Agatha Christie - The Unexpected Guest

'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. After a moment, he realized that the inspector was staring at him, and that the phone was ringing. 'Sorry, sir, but a poem is on the way,' he explained as he went to the desk to answer the phone. 'Sergeant Cadwallader speaking,' he said. There was a pause, and then he added, 'Ah yes, indeed.' After another pause, he turned to the inspector. 'It's the police at Norwich , sir.'

Inspector Thomas took the phone from Cadwallader, and sat at the desk. 'Is that you, Edmundson?' he asked. 'Thomas here . . . Got it, right. . . Yes . . . Calgary , yes . . . Yes . . . Yes, the aunt, when did she die? . . . Oh, two months ago . . . Yes, I see . . .

Eighteen, Thirty-fourth Street , Calgary .' He looked up impatiently at Cadwallader, and gestured to him to take a note of the address. 'Yes. . . Oh, it was, was it? . . . Yes, slowly please.' He looked meaningfully again at his sergeant. 'Medium height,' he repeated. 'Blue eyes, dark hair and beard . . . Yes, as you say, you remember the case . . . Ah, he did, did he? . . . Violent sort of fellow? . . . Yes . . . You're sending it along? Yes . . . Well, thank you, Edmundson. Tell me, what do you think, yourself? . . . Yes, yes, I know what the findings were, but what did you think yourself? . . . Ah, he had, had he? . . . Once or twice before. . . Yes, of course, you'd make some allowances . . . All right. Thanks.'

He replaced the receiver and said to the sergeant, 'Well, we've got some of the dope on MacGregor. It seems that, when his wife died, he travelled back to England from Canada to leave the child with an aunt of his wife's who lived in North Walsham, because he had just got himself a job in Alaska and couldn't take the boy with him. Apparently he was terribly cut up at the child's death, and went about swearing revenge on Warwick . That's not uncommon after one of these accidents. Anyway, he went off back to Canada . They've got his address, and they'll send a cable off to Calgary . The aunt he was going to leave the child with died about two months ago.' He turned suddenly to Angell. 'You were there at the time, I suppose, Angell? Motor accident in North Walsham , running over a boy.'

'Oh yes, sir,' Angell replied. 'I remember it quite well.'

The inspector got up from the desk and went across to the valet. Seeing the desk chair empty. Sergeant Cadwallader promptly took the opportunity to sit down. 'What happened?' the inspector asked Angell. 'Tell me about the accident.'

'Mr Warwick was driving along the main street, and a little boy ran out of a house there,' Angell told him. 'Or it might have been the inn. I think it was. There was no chance of stopping. Mr Warwick ran over him before he could do a thing about it.'

'He was speeding, was he?' asked the inspector.

'Oh no, sir. That was brought out very clearly at the inquest. Mr Warwick was well within the speed limit.'

'I know that's what he said,' the inspector commented.

'It was quite true, sir,' Angell insisted. 'Nurse Warburton – a nurse Mr Warwick employed at the time – she was in the car, too, and she agreed.'

The inspector walked across to one end of the sofa. 'Did she happen to look at the speedometer at the time?' he queried.

'I believe Nurse Warburton did happen to see the speedometer,' Angell replied smoothly. 'She estimated that they were going at between twenty and twenty-five miles an hour. Mr Warwick was completely exonerated.'

'But the boy's father didn't agree?' the inspector asked.

'Perhaps that's only natural, sir,' was Angell's comment.

'Had Mr Warwick been drinking?'

Angel's reply was evasive. 'I believe he had had a glass of sherry, sir,' He and Inspector Thomas exchanged glances. Then the inspector crossed to the french windows, taking out his handkerchief and blowing his nose. 'Well, I think that'll do for now,' he told the valet.

Angell rose and went to the door. After a moment's hesitation, he turned back into the room. 'Excuse me, sir,' he said. 'But was Mr Warwick shot with his own gun?'

The inspector turned to him. 'That remains to be seen,' he observed. 'Whoever it was who shot him collided with Mr Starkwedder, who was coming up to the house to try to get help for his stranded vehicle. In the collision, the man dropped a gun. Mr Starkwedder picked it up – this gun.' He pointed to the gun on the table.

'I see, sir. Thank you, sir,' said Angell as he turned to the door again.

'By the way,' added the inspector, 'were there any visitors to the house yesterday? Yesterday evening in particular?'

Angell paused for just a moment, then eyed the inspector shiftily. 'Not that I can recall, sir – at present,' he replied. He left the room, closing the door behind him.

Inspector Thomas went back to the desk. 'If you ask me,' he said quietly to the sergeant, 'that fellow's a nasty bit of goods. Nothing you can put your finger on, but I don't like him.'

'I'm of the same opinion as you, regarding that,' Cadwallader replied. 'He's not a man I would trust, and what's more, I'd say there may have been something fishy about that accident.' Suddenly realizing that the inspector was standing over him, he got up quickly from his chair. The inspector took the notes Cadwallader had been making, and began to peruse them. 'Now I wonder if Angell knows something he hasn't told us about last night,' he began, and then broke off. 'Hello, what's this? "'Tis misty in November, But seldom in December." That's not Keats, I hope?'

'No,' said Sergeant Cadwallader proudly. 'That's Cadwallader.'

The inspector thrust Cadwallader's notebook back at him roughly, as the door opened and Miss Bennett came in, closing the door carefully behind her. 'Inspector,' she said, 'Mrs Warwick is very anxious to see you. She is fussing a little.' She added quickly, 'I mean Mrs Warwick senior, Richard's mother. She doesn't admit it, but I don't think she's in the best of health, so please be gentle with her. Will you see her now?'

'Oh, certainly,' replied the inspector. 'Ask her to come in.'

Miss Bennett opened the door, beckoning, and Mrs Warwick came in. 'It's all right, Mrs Warwick,' the housekeeper assured her, leaving the room and shutting the door behind her.

'Good morning, madam,' the inspector said. Mrs Warwick did not return his greeting, but came directly to the point. 'Tell me, Inspector,' she ordered, 'what progress are you making?'

'It's rather early to say that, madam,' he replied, 'but you can rest assured that we're doing everything we can.'

Mrs Warwick sat on the sofa, placing her stick against the arm. 'This man MacGregor,' she asked. 'Has he been seen hanging about locally? Has anyone noticed him?'

'Enquiries have gone out about that,' the inspector informed her. 'But so far there's been no record of a stranger being seen in the locality.'

'That poor little boy,' Mrs Warwick continued. 'The one Richard ran over, I mean. I suppose it must have unhinged the father's brain. I know they told me he was very violent and abusive at the time. Perhaps that was only natural. But after two years! It seems incredible.'

'Yes,' the inspector agreed, 'it seems a long time to wait.''