Read Online Three Blind Mice by Agatha Christie - Free Book Online Page A

the only person who—fits the bill. One murderer as per schedule.”
    “No,” said Molly. “There are—other possibilities, I’ve been talking to Sergeant Trotter about them.”
    “Did he agree with you?”
    “He didn’t disagree,” said Molly slowly.
    Certain words sounded over and over again in her head. Especially that last phrase: I know exactly what’s in your mind, Mrs. Davis. But did he? Could he possibly know? He had said, too, that the murderer was enjoying himself. Was that true?
    She said to Christopher, “ You’re not exactly enjoying yourself, are you? In spite of what you said just now.”
    “Good God, no,” said Christopher, staring. “What a very odd thing to say.”
    “Oh, I didn’t say it. Sergeant Trotter did. I hate that man! He—he puts things into your head—things that aren’t true—that can’t possibly be true.”
    She put her hands to her head, covering her eyes with them. Very gently Christopher took those hands away.
    “Look here, Molly,” he said, “what is all this?”
    She let him force her gently into a chair by the kitchen table. His manner was no longer hysterical or childish.
    “What’s the matter, Molly?” he said.
    Molly looked at him—a long appraising glance. She asked irrelevantly, “How long have I known you, Christopher? Two days?”
    “Just about. You’re thinking, aren’t you, that though it’s such a short time, we seem to know each other rather well.”
    “Yes—it’s odd, isn’t it?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. There’s a kind of sympathy between us. Possibly because we’ve both—been up against it.”
    It was not a question. It was a statement. Molly let it pass. She said very quietly, and again it was a statement rather than a question, “Your name isn’t really Christopher Wren, is it.”
    “No.”
    “Why did you—”
    “Choose that? Oh, it seemed rather a pleasant whimsy. They used to jeer at me and call me Christopher Robin at school. Robin—Wren—association of ideas, I suppose.”
    “What’s your real name?”
    Christopher said quietly, “I don’t think we’ll go into that. It wouldn’t mean anything to you. I’m not an architect. Actually, I’m a deserter from the army.”
    Just for a moment swift alarm leaped into Molly’s eyes.
    Christopher saw it. “Yes,” he said. “Just like our unknown murderer. I told you I was the only one the specification fitted.”
    “Don’t be stupid,” said Molly. “I told you I didn’t believe you were the murderer. Go on—tell me about yourself. What made you desert—nerves?”
    “Being afraid, you mean? No, curiously enough, I wasn’t afraid—not more than anyone else, that is to say. Actually I got a reputation for being rather cool under fire. No, it was something quite different. It was—my mother.”
    “Your mother?”
    “Yes—you see, she was killed—in an air raid. Buried. They—they had to dig her out. I don’t know what happened to me when I heard about it—I suppose I went a little mad. I thought, you see, it happened to me. I felt I had to get home quickly and—and dig myself out—I can’t explain—it was all confused.” He lowered his head to his hands and spoke in a muffled voice. “I wandered about a long time, looking for her—or for myself—I don’t know which. And then, when my mind cleared up, I was afraid to go back—or to report—I knew I could never explain. Since then, I’ve just been—nothing.”
    He stared at her, his young face hollow with despair.
    “You mustn’t feel like that,” said Molly gently. “You can start again.”
    “Can one ever do that?”
    “Of course—you’re quite young.”
    “Yes, but you see—I’ve come to the end.”
    “No,” said Molly. “You haven’t come to the end, you only think you have. I believe everyone has that feeling once, at least, in their lives—that it’s the end, that they can’t go on.”
    “You’ve had it, haven’t you, Molly? You must have—to be able to speak like