A POCKET FULL OF RYE BY AGATHA CHRISTIE

You may have had some quite innocent

reason for going there.”

204

“I tell you I never went to see Mrs. Fortescue

that day.”

The Inspector stood up.

“You know, Mr. Dubois,” he said

pleasantly, “I think we’ll have to ask you for a

statement and you’ll be well advised and

quite within your rights in having a solicitor

present when you are making that

statement.”

The colour fled from Mr. Dubois’s face,

leaving it a sickly greenish colour.

“You’re threatening me,” he said. “You’re

threatening me.”

“No, no, nothing of the kind.” Inspector

Neele spoke in a shocked voice. “We’re not

allowed to do anything of that sort. Quite the

contrary. I’m actually pointing out to you

that you have certain rights.”

“I had nothing to do with it at all, I tell

you! Nothing to do with it.”

“Come now, Mr. Dubois, you were at

Yewtree Lodge round about half-past four on

that day. Somebody looked out of the

window, you know, and saw you.”

“I was only in the garden. I didn’t go into

the house.”

“Didn’t you?” said Inspector Neele. “Are

you sure? Didn’t you go in by the side door,

205

and up the stairs to Mrs. Fortescue’s sittingroom

on the first floor? You were looking for

something, weren’t you, in the desk there?”

“You’ve got them, I suppose,” said Dubois

sullenly. “That fool Adele kept them, thenshe swore she burnt them—— But they don’t

mean what you think they mean.”

“You’re not denying, are you, Mr. Dubois,

that you were a very close friend of Mrs.

Fortescue’s?”

“No, of course I’m not. How can I when

you’ve got the letters? All I say is, there’s no

need to go reading any sinister meaning into

them. Don’t think for a moment that we—

that she—ever thought of getting rid of Rex

Fortescue. Good God, I’m not that kind of

man!”

“But perhaps she was that kind of

woman?”

“Nonsense,” cried Vivian Dubois, “wasn’t

she killed too?”

“Oh yes, yes.”

“Well, isn’t it natural to believe that the

same person who killed her husband killed

her?”

“It might be. It certainly might be. But

there are other solutions. For instance—(this

is quite a hypothetical case, Mr. Dubois) it’s

206

possible that Mrs. Fortescue got rid of her

husband, and that after his death she became

somewhat of a danger to someone else.

Someone who had, perhaps, not helped her in

what she had done but who had at least

encouraged her and provided, shall we say,

the motive for the deed. She might be, you

know, a danger to that particular person.”

Dubois stammered:

“You c-c-can’t build up a case against me.

You can’t.”

“She made a will, you know,” said

Inspector Neele. “She left all her money to

you. Everything she possessed.”

“I don’t want the money. I don’t want a

penny of it.”

“Of course, it isn’t very much really,” said

Inspector Neele. “There’s jewellery and

some furs, but I imagine very little actual

cash.”

Dubois stared at him, his jaw dropping.

“But I thought her husband——”

He stopped dead.

“Did you, Mr. Dubois?” said Inspector

Neele, and there was steel now in his voice.

“That’s very interesting. I wondered if you

knew the terms of Rex Fortescue’s will——”

207

Ill

Inspector Neele’s second interview at the

Golf Hotel was with Mr. Gerald Wright. Mr.

Gerald Wright was a thin, intellectual and

very superior young man. He was. Inspector

Neele noted, not unlike Vivian Dubois in

build.

“What can I do for you. Inspector Neele?”

he asked.

“I thought you might be able to help us

with a little information, Mr. Wright.”

“Information? Really? It seems very

unlikely.”

“It’s in connection with the recent events

at Yewtree Lodge. You’ve heard of them, of

course?”

Inspector Neele put a little irony into the

question. Mr. Wright smiled patronisingly.

“Heard of them,” he said, “is hardly the

right word. The newspapers appear to be full

of nothing else. How incredibly bloodthirsty

our public press is! What an age we live in!

On one side the manufacture of atom bombs,

on the other our newspapers delight in

reporting brutal murders! But you said you

had some questions to ask. Really, I cannot

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