Agatha Christie - The Unexpected Guest

The inspector opened his mouth to complain, but then thought better of it and grinned instead. 'We ought to get the report on Starkwedder from Abadan any moment now,' he told the young sergeant. 'Have you got his prints for comparison?'

'I sent Jones round to the inn where he stayed last night,' Cadwallader informed his superior, 'but he'd gone out to the garage to see about getting his car salvaged. Jones rang the garage and spoke to him while he was there. He's been told to report at the station as soon as possible.'

'Right. Now, about this second set of unidentified prints. The print of a man's hand flat on the table by the body, and blurred impressions on both the outside and the inside of the french windows.'

Til bet that's MacGregor,' the sergeant exclaimed, snapping his fingers.

'Ye-es. Could be,' the inspector admitted reluctantly. 'But they weren't on the revolver. And you would think any man using a revolver to kill someone would have the sense enough to wear gloves, surely.'

'I don't know,' the sergeant observed. 'An unbalanced fellow like this MacGregor, deranged after the death of his child, he wouldn't think of that.'

'Well, we ought to get a description of MacGregor through from Norwich soon,' the inspector said.

The sergeant settled himself on the footstool. 'It's sad story, whichever way you look at it,' he suggested. 'A man, his wife but lately dead, and his only child killed by furious driving.'

'If there'd been what you call furious driving,' the inspector corrected him impatiently, 'Richard Warwick would have got a sentence for manslaughter, or at any rate for the driving offence. In point of fact, his licence wasn't even endorsed.' He reached down to his briefcase, and took out the murder weapon.

'There is some fearful lying goes on sometimes,' Sergeant Cadwallader muttered darkly.' "Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying." That's Shakespeare.'

His superior officer merely rose from the desk and looked at him. After a moment, the sergeant pulled himself together and rose to his feet. 'A man's hand flat on the table,' murmured the inspector as he went across to the table, taking the gun with him., and looking down at the table-top. 'I wonder.'

'Perhaps that could have been a guest in the house,' Sergeant Cadwallader suggested helpfully.

'Perhaps,' the inspector agreed. 'But I understand from Mrs Warwick that there were no visitors to the house yesterday. That manservant – Angell – might be able to tell us more. Go and fetch him, would you?'

'Yes, sir,' said Cadwallader as he went out. Left alone, the inspector spread out his own left hand on the table, and bent over the chair as if looking down at an invisible occupant. Then he went to the window and stepped outside, glancing both to left and right. He examined the lock of the french windows, and was turning back into the room when the sergeant returned, bringing with him Richard Warwick's valet-attendant, Angell, who was wearing a grey alpaca jacket, white shirt, dark tie and striped trousers.

'You're Henry Angell?' the inspector asked him.

'Yes, sir,' Angell replied.

'Sit down there, will you?' said the inspector.

Angell moved to sit on the sofa. 'Now then,' the inspector continued, 'you've been nurse-attendant and valet to Mr Richard Warwick – for how long?'

'For three and a half years, sir,' replied Angell. His manner was correct, but there was a shifty look in his eyes.

'Did you like the job?'

'I found it quite satisfactory, sir,' was Angell's reply.

'What was Mr Warwick like to work for?' the inspector asked him.

'Well, he was difficult.'

'But there were advantages, were there?'

'Yes, sir,' Angell admitted. 'I was extremely well paid.'

'And that made up for the other disadvantages, did it?' the inspector persisted.

'Yes, sir. I am trying to accumulate a little nest-egg.'

The inspector seated himself in the armchair, placing the gun on the table beside him. 'What were you doing before you came to Mr Warwick?' he asked Angell.

'The same sort of job, sir. I can show you my references,' the valet replied. I've always given satisfaction, I hope. I've had some rather difficult employers – or patients, really. Sir James Walliston, for example. He is now a voluntary patient in a mental home. A very difficult person, sir.' He lowered his voice slightly before adding, 'Drugs!'

'Quite,' said the inspector. 'There was no question of drugs with Mr Warwick, 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?'