Mrs McGinty's Dead Read Online Free PDF

or other. With old McGinty, at least it was only she herself who came over queer, and I must say she hardly ever did.”
    “And you found her always reliable and honest? You had trust in her?”
    “Oh, she'd never pinch anything - not even food. Of course she snooped a bit. Had a look at one's letters and all that. But one expects that sort of thing. I mean they must live such awfully drab lives, mustn't they?”
    “Had Mrs McGinty had a drab life?”
    “Ghastly, I expect,” said Mrs Summerhayes vaguely. “Always on your knees scrubbing. And then piles of other people's washing up waiting for you on the sink when you arrive in the morning. If I had to face that every day, I'd be positively relieved to be murdered. I really would.”
    The face of Major Summerhayes appeared at the window. Mrs Summerhayes sprang up, upsetting the beans, and rushed across to the window, which she opened to the fullest extent.
    “That damned dog's eaten the hens' food again, Maureen.”
    “Oh damn, now he'll be sick!”
    “Look here,” John Summerhayes displayed a colander of greenery, “is this enough spinach?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Seems a colossal amount to me.”
    “It'll be about a teaspoonful when it's cooked. Don't you know by now what spinach is like?”
    “Oh lord!”
    “Has the fish come?”
    “Not a sign of it.”
    “Hell, we'll have to open a tin of something. You might do that, Johnnie. One of the ones in the corner cupboard. That one we thought was a bit bulged. I expect it's quite all right really.”
    “What about the spinach?”
    “I'll get that.”
    She leaped through the window, and husband and wife moved away together.
    “Nom d'un nom d'un nom!” said Hercule Poirot. He crossed the room and closed the window as nearly as he could. The voice of Major Summerhayes came to him borne on the wind.
    “What about this new fellow, Maureen? Looks a bit peculiar to me. What's his name again?”
    “I couldn't remember it just now when I was talking to him. Had to say Mr Er-um. Poirot - that's what it is. He's French.”
    “You know, Maureen, I seem to have seen that name somewhere.”
    “Home Perm, perhaps. He looks like a hairdresser.”
    Poirot winced.
    “N-no. Perhaps it's pickles. I don't know. I'm sure it's familiar. Better get the first seven guineas out of him, quick.”
    The voices died away.
    Hercule Poirot picked up the beans from the floor where they had scattered far and wide. Just as he finished doing so, Mrs Summerhayes came in again through the door.
    He presented them to her politely:
    “Voici, Madame.”
    “Oh thanks awfully. I say, these beans look a bit black. We store then, you know, in crocks, salted down. But these seem to have gone wrong. I'm afraid they won't be very nice.”
    “I, too, fear that... You permit that I shut the door? There is a decided draught.”
    “Oh yes, do. I'm afraid I always leave doors open.”
    “So I have noticed.”
    “Anyway, that door never stays shut. This house is practically falling to pieces. Johnnie's father and mother lived here and they were very badly off, poor dears, and they never did a thing to it. And then when we came home from India to live here, we couldn't afford to do anything either. It's fun for the children in the holidays, though, lots of room to run wild in, and the garden and everything. Having paying guests here just enables us to keep going, though I must say we've had a few rude shocks.”
    “Am I your only guest at present?”
    “We've got an old lady upstairs. Took to her bed the day she came and has been there ever since. Nothing the matter with her that I can see. But there she is, and I carry up four trays a day. Nothing wrong with her appetite. Anyway, she's going tomorrow to some niece or other.”
    Mrs Summerhayes paused for a moment before resuming in a slightly artificial voice.
    “The fishman will be here in a minute. I wonder if you'd mind - er - forking out the first week's rent. You are staying a week, aren't