The Best Detectives Murder Mysteries for Christmas Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

do you mean?”

      “What I say. Bless the boy, didn’t I tell you I doted on crimes? What do you think I’m imperilling my ankles for in high-heeled shoes over this stubble? I’ve been nosing round for hours. Tried the front way in, but that old stick-in-the-mud of a French gendarme wasn’t taking any. I guess Helen of Troy, and Cleopatra, and Mary, Queen of Scots, rolled in one wouldn’t cut ice with him! It’s a real piece of luck happening on you this way. Come on, show me all the sights.”

      “But look here—wait a minute—I can’t. Nobody’s allowed in. They’re awfully strict.”

      “Aren’t you and your friend the big bugs?”

      I was loath to relinquish my position of importance.

      “Why are you so keen?” I asked weakly. “And what is it you want to see.”

      “Oh, everything! The place where it happened, and the weapon, and the body, and any finger-prints or interesting things like that. I’ve never had a chance of being right in on a murder like this before. It’ll last me all my life?”

      I turned away, sickened. What were women coming to nowadays? The girl’s ghoulish excitement nauseated me. I had read of the mobs of women who besieged the law courts when some wretched man was being tried for his life on the capital charge. I had sometimes wondered who these women were. Now I knew. They were of the likeness of Cinderella, young, yet obsessed with a yearning for morbid excitement, for sensation at any price, without regard to any decency or good feeling. The vividness of the girl’s beauty had attracted me in spite of myself, yet at heart I retained my first impression of disapproval and dislike. I thought of my mother, long since dead. What would she have said of this strange modern product of girlhood? The pretty face with the paint and powder, and the ghoulish mind behind!

      “Come off your high horse,” said the lady suddenly. “And don’t give yourself airs. When you got called to this job, did you put your nose in the air and say it was a nasty business, and you wouldn’t be mixed up in it?”

      “No, but—”

      “If you’d been here on a holiday, wouldn’t you be nosing round just the same as I am? Of course you would.”

      “I’m a man. You’re a woman.”

      “Your idea of a woman is some one who gets on a chair and shrieks if she sees a mouse. That’s all prehistoric. But you will show me round, won’t you? You see, it might make a big difference to me.”

      “In what way?”

      “They’re keeping all the reporters out. I might make a big scoop with one of the papers. You don’t know how much they pay for a bit of inside stuff.”

      I hesitated. She slipped a small soft hand into mine.

      “Please—there’s a dear.”

      I capitulated. Secretly, I knew that I should rather enjoy the part of showman. After all, the moral attitude displayed by the girl was none of my business. I was a little nervous as to what the examining magistrate might say, but I reassured myself by the reflection that no harm could possibly be done.

      We repaired first to the spot where the body had been discovered. A man was on guard there, who saluted respectfully, knowing me by sight, and raised no question as to my companion. Presumably he regarded her as vouched for by me. I explained to Cinderella just how the discovery had been made, and she listened attentively, sometimes putting an intelligent question. Then we turned our steps in the direction of the Villa. I proceeded rather cautiously, for, truth to tell, I was not at all anxious to meet any one. I took the girl through the shrubbery round to the back of the house where the small shed was. I recollected that yesterday evening, after relocking the door, M. Bex had left the key with the sergent de ville Marchaud, “in case M. Giraud should require it while we are upstairs.” I thought it quite likely that the Sûreté detective, after using it, had returned it to Marchaud again. Leaving the girl out of sight in the shrubbery, I entered the house. Marchaud was on duty outside the door of the salon. From within came the murmur of voices.

      “Monsieur desires Hautet? He is within. He is again interrogating Françoise.”

      “No,” I said hastily, “I don’t want him. But I should very much like the key of the shed outside if it is not against regulations.”

      “But certainly, monsieur.” He produced it. “Here it is. M. le juge gave orders that all facilities were to be placed at your disposal. You will return it to me when you have finished out there, that is all.”

      “Of course.”

      I felt a thrill of satisfaction as I realized that in Marchaud’s eyes, at least, I ranked equally in importance with Poirot. The girl was waiting for me. She gave an exclamation of delight as she saw the key in my hand.

      “You’ve got it then?”

      “Of course,” I said coolly. “All the same, you know, what I’m doing is highly irregular.”

      “You’ve been a perfect duck, and I shan’t forget it. Come along. They can’t see us from the house, can they?”

      “Wait a minute.” I arrested her eager advance. “I won’t stop you if you really wish to go in. But do you? You’ve seen the grave, and the grounds, and you’ve heard all the details of the affair. Isn’t that enough for you? This is going to be gruesome, you know, and—unpleasant.”

      She looked at me for a moment with an expression that I could not quite fathom. Then she laughed.

      “Me for the horrors,” she said. “Come along.”

      In silence we arrived at the door of the shed. I opened it and we passed in. I walked over to the body, and gently pulled down the sheet as M. Bex had done the preceding afternoon. A little gasping sound escaped from the girl’s lips, and I turned and looked at her. There was horror on her face now, and those debonair high spirits of hers were quenched utterly. She had not chosen to listen to my advice, and she was punished now for her disregard of it. I felt singularly merciless towards her. She should go through with it now. I turned the corpse gently over.

      “You see,” I said, “he was stabbed in the back.”

      Her voice was almost soundless.

      “With what?”

      I nodded towards the glass jar.

      “That dagger.”

      Suddenly the girl reeled, and then sank down in a heap. I sprang to her assistance.

      “You are faint. Come out of here. It has been too much for you.”

      “Water,” she murmured. “Quick. Water. …”

      I left her, and rushed into the house. Fortunately none of the servants were about, and I was able to secure a glass of water unobserved and add a few drops of brandy from a pocket flask. In a few minutes I was back again. The girl was lying as I had left her, but a few sips of the brandy and water revived her in a marvellous manner.

      “Take me out of here—oh, quickly, quickly!” she cried, shuddering.

      Supporting her with my arm I led her out into the air, and she pulled the door to behind her. Then she drew a deep breath.

      “That’s better. Oh, it was horrible! Why did you ever let me go in?”

      I felt this to be so feminine that I could not forbear a smile. Secretly, I was not dissatisfied with her collapse. It proved that she was not quite so callous as I had thought her. After all she was little more than a child, and her curiosity had probably been of the unthinking order.

      “I did my best to stop you, you know,” I said gently.

      “I suppose you did. Well, good-bye.”

      “Look here, you can’t start off like that—all alone. You’re not fit for it. I insist on accompanying you back to Merlinville.”