Read Online A Caribbean Mystery by Agatha Christie - Free Book Online Page B

this thought. Who was she to demand Murders Made to Measure?
    A voice made her jump-a somewhat raucous one.
    “Seen Greg any place. Miss-er-”
    Lucky, Miss Marple thought, was not in a good temper. “He passed by just now-going towards the hotel.”
    “I'll bet!” Lucky uttered an irritated ejaculation and hurried on.
    “Forty, if she's a day, and looks it this morning,” thought Miss Marple. Pity invaded her. Pity for the Luckys of the world, who were so vulnerable to Time. At the sound of a noise behind her, she turned her chair round.
    Mr. Rafiel, supported by Jackson, was making his morning appearance and coming out of his bungalow.
    Jackson settled his employer in his wheelchair and fussed round him. Mr. Rafiel waved his attendant away impatiently and Jackson went off in the direction of the hotel.
    Miss Marple lost no time. Mr. Rafiel was never left alone for long. Probably Esther Walters would come and join him. Miss Marple wanted a word alone with Mr. Rafiel and now, she thought, was her chance. She would have to be quick about what she wanted to say. There could be no leading up to things. Mr. Rafiel was not a man who cared for the idle twittering conversation of old ladies. He would probably retreat again into his bungalow, definitely regarding himself the victim of persecution. Miss Marple decided to plump for downrightness.
    She made her way to where he was sitting, drew up a chair, sat down, and said: “I want to ask you something, Mr. Rafiel.”
    “All right, all right,” said Mr. Rafiel, “let's have it. What do you want-a subscription, I suppose? Missions in Africa or repairing a church, something of that kind?”
    “Yes,” said Miss Marple. “I am interested in several objects of that nature, and I shall be delighted if you will give me a subscription for them. But that wasn't actually what I was going to ask you. What I was going to ask you was if Major Palgrave ever told you a story about a murder.”
    “Oho,” said Mr. Rafiel. “So he told it to you too, did he? And I suppose you fell for it, hook line and sinker.”
    “I didn't really know what to think,” said Miss Marple. “What exactly did he tell you?”
    “He prattled on,” said Mr. Rafiel, “about a lovely creature, Lucrezia Borgia reincarnated. Beautiful, young, golden-haired, everything.”
    “Oh,” said Miss Marple slightly taken aback, “and who did she murder?”
    “Her husband, of course,” said Mr. Rafiel, “who do you think?”
    “Poison?”
    “No, I think she gave him a sleeping draught and then stuck him in a gas oven. Resourceful female. Then she said it was suicide. She got off quite lightly. Diminished responsibility or something. That's what it's called nowadays if you're a good-looking woman, or some miserable young hooligan whose mother's been too fond of him. Bah!”
    “Did the Major show you a snapshot?”
    “What-a snapshot of the woman? No. Why should he?”
    “Oh-” said Miss Marple. She sat there, rather taken aback. Apparently Major Palgrave spent his life telling people not only about tigers he had shot and elephants he had hunted but also about murderers he had met. Perhaps he had a whole repertoire of murder stories. One had to face it. She was startled by Mr. Rafiel suddenly giving a roar of “Jackson!” There was no response.
    “Shall I find him for you?” said Miss Marple rising.
    “You won't find him. Tomcatting somewhere, that's what he does. No good, that fellow. Bad character. But he suits me all right.”
    “I'll go and look for him,” said Miss Marple.
    Miss Marple found Jackson sitting on the far side of the hotel terrace having a drink with Tim Kendal.
    “Mr. Rafiel is asking for you,” she said.
    Jackson made an expressive grimace, drained his glass, and rose to his feet.
    “Here we go again,” he said. “No peace for the wicked. Two telephone calls and a special diet order. I thought that might give me a quarter of an hour's alibi. Apparently not! Thank you Miss