Agatha Christie - Why Didn't They Ask Evans

'It's Moira,' cried Frankie.

The others crowded in. Moira was lying like one dead, except that her breast moved up and down ever so slightly.

'Is she asleep?' asked Bobby.

'She's drugged I think,' said Frankie.

She looked round. A hypodermic syringe lay on a little enamel tray on a table near the window. There was also a little spirit lamp and a type of morphia hypodermic needle.

'She'll be all right, I think,' she said. 'But we ought to get a doctor.' 'Let's go down and telephone,' said Bobby.

They adjourned to the hall below. Frankie had a half fear that the telephone wires might be cut, but her fears proved quite unfounded. They got through to the police station quite easily, but found a good deal of difficulty in explaining matters.

The local police station was highly disposed to regard the summons as a practical joke.

However, they were convinced at last, and Bobby replaced the receiver with a sigh. He had explained that they also wanted a doctor and the police constable promised to bring one along.

Ten minutes later a car arrived with an inspector and a constable and an elderly man who had his profession stamped all over him.

Bobby and Frankie received them and, after explaining matters once more in a somewhat perfunctory fashion, led the way to the attic. Bobby unlocked the door - then stood dumbfounded in the doorway. In the middle of the floor was a heap of severed ropes. Underneath the broken skylight a chair had been placed on the bed, which had been dragged out till it was under the skylight.

Of Roger Bassington-ffrench there was no sign.

Bobby, Badger and Frankie were dumbfounded.

'Talk of Houdini,' said Bobby. 'He must have outHoudinied Houdini. How the devil did he cut these cords?' 'He must have had a knife in his pocket,' said Frankie.

'Even then, how could he get at it? Both hands were bound together behind his back.' The inspector coughed. All his former doubts had returned.

He was more strongly disposed than ever to regard the whole thing as a hoax.

Frankie and Bobby found themselves telling a long story which sounded more impossible every minute.

The doctor was their salvation.

On being taken to the room where Moira was lying, he declared at once that she had been drugged with morphia or some preparation of opium. He did not consider her condition serious and thought she would awake naturally in four or five hours' time.

He suggested taking her off then and there to a good nursing home in the neighbourhood.

To this Bobby and Frankie agreed, not seeing what else could be done. Having given their own names and addresses to the inspector, who appeared to disbelieve utterly in Frankie's, they themselves were allowed to leave Tudor Cottage and with the assistance of the inspector succeeded in gaining admission to the Seven Stars in the village.

Here, still feeling that they were regarded as criminals, they were only too thankful to go to their rooms - a double one for Bobby and Badger, and a very minute single one for Frankie.

A few minutes after they had all retired, a knock came on Bobby's door.

It was Frankie.

'I've thought of something,' she said. 'If that fool of a police inspector persists in thinking that we made all this up, at any rate I've got evidence that I was chloroformed.' 'Have you? Where?' 'In the coal-bucket,' said Frankie with decision.

Exhausted by all her adventures, Frankie slept late the next morning. It was half-past ten when she came down to the small coffee room to find Bobby waiting for her.

'Hullo, Frankie, here you are at last.' 'Don't be so horribly vigorous, my dear,' Frankie subsided into a chair.

'What will you have? They've got haddock and eggs and bacon and cold ham.' 'I shall have some toast and weak tea,' said Frankie, quelling him. 'What is the matter with you?' 'It must be the sandbagging,' said Bobby. 'It's probably broken up adhesions in the brain. I feel absolutely full of pep and vim and bright ideas and a longing to dash out and do things.' 'Well, why not dash?' said Frankie languidly.

'I have dashed, I've been with Inspector Hammond for the last half-hour. We'll have to let it go as a practical joke, Frankie, for the moment.' 'Oh, but, Bobby ' 'I said/or the moment. We've got to get to the bottom of this, Frankie. We're on the right spot and all we've got to do is to get down to it. We don't want Roger Bassington-ffrench for abduction. We want him for murder.' 'And we'll get him,' said Frankie, with a rivival of spirit.

'That's more like it,' said Bobby approvingly. 'Drink some more tea.' 'How's Moira?' 'Pretty bad. She came round in the most awful state of nerves. Scared stiff apparently. She's gone up to London - to a nursing home place in Queen's Gate. She says she'll feel safe there. She was terrified here.' 'She never did have much nerve,' said Frankie.

'Well, anyone might be scared stiff with a queer, coldblooded murderer like Roger Bassington-ffrench loose in the neighbourhood.' 'He doesn't want to murder her. We're the ones he's after.' 'He's probably too busy taking care of himself to worry about us for the moment,' said Bobby. 'Now, Frankie, we've got to get down to it. The start of the whole thing must be John Savage's death and will. There's something wrong about it.

Either that will was forged or Savage was murdered or something.' 'It's quite likely the will was forged if Bassingtonffrench was concerned,' said Frankie thoughtfully. 'Forgery seems to be his speciality.' 'It may have been forgery and murder. We've got to find out.' Frankie nodded.

'I've got the notes I made after looking at the will. The witnesses were Rose Chudleigh, cook, and Albeit Mere, gardener. They ought to be quite easy to find. Then there are the lawyers who drew it up - Elford and Leigh - a very respectable firm as Mr Spragge said.' 'Right, we'll start from there. I think you'd better take the lawyers. You'll get more out of them than I would. I'll hunt up Rose Chudleigh and Albeit Mere.' 'What about Badger?' 'Badger never gets up till lunch time - you needn't worry about him.' 'We must get his affairs straightened out for him sometime,' said Frankie. 'After all, he did save my life.' 'They'll soon get tangled again,' said Bobby. 'Oh! by the way, what do you think of this?' He held out a dirty piece of cardboard for her inspection. It was a photograph.

'Mr Cayman,' said Frankie immediately. 'Where did you get it?' 'Last night. It had slipped down behind the telephone.' 'Then it seems pretty clear who Mr and Mrs Templeton were. Wait a minute.' A waitress had just approached, bearing toast. Frankie displayed the photograph.

'Do you know who that is?' she asked.

The waitress regarded the photograph, her head a little on one side.

'Now, I've seen the gentleman - but I can't quite call to mind. Oh! yes, it's the gentleman who had Tudor Cottage - Mr Templeton. They've gone away now - somewhere abroad, I believe.' 'What sort of man was he?' asked Frankie.

'I really couldn't say. They didn't come down here very often - just weekends now and then. Nobody saw much of him.

Mrs Templeton was a very nice lady. But they hadn't had Tudor Cottage very long - Only about six months - when a very rich gentleman died and left Mrs Templeton all his money and they went to live abroad. They never sold Tudor Cottage, though. I think they sometimes lend it to people for weekends.

But I don't suppose with all that money they'll ever come back here and live in it themselves.' 'They had a cook called Rose Chudleigh, didn't they?' asked Frankie.

But the girl seemed uninterested in cooks. Being left a fortune by a rich gentleman was what really stirred her imagination. In answer to Frankie's question she replied that she couldn't say, she was sure, and withdrew carrying an empty toast-rack.