Crooked House - Christie Agatha (читать книги бесплатно полные версии txt) 📗

One always wonders. A table. A desk?

Chairs? What kind of curtains? No flowers, I suppose? A dictaphone?55 "Put a sock in it, mother,55 said Sophia.

"And anyway, you told Vavasour Jones to cut that Scotland Yard scene. You said it was an anticlimax.55 "It makes it too like a detective play," said Magda. "Edith Thompson is definitely a psychological drama - or psychological thriller - which do you think sounds best?55 ??

"You were there this morning?55 Philip asked me sharply. "Why? Oh, of course -your father -"

He frowned. I realised more clearly than ever that my presence was unwelcome, but Sophia's hand was clenched on my arm.

Clemency moved a chair forward.

"Do sit down," she said.

I gave her a grateful glance and accepted.

"You may say what you like," said Miss de Haviland apparently going on from where they had all left off, "but I do think we ought to respect Aristide's wishes. When this will business is straightened out, as far as I am concerned, my legacy is entirely at your disposal, Roger."

Roger tugged his hair in a frenzy.

"No, Aunt Edith. No!" he cried.

"I wish I could say the same," said Philip, "but one has to take every factor into consideration -"

"Dear old Phil, don't you understand?

I'm not going to take a penny from anyone."

"Of course he can't!" snapped Clemency.

"Anyway, Edith," said Magda. "If the will is straightened out, he'll have his own legacy."

"But it can't possibly be straightened out in time, can it?" asked Eustace.

"You don't know anything about it,

Eustace," said Philip.

"The boy's absolutely right," cried Roger. "He's put his finger on the spot. Nothing can avert the crash. Nothing."

He spoke with a kind of relish.

"There is really nothing to discuss," said Clemency.

"Anyway," said Roger, "what does it matter?" "I should have thought it mattered a good deal," said Philip, pressing his lips together.

"No," said Roger. "No! Does anything matter compared with the fact that father is dead? Father is dead! And we sit here discussing mere money matters!"

A faint colour rose in Philip's pale cheeks.

"We are only trying to help," he said stiffly.

"I know, Phil, old boy, I know. But there's nothing anyone can do. So let's call it a day."

"I suppose," said Philip, "that I could raise a certain amount of money. Securities have gone down a good deal and some of my capital is tied up in such a way that I can't touch it: Magda's settlement and so on - but -"

Magda said quickly: af^f /^,,,,o^,7rm pan't raise the money? darling. It would be absurd to try - and not very fair on the children."

"I tell you I'm not asking anyone for anything!" shouted Roger. "I'm hoarse with telling you so. I'm quite content that things should take their course."

"It's a question of prestige," said Philip.

"Father's. Ours."

"It wasn't a family business. It was solely my concern."

"Yes," said Philip, looking at him. "It was entirely your concern."

Edith de Haviland got up and said: "I think we've discussed this enough."

There was in her voice that authentic note of authority that never fails to produce its effect.

Philip and Magda got up. Eustace lounged out of the room and I noticed the stiffness of his gait. He was not exactly lame but his walk was a halting one.

Roger linked his arm in Philip's and said:

"You've been a brick, Phil, even to think of such a thing!" The brothers went out together.

Magda murmured, "Such a fuss!" as she followed them, and Sophia said that she ^ust see about my room.

Edith de Haviland stood rolling up her knitting. She looked towards me and I thought she was going to speak to me.

There was something almost like appeal in her glance. However, she changed her mind, sighed and went out after the others.

Clemency had moved over to the window and stood looking out into the garden. I went over and stood beside her. She turned her head slightly towards me.

"Thank goodness that's over," she said - and added with distaste: "What a preposterous room this isl"

"Don't you like it?"

"I can't breathe in it. There's always a smell of half dead flowers and dust."

I thought she was unjust to the room.

But I knew what she meant. It was very definitely an interior.

It was a woman's room, exotic, soft, shut away from the rude blasts of outside weather. It was not a room that a man would be happy in for long. It was not a room where you could relax and read the newspaper and smoke a pipe and put up your feet. Nevertheless I preferred it to Clemency's own abstract expression of herself upstairs. On the whole I prefer a boudoir to an operating theatre.

"It's just a stage set. A background for Magda to play her scenes against." She looked at me. "You realise, don't you, what we've just been doing? Act II - the family conclave. Magda arranged it. It didn't mean a thing. There was nothing to talk about, nothing to discuss. It's all settled - finished."

