Agatha Christie – A Murder Is Announced

‘Where were you yourself?’

‘I think I was over by the window. Aunt Letty went to get the cigarettes.’

‘On that table by the archway?’

‘Yes—and then the lights went out and the bad film started.’

‘The man had a powerful torch. What did he do with it?’

‘Well, he shone it on us. Horribly dazzling. It just made you blink.’

‘I want you to answer this very carefully, Miss Simmons. Did he hold the torch steady, or did he move it about?’

Julia considered. Her manner was now definitely less weary.

‘He moved it,’ she said slowly. ‘Like a spotlight in a dance hall. It was full in my eyes and then it went on round the room and then the shots came. Two shots.’

‘And then?’

‘He whirled round—and Mitzi began to scream like a siren from somewhere and his torch went out and there was another shot. And then the door closed (it does, you know, slowly, with a whining noise—quite uncanny) and there we were all in the dark, not knowing what to do, and poor Bunny squealing like a rabbit and Mitzi going all out across the hall.’

‘Would it be your opinion that the man shot himself deliberately, or do you think he stumbled and the revolver went off accidentally?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. The whole thing was so stagey. Actually I thought it was still some silly joke—until I saw the blood from Letty’s ear. But even if you were actually going to fire a revolver to make the thing more real, you’d be careful to fire it well above someone’s head, wouldn’t you?’

‘You would indeed. Do you think he could see clearly who he was firing at? I mean, was Miss Blacklock clearly outlined in the light of the torch?’

‘I’ve no idea. I wasn’t looking at her. I was looking at the man.’

‘What I’m getting at is—do you think the man was deliberately aiming at her—at her in particular, Imean?’

Julia seemed a little startled by the idea.

‘You mean deliberately picking on Aunt Letty? Oh, I shouldn’t think so…After all, if he wanted to take a pot shot at Aunt Letty, there would be heaps of more suitable opportunities. There would be no point in collecting all the friends and neighbours just to make it more difficult. He could have shot her from behind a hedge in the good old Irish fashion any day of the week, and probably got away with it.’

And that, thought Craddock, was a very complete reply to Dora Bunner’s suggestion of a deliberate attack on Letitia Blacklock.

He said with a sigh, ‘Thank you, Miss Simmons. I’d better go and see Mitzi now.’

‘Mind her fingernails,’ warned Julia. ‘She’s a tartar!’

II

Craddock, with Fletcher in attendance, found Mitzi in the kitchen. She was rolling pastry and looked up suspiciously as he entered.

Her black hair hung over her eyes; she looked sullen, and the purple jumper and brilliant green skirt she wore were not becoming to her pasty complexion.

‘What do you come in my kitchen for, Mr Policeman? You are police, yes? Always, always there is persecution—ah! I should be used to it by now. They say it is different here in England, but no, it is just the same. You come to torture me, yes, to make me say things, but I shall say nothing. You will tear off my fingernails, and put lighted matches on my skin—oh, yes, and worse than that. But I will not speak, do you hear? I shall say nothing—nothing at all. And you will send me away to a concentration camp, and I shall not care.’

Craddock looked at her thoughtfully, selecting what was likely to be the best method of attack. Finally he sighed and said:

‘O.K., then, get your hat and coat.’

‘What is that you say?’ Mitzi looked startled.

‘Get your hat and coat and come along. I haven’t got my nail-pulling apparatus and the rest of the bag of tricks with me. We keep all that down at the station. Got the handcuffs handy, Fletcher?’

‘Sir!’ said Sergeant Fletcher with appreciation.

‘But I do not want to come,’ screeched Mitzi, backing away from him.