Read Online Mrs McGinty's Dead by Agatha Christie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Agatha Christie
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clean. An old dented silver-backed mirror. A photograph in a leather frame of a wedding pair dressed in the style of thirty years ago - a picture of Mrs McGinty and her husband presumably. Two picture postcards of Margate. A china dog. A recipe torn out of a paper for making vegetable marrow jam. Another piece dealing with “Flying Saucers” on a sensational note. A third clipping dealt with Mother Shipton's prophecies. There was also a Bible and a Prayer Book.
There were no handbags, or gloves. Presumably Bessie Burch had taken these, or given them away. The clothes here, Poirot judged, would have been too small for the buxom Bessie. Mrs McGinty had been a thin, spare woman.
He unwrapped one of the pairs of shoes. They were of quite good quality and not much worn. Decidedly on the small side for Bessie Butch.
He was just about to wrap them up neatly again when his eye was caught by the heading on the piece of newspaper. It was the Sunday Companion and the date was November 19th. Mrs McGinty had been killed on November 22nd.
This then was the paper she had bought on the Sunday preceding her death. It had been lying in her room and Bessie Butch had used it in due course to wrap up her aunt's things.
Sunday, November 19th. And on Monday Mrs McGinty had gone into the post office to buy a bottle of ink...
Could that be because of something she had seen in Sunday's newspaper?
He unwrapped the other pair of shoes. They were wrapped in the News of the World of the same date.
He smoothed out both papers and took them over to a chair where he sat down to read them. And at once he made a discovery. On one page of the Sunday Companion, something had been cut out. It was a rectangular piece out of the middle page. The space was too big for any of the clippings he had found.
He looked through both newspapers, but could find nothing else of interest. He wrapped them round the shoes again and packed the suitcase tidily.
Then he went downstairs.
Mrs Burch was busy in the kitchen.
“Don't suppose you found anything?” she said.
“Alas, no.” He added in a casual voice: “Do you remember if there was a cutting from a newspaper in your aunt's purse or in her handbag, was there?”
“Can't remember any. Perhaps the police took it.”
But the police had not taken it. That Poirot knew from his study of Spence's notes. The contents of the dead woman's handbag had been listed, no newspaper cutting was among them.
“Eh bien,” said Hercule Poirot to himself. “The next step is easy. It will be either the wash-out - or else, at last, I advance.”
Mrs McGinty's Dead
II
Sitting very still, with the dusty files of newspaper in front of him, Poirot told himself that his recognition of the significance of the bottle of ink had not played him false.
The Sunday Companion was given to romantic dramatizations of past events.
The paper at which Poirot was looking was the Sunday Companion of Sunday, November 19th.
At the top of the middle page were these words in big type:
Women Victims of Bygone Tragedies
Where are these women now?
Below the caption were four very blurred reproductions of photographs clearly taken many years ago.
The subjects of them did not look tragic. They looked, actually, rather ridiculous, since nearly all of them were dressed in the style of a bygone day, and nothing is more ridiculous than the fashions of yesterday - though in another thirty years or so their charm may have reappeared, or at any rate be once more apparent.
Under each photo was a name.
Eva Kane, the “other woman” in the famous Craig case.
Janice Courtland, the “tragic wife” whose husband was a fiend in human form.
Little Lily Gamboll, tragic child product of our overcrowded age.
Vera Blake, unsuspecting wife of a killer.
And then came the question in bold type again:
Where are these women now?
Poirot blinked and set himself to read meticulously the somewhat romantic prose which gave the life stories of these dim and
There were no handbags, or gloves. Presumably Bessie Burch had taken these, or given them away. The clothes here, Poirot judged, would have been too small for the buxom Bessie. Mrs McGinty had been a thin, spare woman.
He unwrapped one of the pairs of shoes. They were of quite good quality and not much worn. Decidedly on the small side for Bessie Butch.
He was just about to wrap them up neatly again when his eye was caught by the heading on the piece of newspaper. It was the Sunday Companion and the date was November 19th. Mrs McGinty had been killed on November 22nd.
This then was the paper she had bought on the Sunday preceding her death. It had been lying in her room and Bessie Butch had used it in due course to wrap up her aunt's things.
Sunday, November 19th. And on Monday Mrs McGinty had gone into the post office to buy a bottle of ink...
Could that be because of something she had seen in Sunday's newspaper?
He unwrapped the other pair of shoes. They were wrapped in the News of the World of the same date.
He smoothed out both papers and took them over to a chair where he sat down to read them. And at once he made a discovery. On one page of the Sunday Companion, something had been cut out. It was a rectangular piece out of the middle page. The space was too big for any of the clippings he had found.
He looked through both newspapers, but could find nothing else of interest. He wrapped them round the shoes again and packed the suitcase tidily.
Then he went downstairs.
Mrs Burch was busy in the kitchen.
“Don't suppose you found anything?” she said.
“Alas, no.” He added in a casual voice: “Do you remember if there was a cutting from a newspaper in your aunt's purse or in her handbag, was there?”
“Can't remember any. Perhaps the police took it.”
But the police had not taken it. That Poirot knew from his study of Spence's notes. The contents of the dead woman's handbag had been listed, no newspaper cutting was among them.
“Eh bien,” said Hercule Poirot to himself. “The next step is easy. It will be either the wash-out - or else, at last, I advance.”
Mrs McGinty's Dead
II
Sitting very still, with the dusty files of newspaper in front of him, Poirot told himself that his recognition of the significance of the bottle of ink had not played him false.
The Sunday Companion was given to romantic dramatizations of past events.
The paper at which Poirot was looking was the Sunday Companion of Sunday, November 19th.
At the top of the middle page were these words in big type:
Women Victims of Bygone Tragedies
Where are these women now?
Below the caption were four very blurred reproductions of photographs clearly taken many years ago.
The subjects of them did not look tragic. They looked, actually, rather ridiculous, since nearly all of them were dressed in the style of a bygone day, and nothing is more ridiculous than the fashions of yesterday - though in another thirty years or so their charm may have reappeared, or at any rate be once more apparent.
Under each photo was a name.
Eva Kane, the “other woman” in the famous Craig case.
Janice Courtland, the “tragic wife” whose husband was a fiend in human form.
Little Lily Gamboll, tragic child product of our overcrowded age.
Vera Blake, unsuspecting wife of a killer.
And then came the question in bold type again:
Where are these women now?
Poirot blinked and set himself to read meticulously the somewhat romantic prose which gave the life stories of these dim and
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