Айзек Азимов - The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries

“There was just one other little point that came up. It seems that while bridge was going on Mrs. Sanders was called to the telephone. A Mr. Littleworth wanted to speak to her. She seemed both excited and pleased about something — and incidentally made one or two bad mistakes. She left rather earlier than they had expected her to do.

“Mr. Sanders was asked whether he knew the name of Littleworth as being one of his wife’s friends, but he declared he had never heard of anyone of that name. And to me that seems borne out by his wife’s attitude — she too, did not seem to know the name of Littleworth. Nevertheless she came back from the telephone smiling and blushing, so it looks as though whoever it was did not give his real name, and that in itself has a suspicious aspect, does it not?

“Anyway, that is the problem that was left. The burglar story, which seems unlikely — or the alternative theory that Mrs. Sanders was preparing to go out and meet somebody. Did that somebody come to her room by means of the fire escape? Was there a quarrel? Or did he treacherously attack her?”

Miss Marple stopped.

“Well?” said Sir Henry. “What is the answer?”

“I wondered if any of you could guess.”

“I’m never good at guessing,” said Mrs. Bantry. “It seems a pity that Sanders had such a wonderful alibi; but if it satisfied you it must have been all right.”

Jane Helier moved her beautiful head and asked a question.

“Why,” she said, “was the hat cupboard locked?”

“How very clever of you, my dear,” said Miss Marple, beaming. “That’s just what I wondered myself. Though the explanation was quite simple. In it were a pair of embroidered slippers and some pocket handkerchiefs that the poor girl was embroidering for her husband for Christmas. That’s why she locked the cupboard. The key was found in her handbag.”

“Oh!” said Jane. “Then it isn’t very interesting after all.”

“Oh! but it is,” said Miss Marple. “It’s just the one really interesting thing — the thing that made all the murderer’s plans go wrong.”

Everyone stared at the old lady.

“I didn’t see it myself for two days,” said Miss Marple. “I puzzled and puzzled — and then suddenly there it was, all clear. I went to the inspector and asked him to try something and he did.”

“What did you ask him to try?”

“ I asked him to fit that hat on the poor girl’s head — and of course he couldn’t. It wouldn’t go on. It wasn’t her hat, you see .”

Mrs. Bantry stared.

“But it was on her head to begin with?”

“Not on her head—”

Miss Marple stopped a moment to let her words sink in, and then went on.

“We took it for granted that it was poor Gladys’s body there; but we never looked at the face. She was face downwards, remember, and the hat hid everything.”

“But she was killed?”

“Yes, later. At the moment that we were telephoning to the police, Gladys Sanders was alive and well.”

“You mean it was someone pretending to be her? But surely when you touched her—”

“It was a dead body, right enough,” said Miss Marple gravely.

“But, dash it all,” said Colonel Bantry, “you can’t get hold of dead bodies right and left. What did they do with the — the first corpse afterwards?”

“He put it back,” said Miss Marple. “It was a wicked idea — but a very clever one. It was our talk in the drawing room that put it into his head. The body of poor Mary, the housemaid — why not use it? Remember, the Sanders’ room was up amongst the servants’ quarters. Mary’s room was two doors off. The undertakers wouldn’t come till after dark — he counted on that. He carried the body along the balcony (it was dark at five), dressed it in one of his wife’s dresses and her big red coat. And then he found the hat cupboard locked! There was only one thing to be done, he fetched one of the poor girl’s own hats. No one would notice. He put the sandbag down beside her. Then he went off to establish his alibi.

“He telephoned to his wife — calling himself Mr. Littleworth. I don’t know what he said to her — she was a credulous girl, as I said just now. But he got her to leave the bridge party early and not to go back to the Hydro, and arranged with her to meet him in the grounds of the Hydro near the fire escape at seven o’clock. He probably told her he had some surprise for her.

“He returns to the Hydro with his friends and arranges that Miss Trollope and I shall discover the crime with him. He even pretends to turn the body over — and I stop him! Then the police are sent for, and he staggers out into the grounds.

“Nobody asked him for an alibi after the crime. He meets his wife, takes her up the fire escape, they enter their room. Perhaps he has already told her some story about the body. She stoops over it, and he picks up his sandbag and strikes... Oh, dear! it makes me sick to think of, even now! Then quickly he strips off her coat and skirt, hangs them up, and dresses her in the clothes from the other body.

“ But the hat won’t go on . Mary’s head is shingled — Gladys Sanders, as I say, had a great bun of hair. He is forced to leave it beside the body and hope no one will notice. Then he carries poor Mary’s body back to her own room and arranges it decorously once more.”

“It seems incredible,” said Dr. Lloyd. “The risks he took. The police might have arrived too soon.”

“You remember the line was out of order,” said Miss Marple. “That was a piece of his work. He couldn’t afford to have the police on the spot too soon. When they did come, they spent some time in the manager’s office before going up to the bedroom. That was the weakest point — the chance that someone might notice the difference between a body that had been dead two hours and one that had been dead just over half an hour; but he counted on the fact that the people who first discovered the crime would have no expert knowledge.”

Dr. Lloyd nodded.

“The crime would be supposed to have been committed about a quarter to seven or thereabouts, I suppose,” he said. “It was actually committed at seven or a few minutes later. When the police surgeon examined the body it would be about half-past seven at earliest. He couldn’t possibly tell.”

“I am the person who should have known,” said Miss Marple. “I felt the poor girl’s hand and it was icy cold. Yet a short time later the inspector spoke as though the murder must have been committed just before we arrived — and I saw nothing!”

“I think you saw a good deal, Miss Marple,” said Sir Henry. “The case was before my time. I don’t even remember hearing of it. What happened?”

“Sanders was hanged,” said Miss Marple crisply. “And a good job too. I have never regretted my part in bringing that man to justice. I’ve no patience with modern humanitarian scruples about capital punishment.”

Her stern face softened.

“But I have often reproached myself bitterly with failing to save the life of that poor girl. But who would have listened to an old woman jumping to conclusions? Well, well — who knows? Perhaps it was better for her to die while life was still happy than it would have been for her to live on, unhappy and disillusioned, in a world that would have seemed suddenly horrible. She loved that scoundrel and trusted him. She never found him out.”

“Well, then,” said Jane Helier, “she was all right. Quite all right. I wish—” she stopped.

Miss Marple looked at the famous, the beautiful, the successful Jane Helier and nodded her head gently.

“I see, my dear,” she said very gently. “I see.”