Mrs McGinty's Dead Read Online Free PDF Page A

Steel engravings of unpleasant subjects hung crookedly on the walls with one or two good oil paintings. The chair-covers were both faded and dirty, the carpet had holes in it and had never been of a pleasant design. A good deal of miscellaneous bric-a-brac was scattered haphazard here and there. Tables rocked dangerously owing to absence of castors. One window was open, and no power on earth could, apparently, shut it again. The door, temporarily shut, was not likely to remain so. The latch did not hold, and with every gust of wind it burst open and whirling gusts of cold wind eddied round the room.
    “I suffer,” said Hercule Poirot to himself in acute self-pity. “Yes, I suffer.”
    The door burst open and the wind and Mrs Summerhayes came in together. She looked round the room, shouted “What?” to someone in the distance and went out again.
    Mrs Summerhayes had red hair and an attractively freckled face and was usually in a distracted state of putting things down, or else looking for them.
    Hercule Poirot sprang to his feet and shut the door.
    A moment or two later it opened again and Mrs Summerhayes reappeared. This time she was carrying a large enamel basin and a knife.
    A man's voice from some way away called out:
    “Maureen, that cat's been sick again. What shall I do?”
    Mrs Summerhayes called: “I'm coming, darling. Hold everything.”
    She dropped the basin and the knife and went out again.
    Poirot got up again and shut the door. He said:
    “Decidedly, I suffer.”
    A car drove up, the large dog leaped from the chair and raised its voice in a crescendo of barking. He jumped on a small table by the window and the table collapsed with a crash.
    “Enfin,” said Hercule Poirot. “C'est insupportable!”
    The door burst open, the wind surged round the room, the dog rushed out, still barking. Maureen's voice came, upraised loud and clear.
    “Johnnie, why the hell did you leave the back door open! Those bloody hens are in the larder.”
    “And for this,” said Hercule Poirot with feeling, “I pay seven guineas a week!”
    The door banged to with a crash. Through the window came the loud squawking of irate hens.
    Then the door opened again and Maureen Summerhayes came in and fell upon the basin with a cry of joy.
    “Couldn't think where I'd left it. Would you mind frightfully, Mr Er - hum - I mean, would it bother you if I sliced the beans in here? The smell in the kitchen is too frightful.”
    “Madame, I should be enchanted.”
    It was not, perhaps, the exact phrase, but it was near enough. It was the first time in twenty-four hours that Poirot had seen any chance of a conversation of more than six seconds' duration.
    Mrs Summerhayes flung herself down in a chair and began slicing beans with frenzied energy and considerable awkwardness.
    “I do hope,” she said, “that you're not too frightfully uncomfortable? If there's anything you want altered, do say so.”
    Poirot had already come to the opinion that the only thing in Long Meadows he could even tolerate was his hostess.
    “You are too kind, madame,” he replied politely. “I only wish it were within my powers to provide you with suitable domestics.”
    “Domestics!” Mrs Summerhayes gave a squeal. “What a hope! Can't even get hold of a daily. Our really good one was murdered. Just my luck.”
    “That would be Mrs McGinty,” said Poirot quickly.
    “Mrs McGinty it was. God, how I miss that woman! Of course it was all a big thrill at the time. First murder we've ever had right in the family, so to speak, but as I told Johnnie, it was a downright bit of bad luck for us. Without McGinty I just can't cope.”
    “You were attached to her?”
    “My dear man, she was reliable. She came. Monday afternoons and Thursday mornings - just like a clock. Now I have that Burp woman from up by the station. Five children and a husband. Naturally she's never here. Either the husband's taken queer, or the old mother, or the children have some foul disease