Crooked House by Agatha Christie Page A

much - it was the feeling he'd been unworthy of trust. He was in an awful state.”
    I looked at Josephine with mixed feelings.
    “Josephine,” I said, “hasn't anybody ever told you that it's not nice to listen at doors?”
    Josephine nodded her head vigorously.
    “Of course they have. But if you want to find things out, you have to listen at doors. I bet Chief Inspector Taverner does, don't you?”
    I considered the point. Josephine went on vehemently:
    “And anyway if he doesn't, the other one does, the one with the suede shoes. And they look in people's desks and read all their letters, and find out all their secrets. Only they're stupid! They don't know where to look!”
    Josephine spoke with cold superiority. I was stupid enough to let the inference escape me. The unpleasant child went on:
    “Eustace and I know lots of things - but I know more than Eustace does. And I shan't tell him. He says women can't ever be great detectives. But I say they can. I'm going to write down everything in a notebook and then, when the police are completely baffled, I shall come forward and say, 'I can tell you who did it.'”
    “Do you read a lot of detective stories, Josephine?”
    “Masses.”
    “I suppose you think you know who killed your grandfather?”
    “Well, I think so - but I shall have to find a few more clues.” She paused and added, “Chief Inspector Taverner thinks that Brenda did it, doesn't he? Or Brenda and Laurence together because they're in love with each other.”
    “You shouldn't say things like that, Josephine.”
    “Why not? They are in love with each other.”
    “You can't possibly judge.”
    “Yes, I can. They write to each other. Love letters.”
    “Josephine! How do you know that?”
    “Because I've read them. Awfully soppy letters. But Laurence is soppy. He was too frightened to fight in the war. He went into basements, and stoked boilers. When the flying bombs went over here, he used to turn green - really green. It made Eustace and me laugh a lot.”
    What I would have said next, I do not know, for at that moment a car drew up outside. In a flash Josephine was at the window, her snub nose pressed to the pane.
    “Who is it?” I asked.
    “It's Mr Gaitskill, grandfather's lawyer. I expect he's come about the will.”
    Breathing excitedly, she hurried from the room, doubtless to resume her sleuthing activities.
    Magda Leonides came in the room and to my surprise came across to me and took my hands in hers.
    “My dear,” she said, “thank goodness you're still here. One needs a man so badly.”
    She dropped my hands, crossed to a high-backed chair, altered its position a little, glanced at herself in a mirror, then picking up a small Battersea enamel box from a table she stood pensively opening and shutting it.
    It was an attractive pose.
    Sophia put her head in at the door and said in an admonitory whisper, “Gaitskill!”
    “I know,” said Magda.
    A few moments later, Sophia entered the room accompanied by a small elderly man, and Magda put down her enamel box and came forward to meet him.
    “Good morning, Mrs Philip. I'm on my way upstairs. It seems there's some misunderstanding about the will. Your husband wrote to me with the impression that the will was in my keeping. I understood from Mr Leonides himself that it was at his vault. You don't know anything about it, I suppose?”
    “About poor Sweetie's will?” Magda opened astonished eyes. “No, of course not. Don't tell me that wicked woman upstairs has destroyed it?”
    “Now, Mrs Philip,” he shook an admonitory finger at her. “No wild surmises. It's just a question of where your father-in-law kept it.”
    “But he sent it to you - surely he did - after signing it. He actually told us he had.”
    “The police, I understand, have been through Mr Leonides's private papers,” said Mr Gaitskill. “I'll just have a word with Chief Inspector Taverner.”
    He left the room.
    “Darling,” cried Magda. “She has destroyed