A Pocket Full of Rye by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online

the pad on which she had been writing to the inspector. The place of origin was Paris and the message ran as follows:
    Fortescue Yewtree Lodge Baydon Heath Surrey. Sorry your letter delayed. Will be with you tomorrow about teatime. Shall expect roast veal for dinner. Lance.
    Inspector Neele raised his eyebrows.
    â€œSo the Prodigal Son had been summoned home,” he said.

Chapter Six
    A t the moment when Rex Fortescue had been drinking his last cup of tea, Lance Fortescue and his wife had been sitting under the trees on the Champs Elysées watching the people walking past.
    â€œIt’s all very well to say ‘describe him,’ Pat. I’m a rotten hand at descriptions. What do you want to know? The Guvnor’s a bit of an old crook, you know. But you won’t mind that? You must be used to that more or less.”
    â€œOh, yes,” said Pat. “Yes—as you say—I’m acclimatized.”
    She tried to keep a certain forlornness out of her voice. Perhaps, she reflected, the whole world was really crooked—or was it just that she herself had been unfortunate?
    She was a tall, long-legged girl, not beautiful but with a charm that was made-up of vitality and a warm-hearted personality. She moved well, and had lovely gleaming chestnut brown hair. Perhaps from a long association with horses, she had acquired the look of a thoroughbred filly.
    Crookedness in the racing world she knew about—now, it seemed, she was to encounter crookedness in the financial world. Though for all that, it seemed that her father-in-law, whom she had not yet met, was, as far as the law was concerned, a pillar of rectitude. All these people who went about boasting of “smart work” were the same—technically they always managed to be within the law. Yet it seemed to her that her Lance, whom she loved, and who had admittedly strayed outside the ringed fence in earlier days, had an honesty that these successful practitioners of the crooked lacked.
    â€œI don’t mean,” said Lance, “that he’s a swindler—not anything like that. But he knows how to put over a fast one.”
    â€œSometimes,” said Pat, “I feel I hate people who put over fast ones.” She added: “You’re fond of him.” It was a statement, not a question.
    Lance considered it for a moment, and then said in a surprised kind of voice:
    â€œDo you know, darling, I believe I am.”
    Pat laughed. He turned his head to look at her. His eyes narrowed. What a darling she was! He loved her. The whole thing was worth it for her sake.
    â€œIn a way, you know,” he said, “it’s hell going back. City life. Home on the 5:18. It’s not my kind of life. I’m far more at home among the down and outs. But one’s got to settle down sometime, I suppose. And with you to hold my hand the process may even be quite a pleasant one. And since the old boy has come round, one ought to take advantage of it. I must say I was surprised when I got his letter . . . Percival, of all people, blotting his copybook. Percival, the good little boy. Mind you, Percy was always sly. Yes, he was always sly.”
    â€œI don’t think,” said Patricia Fortescue, “that I’m going to like your brother Percival.”
    â€œDon’t let me put you against him. Percy and I never got on—that’s all there is to it. I blued my pocket money, he saved his. I had disreputable but entertaining friends, Percy made what’s called ‘worthwhile contacts.’ Poles apart we were, he and I. I always thought him a poor fish, and he—sometimes, you know, I think he almost hated me. I don’t know why exactly. . . .”
    â€œI think I can see why.”
    â€œCan you, darling? You’re so brainy. You know I’ve always wondered—it’s a fantastic thing to say—but—”
    â€œWell? Say it.”
    â€œI’ve wondered if it wasn’t