Crooked House / Скрюченный домишко. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Агата Кристи

us what he had done! At his age! It was madness— madness. My father was an amazing man, Inspector. In intellect he was as young and fresh as a man of forty. Everything I have in the world I owe to him. He did everything for me—never failed me. It was I who failed him—when I think of it—’

      He dropped heavily on to a chair. His wife came quietly to his side.

      ‘Now, Roger, that’s enough. Don’t work yourself up.’

      ‘I know, dearest—I know,’ he took her hand. ‘But how can I keep calm—how can I help feeling—’

      ‘But we must all keep calm, Roger. Chief Inspector Taverner wants our help.’

      ‘That is right, Mrs Leonides.’

      Roger cried:

      ‘Do you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to strangle that woman with my own hands. Grudging that dear old man a few extra years of life. If I had her here—’ He sprang up[71]. He was shaking with rage. He held out convulsive hands. ‘Yes, I’d wring her neck, wring her neck…’

      ‘Roger!’ said Clemency sharply.

      He looked at her, abashed.

      ‘Sorry, dearest.’ He turned to us. ‘I do apologize. My feelings get the better of me. I—excuse me—’

      He went out of the room again. Clemency Leonides said with a very faint smile:

      ‘Really, you know, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

      Taverner accepted her remark politely.

      Then he started on his so-called routine questions.

      Clemency Leonides replied concisely and accurately.

      Roger Leonides had been in London on the day of his father’s death at Box House, the headquarters of the Associated Catering. He had returned early in the afternoon and had spent some time with his father as was his custom. She herself had been, as usual, at the Lambert Institute in Gower Street where she worked. She had returned to the house just before six o’clock.

      ‘Did you see your father-in-law?’

      ‘No. The last time I saw him was on the day before. We had coffee with him after dinner.’

      ‘But you did not see him on the day of his death?’

      ‘No. I actually went over to his part of the house because Roger thought he had left his pipe there—a very precious pipe, but as it happened he had left it on the hall table there, so I did not need to disturb the old man. He often dozed off[72] about six.’

      ‘When did you hear of his illness?’

      ‘Brenda came rushing over. That was just a mi nute or two after half-past six.’

      These questions, as I knew, were unimportant, but I was aware how keen was Inspector Taverner’s scrutiny of the woman who answered them. He asked her a few questions about the nature of her work in London. She said that it had to do with the radiation effects of atomic disintegration.

      ‘You work on the atom bomb, in fact?’

      ‘The work has nothing destructive about it. The Institute is carrying out experiments on the therapeutic effects.’

      When Taverner got up, he expressed a wish to look round their part of the house. She seemed a little surprised, but showed him its extent readily enough. The bedroom with its twin beds and white coverlets and its simplified toilet appliances reminded me again of a hospital or some monastic cell. The bathroom, too, was severely plain with no special luxury fitting and no array of cosmetics. The kitchen was bare, spotlessly clean, and well equipped with labour-saving devices of a practical kind. Then we came to a door which Clemency opened, saying: ‘This is my husband’s special room.’

      ‘Come in,’ said Roger. ‘Come in.’

      I drew a faint breath of relief. Something in the spotless austerity elsewhere had been getting me down. This was an intensely personal room. There was a large roll-top desk untidily covered with papers, old pipes, and tobacco ash. There were big shabby easy-chairs. Persian rugs covered the floor. On the walls were groups, their photography somewhat faded. School groups, cricket groups, military groups. Water-colour sketches of deserts and minarets, and of sailing-boats and sea effects and sunsets. It was, somehow, a pleasant room, the room of a lovable, friendly, companionable man.

      Roger, clumsily, was pouring out[73] drinks from a tantalus[74], sweeping books and papers off one of the chairs.

      ‘Place is in a mess. I was turning out. Clearing up old papers. Say when.’ The inspector declined a drink. I accepted. ‘You must forgive me just now,’ went on Roger. He brought my drink over to me, turning his head to speak to Taverner as he did so. ‘My feelings ran away with me.’