, Mr. Fenn. As a matter of form, I shall have to check upon your movements today.”
“Naturally. My chauffeur will be able to give you precise information.”
Craddock rang off and repeated what Fenn had said. Cornish whistled.
“Either that lets him out completely. Or else—”
“Or else it’s a magnificent piece of bluff. It could be. He’s the kind of man who has the nerve for it. If there’s the least chance that Ella Zielinsky left a record of her suspicions, then this taking of the bull by the horns is a magnificent bluff.”
“And his alibi?”
“We’ve come across some very good faked alibis in our time,” said Craddock. “He could afford to pay a good sum for one.”
II
It was past midnight when Giuseppe returned to Gossington. He took a taxi from Much Benham, as the last train on the branch line to St. Mary Mead had gone.
He was in very good spirits. He paid off the taxi at the gate, and took a short cut through the shrubbery. He opened the back door with his key. The house was dark and silent. Giuseppe shut and bolted the door. As he turned to the stair which led to his own comfortable suite of bed and bath, he noticed that there was a draught. A window open somewhere, perhaps. He decided not to bother. He went upstairs smiling and fitted a key into his door. He always kept his suite locked. As he turned the key and pushed the door open, he felt the pressure of a hard round ring in his back. A voice said, “Put your hands up and don’t scream.”
Giuseppe threw his hands up quickly. He was taking no chances. Actually there was no chance to take.
The trigger was pressed—once—twice.
Giuseppe fell forward….
III
Bianca lifted her head from her pillow.
Was that a shot… She was almost sure she had heard a shot… She waited some minutes. Then she decided she had been mistaken and lay down again.
Nineteen
I
“It’s too dreadful,” said Miss Knight. She put down her parcels and gasped for breath.
“Something has happened?” asked Miss Marple.
“I really don’t like to tell you about it, dear, I really don’t. It might be a shock to you.”
“If you don’t tell me,” said Miss Marple, “somebody else will.”
“Dear, dear, that’s true enough,” said Miss Knight. “Yes, that’s terribly true. Everybody talks too much, they say. And I’m sure there’s a lot in that. I never repeat anything myself. Very careful I am.”
“You were saying,” said Miss Marple, “that something rather terrible had happened?”
“It really quite bowled me over,” said Miss Knight. “Are you sure you don’t feel the draught from that window, dear?”
“I like a little fresh air,” said Miss Marple.
“Ah, but we mustn’t catch cold, must we?” said Miss Knight archly. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll just pop out and make you a nice eggnog. We’d like that, wouldn’t we?”
“I don’t know whether you would like it,” said Miss Marple. “I should be delighted for you to have it if you would like it.”
“Now, now,” said Miss Knight, shaking her finger, “so fond of our joke, aren’t we?”
“But you were going to tell me something,” said Miss Marple.
“Well, you mustn’t worry about it,” said Miss Knight, “and you mustn’t let it make you nervous in anyway, because I’m sure it’s nothing to do with us. But with all these American gangsters and things like that, well I suppose it’s nothing to be surprised about.”
“Somebody else has been killed,” said Miss Marple, “is that it?”
“Oh, that’s very sharp of you, dear. I don’t know what should put such a thing into your head.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully, “I’ve been expecting it.”
“Oh, really!” exclaimed Miss Knight.
“Somebody always sees something,” said Miss Marple, “only sometimes it takes a little while for them to realize what it is they have seen. Who is it who’s dead?”
“The Italian butler. He was shot last night.”
“I see,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “Yes, very likely, of course, but I should have thought that he’d have realized before now the importance of what he saw—”
“Really!” exclaimed Miss Knight. “You talk as though you knew all about it. Why should he have been killed?”
“I expect,” said Miss Marple, thoughtfully, “that he tried to blackmail somebody.”
“He went to London yesterday, they say.”
“Did he now,” said Miss Marple, “that’s very interesting, and suggestive too, I think.”
Miss Knight departed to the kitchen intent on the concoction of nourishing beverages. Miss Marple remained sitting thoughtfully till disturbed by the loud aggressive humming of the vacuum cleaner, assisted by Cherry’s voice singing the latest favourite ditty of the moment, “I Said to You and You Said to Me.”
Miss Knight popped her head round the kitchen door.
“Not quite so much noise, please, Cherry,” she said. “You don’t want to disturb Miss Marple, do you? You mustn’t be thoughtless, you know.”
She shut the kitchen door again as Cherry remarked, either to herself or the world at large, “And who said you could call me Cherry, you old jelly-bag?” The vacuum continued to whine while Cherry sang in a more subdued voice. Miss Marple called in a high clear voice:
“Cherry, come here a minute.”
Cherry switched off the vacuum and opened the drawing room door.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you by singing, Miss Marple.”
“Your singing is much pleasanter than the horrid noise that vacuum makes,” said Miss Marple, “but I know one has to go with the times. It would be no use on earth asking any of you young people to use the dustpan and brush in the old-fashioned way.”
“What, get down on my knees with a dustpan and brush?” Cherry registered alarm and surprise.
“Quite unheard of, I know,” said Miss Marple. “Come in and shut the door. I called you because I wanted to talk to you.”
Cherry obeyed and came towards Miss Marple looking inquiringly at her.
“We’ve not much time,” said Miss Marple. “That old— Miss Knight I mean—will come in any moment with an egg drink of some kind.”
“Good for you, I expect. It’ll pep you up,” said Cherry encouragingly.
“Had you heard,” asked Miss Marple, “that the butler at Gossington Hall was shot last night?”
“What, the wop?” demanded Cherry.
“Yes. His name is Giuseppe, I understand.”
“No,” said Cherry, “I hadn’t heard that. I heard that Mr. Rudd’s secretary had a heart attack yesterday, and somebody said she was actually dead—but I suspect that was just a rumour. Who told you about the butler?”
“Miss Knight came back and told me.”
“Of course I haven’t seen anyone to speak to this morning,” said Cherry, “not before coming along here. I expect the news has only just got round. Was he bumped off?” she demanded.
“That seems to be assumed,” said Miss Marple, “whether rightly or wrongly I don’t quite know.”
“This is a wonderful place for talk,” said Cherry. “I wonder if Gladys got to see him or not,” she added thoughtfully.
“Gladys?”
“Oh, a sort of friend of mine. She lives a few doors away. Works in the canteen at the studios.”
“And she talked to you about Giuseppe?”
“Well, there was something that struck her as a bit funny and she was going to ask him what he thought about it. But if you ask me it was just an excuse—she’s a bit sweet on him. Of course he’s quite handsome and Italians do have a way with them— I told her to be careful about him, though. You know what Italians are.”
“He went to London yesterday,” said Miss Marple, “and only returned in the evening I understand.”
“I wonder if she managed to get to see him before he went.”
“Why did she want to see him, Cherry?”
“It was just something which she felt was a bit funny,” said Cherry.
Miss Marple looked at her inquiringly. She was able to take the word “funny” at the valuation it usually had for the Gladyses of the neighbourhood.
“She was one of the girls who helped at the party there,” explained Cherry. “The day of the fête. You know, when Mrs. Badcock got hers.”
“Yes?” Miss Marple was looking more alert than ever, much as a fox terrier might look at a waiting rat hole.
“And there was something that she saw that struck her as a bit funny.”
“Why didn’t she go to the police about it?”
“Well, she didn’t really think it meant anything, you see,” explained Cherry. “Anyway she thought she’d better ask Mr. Giuseppe first.”