There was no sadness in her voice. Rather there was satisfaction. She caught my glance.

"Oh, don't you understand?" she said impatiently. "We're free - at last! Don't you understand that Roger's been miserable - absolutely miserable - for years? He never had any aptitude for business. He likes things like horses and cows and pottering round in the country. But he adored his father - they all did. That's what's wrong with this house - too much family. I don't mean that the old man was a tyrant, or preyed upon them, or bullied them. He didn't. He gave them money and freedom. He was devoted to them. And they kept on being devoted to him."

"Is there anything wrong in that?"

"I think there is. I think, when your children have grown up, that you should cut away from them, efface yourself, slink away, force them to forget you."

"Force them? That's rather drastic, isn't it? Isn't coercion as bad one way as another?"

"If he hadn't made himself such a personality -"

"You can't make yourself a personality,"

I said. "He was a personality."

"He was too much of a personality for

Roger. Roger worshipped him. He wanted to do everything his father wanted him to do, he wanted to be the kind of son his father wanted. And he couldn't. His father made over Associated Catering to him - it was the old man's particular joy and pride, and Roger tried hard to carry on in his father's footsteps. But he hadn't got that kind of ability. In business matters Roger is - yes, I'll say it plainly - a fool. And it nearly broke his heart. He's been miserable for years, struggling, seeing the whole thing go down the hill, having sudden wonderful 'ideas' and 'schemes' which always went wrong and made it worse than ever. It's a terrible thing to feel you're a failure year after year. You don't know how unhappy he's been. I do.", I Again she turned and faced me.) "You thought, you actually suggested to ihp nnlice. that Roger would have killed his jh father - for money! You don't know how .- how absolutely ridiculous that is!"

"I do know it now," I said humbly.

"When Roger knew he couldn't stave it off any more - that the crash was bound to come, he was actually relieved. Yes, he was. He worried about his father's knowing - but not about anything else. He was looking forward to the new life we were going to live."

Her face quivered a little and her voice softened.

"Where were you going?" I asked.

"To Barbados. A distant cousin of mine died a short time ago and left me a tiny estate out there - oh, nothing much. But it was somewhere to go. We'd have been desperately poor, but we'd have scratched a living - it costs very little just to live.

We'd have been together - unworried, away from them all."

She sighed.

"Roger is a ridiculous person. He would worry about me - about my being poor. I suppose he's got the Leonides attitude to money too firmly in his mind. When my first husband was alive, we were terribly poor - and Roger thinks it was so brave and wonderful of me! He doesn't realise that I was happy - really happy! I've never been so happy since. And yet - I never loved Richard as I love Roger."

Her eyes half-closed. I was aware of the intensity of her feeling.

She opened her eyes, looked at me and said:

"So you see, I would never have killed anyone for money. I don't like money."

I was quite sure that she meant exactly what she said. Clemency Leonides was one of those rare people to whom money does not appeal. They dislike luxury, prefer austerity, and are suspicious of possessions.

Still, there are many to whom money has no personal appeal, but who can be tempted by the power it confers.

I said, "You mightn't want money for yourself - but wisely directed, money may do a lot of interesting things. It can endow research, for example."

I had suspected that Clemency might be a fanatic about her work, but she merely said:

"I doubt if endowments ever do much good. They're usually spent in the wrong way. The things that are worth while are usually accomplished by someone with enthusiasm and drive - and with natural vision. Expensive equipment and training and experiment never does what you'd imagine it might do. The spending of it usually gets into the wrong hands."

"Will you mind giving up your work when you go to Barbados?" I asked. "You're still going, I presume?"

"Oh yes, as soon as the police will let us.

No, I shan't mind giving up my work at all. Why should I? I wouldn't like to be idle, but I shan't be idle in Barbados."

She added impatiently:

"Oh, if only this could all be cleared up quickly and we could get away."

"Clemency," I said, "have you any idea at all who did do this? Granting that you and Roger had no hand in it, (and really I can't see any reason to think you had) surely, with your intelligence, you must have some idea of who did?"

She gave me a rather peculiar look, a darting sideways glance. When she spoke her voice had lost its spontaneity. It was awkward, rather embarrassed.

"One can't make guesses, it's unscientific," she said. "One can only say that Brenda and Laurence are the obvious suspects."