Murder in the Mews (Hercule Poirot 18)

Marjorie Gold said with a little shiver:

“He frightens me a little, that man. He—he looks so black sometimes. As though he might do—anything!”

She shivered.

“Just indigestion, I expect,” said the General cheerfully. “Dyspepsia is responsible for many a reputation for romantic melancholy or ungovernable rages.”

Marjorie Gold smiled a polite little smile.

“And where’s your good man?” inquired the General.

Her reply came without hesitation—in a natural, cheerful voice.

“Douglas? Oh, he and Mrs. Chantry have gone into the town. I believe they’ve gone to have a look at the walls of the old city.”

“Ha, yes—very interesting. Time of the knights and all that. You ought to have gone too, little lady.”

Mrs. Gold said:

“I’m afraid I came down rather late.”

She got up suddenly with a murmured excuse and went into the hotel.

General Barnes looked after her with a concerned expression, shaking his head gently.

“Nice little woman, that. Worth a dozen painted trollops like someone whose name we won’t mention! Ha! Husband’s a fool! Doesn’t know when he’s well-off.”

He shook his head again. Then, rising, he went indoors.

Sarah Blake had just come up from the beach and had heard the General’s last speech.

Making a face at the departing warrior’s back, she remarked as she flung herself into a chair:

“Nice little woman—nice little woman! Men always approve of dowdy women—but when it comes to brass tacks the dress-up trollops win hands down! Sad, but there it is.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, and his voice was abrupt. “I do not like all this!”

“Don’t you? Nor do I. No, let’s be honest, I suppose I do like it really. There is a horrid side of one that enjoys accidents and public calamities and unpleasant things that happen to one’s friends.”

Poirot asked:

“Where is Commander Chantry?”

“On the beach being dissected by Pamela (she’s enjoying herself if you like!) and not being improved in temper by the proceeding. He was looking like a thunder cloud when I came up. There are squalls ahead, believe me.”

Poirot murmured:

“There is something I do not understand—”

“It’s not easy to understand,” said Sarah. “But what’s going to happen that’s the question.”

Poirot shook his head and murmured:

“As you say, mademoiselle—it is the future that causes one inquietude.”

“What a nice way of putting it,” said Sarah and went into the hotel.

In the doorway she almost collided with Douglas Gold. The young man came out looking rather pleased with himself but at the same time slightly guilty. He said: