In some obscure way that she could not have explained, Mr. Cust’s statement that his sister had had a baby had effectually removed any doubts Mrs. Marbury might have had of her lodger’s bona fides.
“I hope she didn’t have too hard a time of it, poor dear,” thought Mrs. Marbury, testing an iron against her cheek before beginning to iron out Lily’s silk slip.
Her mind ran comfortably on a well-worn obstetric track.
Mr. Cust came quietly down the stairs, a bag in his hand. His eyes rested a minute on the telephone.
That brief conversation reechoed in his brain.
“Is that you, Mr. Cust? I thought you might like to know there’s an inspector from Scotland Yard may be coming to see you….”
What had he said? He couldn’t remember.
“Thank you—thank you, my dear…very kind of you….”
Something like that.
Why had she telephoned to him? Could she possibly have guessed? Or did she just want to make sure he would stay in for t
he inspector’s visit?
But how did she know the inspector was coming?
And her voice—she’d disguised her voice from her mother….
It looked—it looked—as though she knew….
But surely if she knew, she wouldn’t….
She might, though. Women were very queer. Unexpectedly cruel and unexpectedly kind. He’d seen Lily once letting a mouse out of a mousetrap.
A kind girl….
A kind, pretty girl….
He paused by the hall stand with its load of umbrellas and coats.
Should he…?
A slight noise from the kitchen decided him….
No, there wasn’t time….
Mrs. Marbury might come out….
He opened the front door, passed through and closed it behind him….
Where…?
Twenty-nine
AT SCOTLAND YARD
Conference again.
The Assistant Commissioner, Inspector Crome, Poirot and myself.
The AC was saying: