Detectives and Young Adventurers: The Complete Short Stories. Agatha Christie

Avenue?’ Miss Glen started violently, and stared at him with startled eyes.

      ‘I know what you’re thinking of,’ said Estcourt, laughing. ‘The Ghost. Morgan’s Avenue is bounded by the cemetery on one side, and tradition has it that a policeman who met his death by violence gets up and walks on his old beat, up and down Morgan’s Avenue. A spook policeman! Can you beat it? But lots of people swear to having seen him.’

      ‘A policeman?’ said Miss Glen. She shivered a little. ‘But there aren’t really any ghosts, are there? I mean – there aren’t such things?’

      She got up, folding her wrap tighter round her.

      ‘Goodbye,’ she said vaguely.

      She had ignored Tuppence completely throughout, and now she did not even glance in her direction. But, over her shoulder, she threw one puzzled questioning glance at Tommy.

      Just as she got to the door, she encountered a tall man with grey hair and a puffy face, who uttered an exclamation of surprise. His hand on her arm, he led her through the doorway, talking in an animated fashion.

      ‘Beautiful creature, isn’t she?’ said Estcourt. ‘Brains of a rabbit. Rumour has it that she’s going to marry Lord Leconbury. That was Leconbury in the doorway.’

      ‘He doesn’t look a very nice sort of man to marry,’ remarked Tuppence.

      Estcourt shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘A title has a kind of glamour still, I suppose,’ he said. ‘And Leconbury is not an impoverished peer by any means. She’ll be in clover. Nobody knows where she sprang from. Pretty near the gutter, I dare say. There’s something deuced mysterious about her being down here anyway. She’s not staying at the hotel. And when I tried to find out where she was staying, she snubbed me – snubbed me quite crudely, in the only way she knows. Blessed if I know what it’s all about.’

      He glanced at his watch and uttered an exclamation.

      ‘I must be off. Jolly glad to have seen you two again. We must have a bust in town together some night. So long.’

      He hurried away, and as he did so, a page approached with a note on a salver. The note was unaddressed.

      ‘But it’s for you, sir,’ he said to Tommy. ‘From Miss Gilda Glen.’

      Tommy tore it open and read it with some curiosity. Inside were a few lines written in a straggling untidy hand.

       I’m not sure, but I think you might be able to help me. And you’ll be going that way to the station. Could you be at The White House, Morgan’s Avenue, at ten minutes past six?

       Yours sincerely,

       Gilda Glen.

      Tommy nodded to the page, who departed, and then handed the note to Tuppence.

      ‘Extraordinary!’ said Tuppence. ‘Is it because she still thinks you’re a priest?’

      ‘No,’ said Tommy thoughtfully. ‘I should say it’s because she’s at last taken in that I’m not one. Hullo! what’s this?’

      ‘This,’ was a young man with flaming red hair, a pugnacious jaw, and appallingly shabby clothes. He had walked into the room and was now striding up and down muttering to himself.

      ‘Hell!’ said the red-haired man, loudly and forcibly. ‘That’s what I say – Hell!’

      He dropped into a chair near the young couple and stared at them moodily.

      ‘Damn all women, that’s what I say,’ said the young man, eyeing Tuppence ferociously. ‘Oh! all right, kick up a row if you like. Have me turned out of the hotel. It won’t be for the first time. Why shouldn’t we say what we think? Why should we go about bottling up our feelings, and smirking, and saying things exactly like everyone else. I don’t feel pleasant and polite. I feel like getting hold of someone round the throat and gradually choking them to death.’

      He paused.

      ‘Any particular person?’ asked Tuppence. ‘Or just anybody?’

      ‘One particular person,’ said the young man grimly.

      ‘This is very interesting,’ said Tuppence. ‘Won’t you tell us some more?’

      ‘My name’s Reilly,’ said the red-haired man. ‘James Reilly. You may have heard it. I wrote a little volume of Pacifist poems – good stuff, although I say so.’

      ‘Pacifist poems?’ said Tuppence.

      ‘Yes – why not?’ demanded Mr Reilly belligerently.

      ‘Oh! nothing,’ said Tuppence hastily.

      ‘I’m for peace all the time,’ said Mr Reilly fiercely. ‘To Hell with war. And women! Women! Did you see that creature who was trailing around here just now? Gilda Glen, she calls herself. Gilda Glen! God! how I’ve worshipped that woman. And I’ll tell you this – if she’s got a heart at all, it’s on my side. She cared once for me, and I could make her care again. And if she sells herself to that muck heap, Leconbury – well, God help her. I’d as soon kill her with my own hands.’

      And on this, suddenly, he rose and rushed from the room.

      Tommy raised his eyebrows.

      ‘A somewhat excitable gentleman,’ he murmured. ‘Well, Tuppence, shall we start?’

      A fine mist was coming up as they emerged from the hotel into the cool outer air. Obeying Estcourt’s directions, they turned sharp to the left, and in a few minutes they came to a turning labelled Morgan’s Avenue.

      The mist had increased. It was soft and white, and hurried past them in little eddying drifts. To their left was the high wall of the cemetery, on their right a row of small houses. Presently these ceased, and a high hedge took their place.

      ‘Tommy,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’m beginning to feel jumpy. The mist – and the silence. As though we were miles from anywhere.’

      ‘One does feel like that,’ agreed Tommy. ‘All alone in the world. It’s the effect of the mist, and not being able to see ahead of one.’

      Tuppence nodded.

      ‘Just our footsteps echoing on the pavement. What’s that?’

      ‘What’s what?’

      ‘I thought I heard other footsteps behind us.’

      ‘You’ll be seeing the ghost in a minute if you work yourself up like this,’ said Tommy kindly. ‘Don’t be so nervy. Are you afraid the spook policeman will lay his hands on your shoulder?’

      Tuppence emitted a shrill squeal.

      ‘Don’t, Tommy. Now you’ve put it into my head.’

      She craned her head back over her shoulder, trying to peer into the white veil that was wrapped all round them.

      ‘There they are again,’ she whispered. ‘No, they’re in front now. Oh! Tommy, don’t say you can’t hear them?’

      ‘I do hear something. Yes, it’s footsteps behind us. Somebody else walking this way to catch the train. I wonder –’

      He stopped suddenly, and stood still, and Tuppence gave a gasp.

      For the curtain of mist in front of them suddenly parted in the most artificial manner, and there, not twenty feet away, a gigantic policeman suddenly appeared, as though materialised out of the fog. One minute he was not there, the next minute he was – so at least it seemed to the rather superheated imaginations of the two watchers. Then as the mist rolled back still more, a little scene appeared, as though set on a stage.

      The big blue policeman, a scarlet pillar box, and on the right of the road the outlines of a white house.

      ‘Red,