Three Blind Mice by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online Page A

Sergeant?”
    “Saves time,” said Trotter. “Are you ready, Mrs. Davis?”
    Four voices spoke at once as Sergeant Trotter entered the library.
    Highest and shrillest was that of Christopher Wren declaring that this was too, too thrilling and he wasn’t going to sleep a wink tonight, and please, please could we have all the gory details?
    A kind of double-bass accompaniment came from Mrs. Boyle. “Absolute outrage—sheer incompetence—police have no business to let murderers go roaming about the countryside.”
    Mr. Paravicini was eloquent chiefly with his hands. His gesticulations were more eloquent than his words, which were drowned by Mrs. Boyle’s double bass. Major Metcalf could be heard in an occasional short staccato bark. He was asking for facts.
    Trotter waited a moment or two, then he held up an authoritative hand and, rather surprisingly, there was silence.
    “Thank you,” he said. “Now, Mr. Davis has given you an outline of why I’m here. I want to know one thing, and one thing only, and I want to know it quick. Which of you has some connection with the Longridge Farm case? ”
    The silence was unbroken. Four blank faces looked at Sergeant Trotter. The emotions of a few moments back—excitement, indignation, hysteria, inquiry, were wiped away as a sponge wipes out the chalk marks on a slate.
    Sergeant Trotter spoke again, more urgently. “Please understand me. One of you, we have reason to believe, is in danger—deadly danger. I have got to know which one of you it is! ”
    And still no one spoke or moved.
    Something like anger came into Trotter’s voice. “Very well—I’ll ask you one by one. Mr. Paravicini?”
    A very faint smile flickered across Mr. Paravicini’s face. He raised his hands in a protesting foreign gesture.
    “But I am a stranger in these parts, Inspector. I know nothing, but nothing, of these local affairs of bygone years.”
    Trotter wasted no time. He snapped out, “Mrs. Boyle?”
    “Really I don’t see why—I mean—why should I have anything to do with such a distressing business?”
    “Mr. Wren?”
    Christopher said shrilly, “I was a mere child at the time. I don’t remember even hearing about it.”
    “Major Metcalf?”
    The Major said abruptly, “Read about it in the papers. I was stationed at Edinburgh at the time.”
    “That’s all you have to say—any of you?”
    Silence again.
    Trotter gave an exasperated sigh. “If one of you gets murdered,” he said, “you’ll only have yourself to blame.” He turned abruptly and went out of the room.
    “My dears,” said Christopher. “How melodramatic! ” He added, “He’s very handsome, isn’t he? I do admire the police. So stern and hard-boiled. Quite a thrill, this whole business. ‘Three Blind Mice.’ How does the tune go?”
    He whistled the air softly, and Molly cried out involuntarily, “Don’t!”
    He whirled round on her and laughed. “But, darling,” he said, “it’s my signature tune. I’ve never been taken for a murderer before and I’m getting a tremendous kick out of it!”
    “Melodramatic rubbish,” said Mrs. Boyle. “I don’t believe a word of it.”
    Christopher’s light eyes danced with an impish mischief. “But just wait, Mrs. Boyle,” he lowered his voice, “till I creep up behind you and you feel my hands round your throat.”
    Molly flinched.
    Giles said angrily, “You’re upsetting my wife, Wren. It’s a damned poor joke, anyway.”
    “It’s no joking matter,” said Metcalf.
    “Oh, but it is,” said Christopher. “That’s just what it is—a madman’s joke. That’s what makes it so deliciously macabre. ”
    He looked round at them and laughed again. “If you could just see your faces,” he said.
    Then he went swiftly out of the room.
    Mrs. Boyle recovered first. “A singularly ill-mannered and neurotic young man,” she said. “Probably a conscientious objector.”
    “He tells me he was buried during an air raid for forty-eight hours before being