Agatha Christie: A Murder is Announced

Mitzi opened the door again and said: "Here are the ladies from Boulders."

"'Evening," said Miss Hinchliffe, striding over and taking Miss Blacklog's hand in her formidable grip. "I said to Murgatroyd: 'Let's just drop in at Little Paddocks.' I wanted to ask you how your ducks are laying."

"The evenings do draw in so quickly now, don't they?" said Miss Murgatroyd to Patrick in a rather fluttery way. "What lovely chrysanthemums!"

"Scraggy! " said Julia.

"Why can't you be co-operative?" murmured Patrick to her in a reproachful aside.

"You've got your central heating on," said Miss Hinchliffe. She said it accusingly. "Very early."

"The house gets so damp this time of year," said Miss Blacklog.

Patrick signalled with his eyebrows: "Sherry yet?" and Miss Blacklog signalled back: "Not yet."

She said to Colonel Easterbrook: "Are you getting any bulbs from Holland this year?"

The door again opened and Mrs. Swettenham came in rather guiltily, followed by a scowling and uncomfortable Edmund.

"Here we are!" said Mrs. Swettenham gaily, gazing round her with frank curiosity. Then, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, she went on: "I just thought I'd pop in and ask you if by any chance you wanted a kitten, Miss Blacklog? Our cat is just-"

"About to be brought to bed of the progeny of a ginger tom," said Edmund. "The result will, I think, be frightful. Don't say you haven't been warned!"

"She's a very good mouser," said Mrs. Swettenham hastily. And added: "What lovely chrysanthemums!"

"You've got your central heating on, haven't you?" asked Edmund, with an air of originality.

"Aren't people just like gramophone records?" murmured Julia.

"I don't like the news," said Colonel Easterbrook to Patrick, button-holing him fiercely. "I don't like it at all. If you ask me, war's inevitable – absolutely inevitable."

"I never pay any attention to news," said Patrick.

Once more the door opened and Mrs. Harmon came in.

Her battered felt hat was stuck on the back of her head in a vague attempt to be fashionable and she had put on a rather limp frilly blouse instead of her usual pullover.

"Hallo, Miss Blacklog," she exclaimed, beaming all over her round face. "I'm not too late, am I? When does the murder begin?"

There was an audible series of gasps. Julia gave an approving little giggle, Patrick crinkled up his face and Miss Blacklog smiled at her latest guest.

"Julian is just frantic with rage that he can't be here," said Mrs. Harmon. "He adores murders. That's really why he preached such a good sermon last Sunday. I suppose I oughtn't to say it was a good sermon as he's my husband, but it really was good, didn't you think? so much better than his usual sermons. But as I was saying it was all because of Death Does the Hat Trick. Have you read it? The girl at Boots' kept it for me specially. It's simply baffling. You keep thinking you know and then the whole thing switches round and there are a lovely lot of murders, four or five of them. Well, I left it in the study when Julian was shutting himself up there to do his sermon, and he just picked it up and simply could not put it down! And consequently he had to write his sermon in a frightful hurry and had to just put down what he wanted to say very simply without any scholarly twists and bits and learned references – and naturally it was heaps better. Oh, dear, I'm talking too much. But do tell me, when is the murder going to begin?"

Miss Blacklog looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

"If it's going to begin," she said cheerfully, "it ought to begin soon. It's just a minute to the half hour. In the meantime, have a glass of sherry."

Patrick moved with alacrity through the archway.

Miss Blacklog went to the table by the archway where the cigarette-box was.

"I'd love some sherry," said Mrs. Harmon. "But what do you mean by it?"

"Well," said Miss Blacklog. "I'm as much in the dark as you are. I don't know what-"

She stopped and turned her head as the little clock on the mantelpiece began to chime. It had a sweet silvery bell-like tone. Everybody was silent and nobody moved.

They all stared at the clock.

It chimed a quarter – and then the half. As the last note died away all the lights went out.

Delighted gasps and feminine squeaks of appreciation were heard in the darkness. "It's beginning," cried Mrs. Harmon in an ecstasy. Dora Bunner's voice cried out plaintively, "Oh, I don't like it!" Other voices said, "How terribly terribly frightening!" "It gives me the creeps." "Archie, where are you?" "What do I have to do?" "Oh, dear – did I step on your foot? I'm so sorry."

Then, with a crash the door swung open. A powerful flashlight played rapidly round the room. A man's hoarse nasal voice, reminiscent to all of pleasant afternoons at the cinema directed the company crisply to: "Stick 'em up!

"Stick 'em up, I tell you!" the voice barked. Delightedly, hands were raised willingly above heads.

"Isn't it wonderful?" breathed a female voice. "I'm so thrilled."

And then, unexpectedly, a revolver spoke. It spoke twice. The ping of two bullets shattered the complacency of the room. Suddenly the game was no longer a game.

Somebody screamed…

The figure in the doorway whirled suddenly round, it seemed to hesitate, a third shot rang out, it crumpled and then it crashed to the ground. The flashlight dropped and went out.

There was darkness once again. And gently, with a little Victorian protesting moan, the drawing-room door, as was its habit when not propped open, swung gently to and latched with a click.

Inside the drawing-room there was pandemonium. Various voices spoke at once.

"Lights."

"Can't you find the switch?"

"Who's got a lighter?"

"Oh, I don't like it, I don't like it."

"But those shots were real!"

"It was a real revolver he had."

"Was it a burglar?"

"Oh, Archie, I want to get out of here."

"Please, has somebody got a lighter?"

And then, almost at the same moment, two lighters clicked and burned with small steady flames.

Everybody blinked and peered at each other. Startled face looked into startled face. Against the wall by the archway Miss Blacklog stood with her hand up to her face. The light was too dim to show more than that something dark was trickling over her fingers.

Colonel Easterbrook cleared his throat and rose to the occasion.

"Try the switches, Swettenham," he ordered.

Edmund, near the door, obediently jerked the switch up and down.

"Off at the main, or a fuse," said the Colonel. "Who's making that awful row?"

A female voice had been screaming steadily from somewhere beyond the closed door. It rose now in pitch and with it came the sound of fists hammering on a door.

Dora Bunner, who had been sobbing quietly, called out: "It's Mitzi. Somebody's murdering Mitzi…"

Patrick muttered: "No such luck."

Miss Blacklog said: "We must get candles. Patrick, will you-"

The Colonel was already opening the door. He and Edmund, their lighters flickering, stepped into the hall.

They almost stumbled over a recumbent figure there.

"Seems to have knocked him out," said the Colonel. "Where's that woman making that hellish noise?"

"In the dining-room," said Edmund.

The dining-room was just across the hall. Someone was beating on the panels and howling and screaming.

"She's locked in," said Edmund, stooping down. He turned the key and Mitzi came out like a bounding tiger.

The dining-room light was still on. Silhouetted against it Mitzi presented a picture of insane terror and continued to scream. A touch of comedy was introduced by the fact that she had been engaged in cleaning silver and was still holding a chamois leather and a large fish slice.