The car was a Rolls Bentley sports model
coupe. Two people got out of it and came
towards the house. As they reached the door, it opened. Surprised, Adele Fortescue stared
at Inspector Neele.
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He realised at once that she was a very
beautiful woman, and he realised too, the
force of Mary Dove’s comment which had so
shocked him at the time. Adele Fortescue was
a sexy piece. In figure and type she resembled
the blonde Miss Grosvenor, but whereas
Miss Grosvenor was all glamour without and
all respectability within, Adele Fortescue was
glamour all through. Her appeal was obvious,
not subtle. It said simply to every man “Here
am I. I’m a woman.” She spoke and moved
and breathed sex—and yet, within it all, her
eyes had a shrewd appraising quality. Adele
Fortescue, he thought, liked men—but she
would always like money even better.
His eyes went on to the figure behind her
who carried her golf clubs. He knew the type
very well. It was the type that specialised in
the young wives of rich and elderly men. Mr.
Vivian Dubois, if this was he, had that rather
forced masculinity which is, in reality,
nothing of the kind. He was the type of man
who “understands” women.
“Mrs. Fortescue?”
“Yes.” It was a wide blue-eyed gaze. “But I
don’t know——”
“I am Inspector Neele. I’m afraid I have
bad news for you.”
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“Do you mean–a burglary–something of
that kind?”
“No, nothing of that kind. It is about your
husband. He was taken seriously ill this
morning.”
“Rex? 111?”
“We have been trying to get in touch with
you since half-past eleven this morning.”
“Where is he? Here? Or in hospital?”
“He was taken to St. Jude’s Hospital. I’m
afraid you must prepare yourself for a
shock.”
“You don’t mean–he isn’t– dead.”
She lurched forward a little and clutched
his arm. Gravely feeling like someone playing
a part in a stage performance, the Inspector
supported her into the hall. Crump was
hovering eagerly.
“Brandy she’ll be needing,” he said.
The deep voice of Mr. Dubois said:
“That’s right. Crump. Get the brandy.”
To the Inspector he said: “In here.”
He opened a door on the left. The procession
filed in. The Inspector and Adele
Fortescue, Vivian Dubois, and Crump with a
decanter and two glasses.
Adele Fortescue sank on to an easy chair,
her eyes covered with her hand. She accepted
69
the glass that the Inspector offered and took a
tiny sip, then pushed it away.
“I don’t want it,” she said. “I’m all right.
But tell me, what was it? A stroke, I suppose?
Poor Rex.”
“It wasn’t a stroke, Mrs. Fortescue.”
“Did you say you were an Inspector?” It
was Mr. Dubois who made the inquiry.
Neele turned to him. “That’s right,” he
said pleasantly. “Inspector Neele of the
C.I.D.”
He saw the alarm grow in the dark eyes.
Mr. Dubois did not like the appearance of an
Inspector of the C.I.D. He didn’t like it at
all.
“What’s up?” he said. “Something wrong—
eh?”
Quite unconsciously he backed away a little
towards the door. Inspector Neele noted the
movement.
“I’m afraid,” he said to Mrs. Fortescue,
“that there will have to be an inquest.”
“An inquest? Do you mean—what do you
mean?”
“I’m afraid this is all very distressing for
you, Mrs. Fortescue.” The words came
smoothly. “It seemed advisable to find out as
soon as possible exactly what Mr. Fortescue
70
had to eat or drink before leaving for the
office this morning.”
“Do you mean he might have been
poisoned?”
“Well, yes, it would seem so.”
“I can’t believe it. Oh–you mean food
poisoning.”
Her voice dropped half an octave on the
last words. His face wooden, his voice still
smooth. Inspector Neele said:
“Madam? What did you think I meant?”
She ignored that question, hurrying on. “But we’ve been all right–all of us.”
“You can speak for all the members of the
family?”
“Well–no–of course–I can’t really.”
Dubois said with a great show of consulting
his watch:
“I’ll have to push off, Adele. Dreadfully
sorry. You’ll be all right, won’t you? I mean, there are the maids, and the little Dove and