The Unexpected Guest by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online Page A

I suppose?'
    'No, sir. Brandy was what Mr Warwick liked to resort to.'
    'Drank a lot of it, did he?' the inspector asked.
    'Yes, sir,' Angell replied. 'He was a heavy drinker, but not an alcoholic, if you understand me. He never showed any ill-effects.'
    The inspector paused before asking, 'Now, what's all this about guns and revolvers and - shooting at animals?'
    'Well, it was his hobby, sir,' Angell told him. 'What we call in the profession a compensation. He'd been a big-game hunter in his day, I understand. Quite a little arsenal he's got in his bedroom there.' He nodded over his shoulder to indicate a room elsewhere in the house. 'Rifles, shotguns, air-guns, pistols and revolvers.'
    'I see,' said the inspector. 'Well, now, just take a look at this gun here.'
    Angell rose and stepped towards the table, then hesitated. 'It's all right,' the inspector told him, 'you needn't mind handling it.'
    Angell picked up the gun, gingerly. 'Do you recognize it?' the inspector asked him.
    'It's difficult to say, sir,' the valet replied. 'It looks like one of Mr Warwick's, but I don't really know very much about firearms. I can't say for certain which gun he had on the table beside him last night.'
    'Didn't he have the same one every night?' asked the inspector.
    'Oh, no, he had his fancies, sir,' said Angell. 'He kept using different ones.' The valet offered the gun back to the inspector, who took it.
    'What was the good of his having a gun last night with all that fog?' queried the inspector.
    'It was just a habit, sir,' Angell replied. 'He was used to it, as you might say.'
    'All right, sit down again, would you?'
    Angell sat again at one end of the sofa. The inspector examined the barrel of the gun before asking, 'When did you see Mr Warwick last?'
    'About a quarter to ten last night, sir,' Angell told him. 'He had a bottle of brandy and a glass by his side, and the pistol he'd chosen. I arranged his rug for him, and wished him good-night.'
    'Didn't he ever go to bed?' the inspector asked. 'No, sir,' replied the valet. 'At least, not in the usual sense of the term. He always slept in his chair. At six in the morning I would bring him tea, then I would wheel him into his bedroom, which had its own bathroom, where he'd bath and shave and so on, and then he'd usually sleep until lunch-time. I understand that he suffered from insomnia at night, and so he preferred to remain in his chair then. He was rather an eccentric gentleman.'
    'And the window was shut when you left him?' 'Yes, sir,' Angell replied. 'There was a lot of fog about last night, and he didn't want it seeping into the house.'
    'All right. The window was shut. Was it locked?' 'No, sir. That window was never locked.' 'So he could open it if he wanted to?' 'Oh, yes, sir. He had his wheelchair, you see. He could wheel himself over to the window and open it if the night should clear up.'
    'I see.' The inspector thought for a moment, and then asked, 'You didn't hear a shot last night?' 'No, sir,' Angell replied.
    The inspector walked across to the sofa and looked down at Angell. 'Isn't that rather remarkable?' he asked.
    'No, not really, sir,' was the reply. 'You see, my room is some distance away. Along a passage and through a baize door on the other side of the house.'
    'Wasn't that rather awkward, in case your master wanted to summon you?'
    'Oh no, sir,' said Angell. 'He had a bell that rang in my room.'
    'But he didn't press that bell last night at all?'
    'Oh no, sir,' Angell repeated. 'If he had done so, I would have woken up at once. It is, if I may say so, a very loud bell, sir.'
    Inspector Thomas leaned forward on the arm of the sofa to approach Angell in another way.
    'Did you - ' he began in a voice of controlled impatience, only to be interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone. He waited for Sergeant Cadwallader to answer it, but the sergeant appeared to be dreaming with his eyes open and his lips moving soundlessly, perhaps immersed in some poetic reflection.