The Pale Horse by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online Page B

antecedents of the woman who called him out that night.”
    “Who was she?”
    “No mystery about her, apparently. Widow. We had an idea that her husband might have been connected with horse racing, but that doesn't seem to be so. She worked for a small commercial firm that does consumer research. Nothing wrong there. They are a reputable firm in a small way. They don't know much about her. She came from the north of England - Lancashire. The only odd thing about her is that she had so few personal possessions.”
    I shrugged my shoulders.
    “I expect that's true for a lot more people than we ever imagine. It's a lonely world.”
    “Yes, as you say.”
    “Anyway, you decided to take a hand?”
    “Just nosing around. Hesketh-Dubois is an uncommon name. I thought if I could find out a little about the lady -” He left the sentence unfinished. “But from what you tell me, there doesn't seem to be any possible lead there.”
    “Neither a dope addict nor a dope smuggler,” I assured him. “Certainly not a secret agent. Had led far too blameless a life to have been blackmailed. I can't imagine what kind of a list she could possibly have been on. Her jewelery she kept at the bank, so she wouldn't have been a hopeful prospect for robbery.”
    “Any other Hesketh-Duboises that you know about? Sons?”
    “No children. She had a nephew and a niece, I think, but not of that name. Her husband was an only child.”
    Corrigan told me sourly that I'd been a lot of help. He looked at his watch, remarked cheerfully that he was due to cut somebody up, and we parted.
    I went home thoughtful, found it impossible to concentrate on my work, and finally, on an impulse, rang up David Ardingly.
    “David? Mark here. That girl I met with you the other evening. Poppy. What's her other name?”
    “Going to pinch my girl, is that it?” David sounded highly amused.
    “You've got so many of them,” I retorted. “You could surely spare one.”
    “You've got a heavyweight of your own, old boy. I thought you were going steady with her.”
    “Going steady.” A repulsive term. And yet, I thought, struck suddenly with its aptitude, how well it described my relationship with Hermia. And why should it make me feel depressed? I had always felt in the back of my mind that some day Hermia and I would marry... I liked her better than anyone I knew. We had so much in common...
    For no conceivable reason, I felt a terrible desire to yawn. Our future stretched out before me. Hermia and I going to plays of significance, plays that mattered. Discussions of art, of music. No doubt about it, Hermia was the perfect companion.
    But not much fun, said some derisive imp, popping up from my subconscious. I was shocked.
    “Gone to sleep?” asked David.
    “Of course not. To tell the truth, I found your friend Poppy very refreshing.”
    “Good word. She is - taken in small doses. Her actual name is Pamela Stirling, and she works in one of those arty flower places in Mayfair. You know, three dead twigs, a tulip with its petals pinned back and a speckled laurel leaf. Price three guineas.”
    He gave me the address.
    “Take her out and enjoy yourself,” he said in a kindly avuncular fashion. “You'll find it a great relaxation. That girl knows nothing - she's absolutely empty-headed. She'll believe anything you tell her. She's virtuous by the way, so don't indulge in any false hopes.”
    He rang off.

The Pale Horse
    IV
    I invaded the portals of the Flower Studies Ltd. with some trepidation. An overpowering smell of gardenia nearly knocked me backwards. A number of girls, dressed in pale green sheaths and all looking exactly like Poppy, confused me. Finally, I identified her. She was writing down an address with some difficulty, pausing doubtfully over the spelling of Fortescue Crescent. As soon as she was at liberty, after having further difficulties connected with producing the right change for a five-pound note, I claimed her attention.
    “We met the other