At Bertram's Hotel - Christie Agatha (читаем полную версию книг бесплатно .TXT) 📗

"But Ladislaus is my friend. I don't want him railroaded for something he didn't do. I killed Michael Gorman. I've said so, and Miss Marple has heard me… And now, dear Chief Inspector Davy-" Her voice rose excitedly, and her laughter rang out: "Catch me if you can."

With a sweep of her arm she smashed the window with the heavy telephone set, and before Father could get to his feet, she was out of the window and edging her way rapidly along the narrow parapet. With surprising quickness in spite of his bulk, Davy had moved to the other window and flung up the sash. At the same time he blew the whistle he had taken from his pocket.

Miss Marple, getting to her feet with rather more difficulty a moment or two later, joined him. Together they stared out along the facade of Bertram's Hotel.

"She'll fall. She's climbing up a drainpipe," Miss Marple exclaimed. "But why up?"

"Going to the roof. It's her only chance and she knows it. Good God, look at her. Climbs like a cat. She looks like a fly on the side of the wall. The risks she's taking!"

Miss Marple murmured, her eyes half closing, "She'll fall. She can't do it…

The woman they were watching disappeared from sight. Father drew back a little into the room.

Miss Marple asked, "Don't you want to go and-" Father shook his head. "What good am I with my bulk? I've got my men posted ready for something like this. They know what to do. In a few minutes we shall know… I wouldn't put it past her to beat the lot of them! She's a woman in a thousand, you know." He sighed. "One of the wild ones. Oh, we've some of them in every generation. You can't tame them, you can't bring them into the community and make them live in law and order. They go their own way. If they're saints, they go and tend lepers or something, or get themselves martyred in jungles. If they're bad lots, they commit the atrocities that you don't like hearing about. And sometimes-they're just wild! They'd have been all right, I suppose, born in another age when it was everyone's hand for himself, everyone fighting to keep life in their veins. Hazards at every turn, danger all round them, and they themselves perforce dangerous to others. That world would have suited them; they'd have been at home in it. This one doesn't."

"Did you know what she was going to do?"

"Not really. That's one of her gifts. The unexpected. She must have thought this out, you know. She knew what was coming. So she sat looking at us-keeping the ball rolling-and thinking. Thinking and planning hard. I expect-ah-" He broke off as there came the sudden roar of a car's exhaust, the screaming of wheels, and the sound of a big racing engine. He leaned out. "She's made it, she's got to her car."

There was more screaming as the car came round the corner on two wheels, a great roar, and the beautiful white monster came tearing up the street.

"She'll kill someone," said Father, "she'll kill a lot of people… even if she doesn't kill herself."

"I wonder," said Miss Marple.

"She's a good driver, of course. A damned good driver. Whoof, that was a near one!"

They heard the roar of the car racing away with the horn blaring, heard it grow fainter. Heard cries, shouts, the sound of brakes, cars hooting and pulling up and finally a great scream of tires and a roaring exhaust and-.

"She's crashed," said Father.

He stood there very quietly waiting with the patience that was characteristic of his whole big patient form. Miss Marple stood silent beside him. Then, like a relay race, word came down along the street. A man on the pavement opposite looked up at Chief Inspector Davy and made rapid signs with his hands.

"She's had it," said Father heavily. "Dead! Went about ninety miles an hour into the park railings. No other casualties bar a few slight collisions. Magnificent driving. Yes, she's dead." He turned back into the room and said heavily, "Well, she told her story first. You heard her."

"Yes," said Miss Marple. "I heard her." There was a pause. "It wasn't true, of course," said Miss Marpie quietly.

Father looked at her. "You didn't believe her, eh?"

"Did you?"

"No," said Father. "No, it wasn't the right story. She thought it out so that it would meet the case exactly, but it wasn't true. She didn't shoot Michael Gorman. D'you happen to know who did?"

"Of course I know," said Miss Marple. "The girl."

"Ah! When did you begin to think that?"

"I always wondered," said Miss Marple.

"So did I," said Father. "She was full of fear that night. And the lies she told were poor lies. But I couldn't see a motive at first."

"That puzzled me," said Miss Marple. "She had found out her mother's marriage was bigamous, but would a girl do murder for that? Not nowadays! I suppose-there was a money side to it?"

"Yes, it was money," said Chief Inspector Davy. "Her father left her a colossal fortune. When she found out that her mother was married to Michael Gorman, she realized that the marriage to Coniston hadn't been legal. She thought that meant that the money wouldn't come to her because, though she was his daughter, she wasn't legitimate. She was wrong, you know. We had a case something like that before. Depends on the terms of a will. Coniston left it quite clearly to her, naming her by name. She'd get it all right, but she didn't know that. And she wasn't going to let go of the cash."

"Why did she need it so badly?"

Chief Inspector Davy said grimly, "To buy Ladislaus Malinowski. He would have married her for her money. He wouldn't have married her without it. She wasn't a fool, that girl. She knew that. But she wanted him on any terms. She was desperately in love with him."

"I know," said Miss Marple. She explained, "I saw her face that day in Battersea Park…

"She knew that with the money she'd get him, and without the money she'd lose him," said Father. "And so she planned a cold-blooded murder. She didn't hide in the area, of course. There was nobody in the area. She just stood by the railings and fired a shot and screamed, and when Michael Gorman came racing down the street from the hotel, she shot him at close quarters. Then she went on screaming. She was a cool hand. She'd no idea of incriminating young Ladislaus. She pinched his pistol because it was the only way she could get hold of one easily; and she never dreamed that he would be suspected of the crime, or that he would be anywhere in the neighbourhood that night. She thought it would be put down to some thug taking advantage of the fog. Yes, she was a cool hand. But she was afraid that night-afterwards! And her mother was afraid for her…

"And now-what will you do?"

"I know she did it," said Father, "but I've no evidence. Maybe she'll have beginner's luck… Even the law seems to go on the principle now of allowing a dog to have one bite-translated into human terms. An experienced counsel could make great play with the sob stuff-so young a girl, unfortunate upbringing-and she's beautiful, you know."

"Yes," said Miss Marple. "The children of Lucifer are often beautiful. And as we know, they flourish like the green bay tree."

"But as I tell you, it probably won't even come to that. There's no evidence. Take yourself-you'll be called as a witness-a witness to what her mother said-to her mother's confession of the crime."

"I know," said Miss Marple. "She impressed it on me, didn't she? She chose death for herself, at the price of her daughter going free. She forced it on me as a dying request…

The connecting door to the bedroom opened. Elvira Blake came through. She was wearing a straight shift dress of pale blue. Her fair hair fell down each side of her face. She looked like one of the angels in an early primitive Italian painting. She looked from one to the other of them.

"I heard a car and a crash and people shouting," she said. "Has there been an accident?"