Agatha Christie - The Labours of Hercules

Disaster – that was the word that rang insistently in Harold's brain. Disaster, disaster, disaster…

He said vehemently: "It was an accident… I saw it happen."

Mrs Rice said sharply: "Of course it was an accident. I know that. But – but – is any one else going to think so? I'm – frankly, I'm frightened, Harold! This isn't England."

Harold said slowly: "I can confirm Elsie's story."

Mrs Rice said: "Yes, and she can confirm yours. That – that is just it!"

Harold's brain, naturally a keen and cautious one, saw her point. He reviewed the whole thing and appreciated the weakness of their position.

He and Elsie had spent a good deal of their time together. Then there was the fact that they had been seen together in the pinewoods by one of the Polish women under rather compromising circumstances. The Polish ladies apparently spoke no English, but they might nevertheless understand it a little. The woman might have known the meaning of words like "jealously" and "husband" if she had chanced to overhear their conversation. Anyway it was clear that it was something she had said to Clayton that had aroused his jealousy. And now – his death. When Clayton had died, he, Harold, had been in Elsie Clayton's room. There was nothing to show that he had not deliberately assaulted Philip Clayton with the paperweight. Nothing to show that the jealous husband had not actually found them together. There was only his word and Elsie's. Would they be believed?

A cold fear gripped him.

He did not imagine – no, he really did not imagine – that either he or Elsie was in danger of being condemned to death for a murder they had not committed. Surely, in any case, it could only be a charge of manslaughter brought against them. (Did they have manslaughter in these foreign countries?) But even if they were acquitted of blame there would have to be an enquiry – it would be reported in all the papers. An English man and woman accused – jealous husband – rising politician. Yes, it would mean the end of his political career. It would never survive a scandal like that.

He said on an impulse: "Can't we get rid of the body somehow? Plant it somewhere?"

Mrs Rice's astonished and scornful look made him blush.

She said incisively: "My dear Harold, this isn't a detective story! To attempt a thing like that would be quite crazy."

"I suppose it would." He groaned. "What can we do? My God, what can we do?"

Mrs Rice shook her head despairingly. She was frowning, her mind working painfully.

Harold demanded: "Isn't there anything we can do? Anything to avoid this frightful disaster?"

There, it was out – disaster! Terrible – unforeseen – utterly damning.

They stared at each other.

Mrs Rice said hoarsely: "Elsie – my little girl. I'd do anything… It will kill her if she has to go through a thing like this." And she added: "You too, your career – everything."

Harold managed to say: "Never mind me."

But he did not really mean it.

Mrs Rice went on bitterly: "And all so unfair – so utterly untrue! It's not as though there had ever been anything between you. I know that well enough."

Harold suggested, catching at a straw: "You'll be able to say that at least – that it was all perfectly all right."

Mrs Rice said bitterly: "Yes, if they believe me. But you know what these people out here are like!"

Harold agreed gloomily. To the Continental mind, there would undoubtedly be a guilty connection between himself and Elsie, and all Mrs Rice's denials would be taken as a mother lying herself black in the face for her daughter.

Harold said gloomily: "Yes, we're not in England, worse luck."

"Ah!" Mrs Rice lifted her head. "That's true… It's not England. I wonder now if something could be done -"

"Yes?" Harold looked at her eagerly.

Mrs Rice said abruptly: "How much money have you got?"

"Not much with me." He added: "I could wire for money, of course."

Mrs Rice said grimly: "We may need a good deal. But I think it's worth trying."

Harold felt a faint lifting of despair.

He said: "What is your idea?"

Mrs Rice spoke decisively. "We haven't a chance of concealing the death ourselves, but I do think there's just a chance of hushing it up officially!"

"You really think so?" Harold was hopeful but slightly incredulous.

"Yes, for one thing the manager of the hotel will be on our side. He'd much rather have the thing hushed up. It's my opinion that in these out of the way curious little Balkan countries you can bribe anyone and everyone – and the police are probably more corrupt than anyone else!"

Harold said slowly: "Do you know, I believe you're right."

Mrs Rice went on: "Fortunately, I don't think anyone in the hotel heard anything."

"Who has the room next to Elsie's on the other side from yours?"

"The two Polish ladies. They didn't hear anything. They'd have come out into the passage if they had. Philip arrived late, nobody saw him but the night porter. Do you know, Harold, I believe it will be possible to hush the whole thing up – and get Philip's death certified as due to natural causes! It's just a question of bribing high enough – and finding the right man – probably the Chief of Police!"

Harold smiled faintly. He said: "It's rather Comic Opera, isn't it? Well, after all, we can but try."

Mrs Rice was energy personified. First the manager was summoned. Harold remained in his room, keeping out of it. He and Mrs Rice had agreed that the story told had better be that of a quarrel between husband and wife. Elsie's youth and prettiness would command more sympathy.

On the following morning various police officials arrived and were shown up to Mrs Rice's bedroom. They left at midday. Harold had wired for money but otherwise had taken no part in the proceedings – indeed he would have been unable to do so since none of these official personages spoke English.

At twelve o'clock Mrs Rice came to his room. She looked white and tired, but the relief on her face told its own story.

She said simply: "It's worked!"

"Thank heaven! You've really been marvellous! It seems incredible!"

Mrs Rice said thoughtfully: "By the ease with which it went, you might almost think it was quite normal. They practically held out their hands right away. It's – it's rather disgusting, really!"

Harold said dryly: "This isn't the moment to quarrel with the corruption of the public services. How much?"

"The tariff's rather high."

She read out a list of figures.

The Chief of Police.

The Commissaire.

The Agent.

The Doctor.

The Hotel Manager.

The Night Porter.

Harold's comment was merely: "The night porter doesn't get much, does he? I suppose it's mostly a question of gold lace."

Mrs Rice explained: "The manager stipulated that the death should not have taken place in his hotel at all. The official story will be that Philip had a heart attack in the train. He went along the corridor for air – you know how they always leave those doors open – and he fell out on the line. It's wonderful what the police can do when they try!"

"Well," said Harold. "Thank God our police force isn't like that."

And in a British and superior mood he went down to lunch.

After lunch Harold usually joined Mrs Rice and her daughter for coffee. He decided to make no change in his usual behaviour.

This was the first time he had seen Elsie since the night before. She was very pale and was obviously still suffering from shock, but she made a gallant endeavour to behave as usual, uttering small commonplaces about the weather and the scenery.

They commented on a new guest who had just arrived, trying to guess his nationality. Harold thought a moustache like that must be French – Elsie said German – and Mrs Rice thought he might be Spanish.