Endless Night by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online

drab houses all highly respectable and devoid of any kind of beauty or interest.
    The front doorstep was nicely whitened and it looked just the same as usual. It was No. 46. I pressed the front-door bell. My mother opened the door and stood there looking at me. She looked just the same as usual, too. Tall and angular, grey hair parted in the middle, mouth like a rat-trap, and eyes that were eternally suspicious. She looked hard as nails. But where I was concerned there was a core of softness somewhere in her. She never showed it, not if she could help it, but I'd found out that it was there. She'd never stopped for a moment wanting me to be different but her wishes were never going to come true. There was a perpetual state of stalemate between us.
    “Oh,” she said, “so it's you.”
    “Yes,” I said, “it's me.”
    She drew back a little to let me pass and I came into the house and went on past the sitting-room door and into the kitchen. She followed me and stood looking at me.
    “It's been quite a long time,” she said. “What have you been doing?”
    I shrugged my shoulders.
    “Tiffs and that,” I said.
    “Ah,” said my mother, “as usual, eh?”
    “As usual,” I agreed.
    “How many jobs have you had since I saw you last?”
    I thought a minute. “Five,” I said.
    “I wish you'd grow up.”
    “I'm fully adult,” I said. “I have chosen my way of life. How have things been with you?” I added.
    “Also as usual,” said my mother.
    “Quite well and all that?”
    “I've no time to waste being ill,” said my mother. Then she said abruptly, “What have you come for?”
    “Should I have come for anything in particular?”
    “You usually do.”
    “I don't see why you should disapprove so strongly of my seeing the world,” I said.
    “Driving luxurious cars all over the Continent! Is that your idea of seeing the world?”
    “Certainly.”
    “You won't make much of a success in that. Not if you throw up the job at a day's notice and go sick, dumping your clients in some heathen town.”
    “How did you know about that?”
    “Your firm rang up. They wanted to know if I knew your address.”
    “What did they want me for?”
    “They wanted to re-employ you I suppose,” said my mother. “I can't think why.”
    “Because I'm a good driver and the clients like me. Anyway, I couldn't help it if I went sick, could I?”
    “I don't know,” said my mother.
    Her view clearly was that I could have helped it.
    “Why didn't you report to them when you got back to England?”
    “Because I had other fish to fry,” I said.
    She raised her eyebrows. “More notions in your head? More wild ideas? What jobs have you been doing since?”
    “Petrol pump. Mechanic in a garage. Temporary clerk washer-up in a sleazy night-club restaurant.”
    “Going down the hill in fact,” said my mother with a kind of grim satisfaction.
    “Not at all,” I said. “It's all part of the plan. My plan!”
    She sighed. “What would you like, tea or coffee? I've got both.”
    I plumped for coffee. I've grown out of the tea drinking habit. We sat there with our cups in front of us and she took a home-made cake out of a tin and cut us each a slice.
    “You're different,” she said, suddenly.
    “Me, how?”
    “I don't know, but you're different. What's happened?”
    “Nothing's happened. What should have happened?”
    “You're excited,” she said.
    “I'm going to rob a bank,” I said.
    She was not in the mood to be amused. She merely said, “No, I'm not afraid of your doing that.”
    “Why not? Seems a very easy way of getting rich quickly nowadays.”
    “It would need too much work,” she said. “And a lot of planning. More brainwork than you'd like to have to do. Not safe enough, either.”
    “You think you know all about me,” I said.
    “No, I don't. I don't really know anything about you, because you and I are as different as chalk and cheese. But I know when you're up to something. You're up to something