The Big Four Read Online Free PDF Page B

Grant’s footmarks, and his only, near thebody—Robert Grant the only man who went near the house. Yes, it must be so.”
    â€œWhat about the old woman?” I said suddenly. “She was in the house alone after Grant had gone for the milk. She might have killed him and then gone out. Her feet would leave no prints if she hadn’t been outside.”
    â€œVery good, Hastings. I wondered whether that hypothesis would occur to you. I had already thought of it and rejected it. Betsy Andrews is a local woman, well-known hereabouts. She can have no connection with the Big Four; and, besides, old Whalley was a powerful fellow, by all accounts. This is a man’s work—not a woman’s.”
    â€œI suppose the Big Four couldn’t have had some diabolical contrivance concealed in the ceiling—something which descended automatically and cut the old man’s throat and was afterwards drawn up again?”
    â€œLike Jacob’s ladder? I know, Hastings, that you have an imagination of the most fertile—but I implore of you to keep it within bounds.”
    I subsided, abashed. Poirot continued to wander about, poking into rooms and cupboards with a profoundly dissatisfied expression on his face. Suddenly he uttered an excited yelp, reminiscent of a Pomeranian dog. I rushed to join him. He was standing in the larder in a dramatic attitude. In his hand he was brandishing a leg of mutton!
    â€œMy dear Poirot!” I cried. “What is the matter? Have you suddenly gone mad?”
    â€œRegard, I pray you, this mutton. But regard it closely!”
    I regarded it as closely as I could, but could see nothing unusual about it. It seemed to me a very ordinary leg of mutton. I said as much. Poirot threw me a withering glance.
    â€œBut do you not see this—and this—and this—”
    He illustrated each “this” with a jab at the unoffending joint, dislodging small icicles as he did so.
    Poirot had just accused me of being imaginative, but I now felt that he was far more wildly so than I had ever been. Did he seriously think these slivers of ice were crystals of a deadly poison? That was the only construction I could put upon his extraordinary agitation.
    â€œIt’s frozen meat,” I explained gently. “Imported, you know. New Zealand.”
    He stared at me for a moment or two and then broke into a strange laugh.
    â€œHow marvellous is my friend Hastings! He knows everything—but everything! How do they say—Inquire Within Upon Everything. That is my friend Hastings.”
    He flung down the leg of mutton on to its dish again and left the larder. Then he looked through the window.
    â€œHere comes our friend the Inspector. It is well. I have seen all I want to see here.” He drummed on the table absentmindedly, as though absorbed in calculation, and then asked suddenly, “What is the day of the week, mon ami? ”
    â€œMonday,” I said, rather astonished. “What—?”
    â€œAh! Monday, is it? A bad day of the week. To commit a murder on a Monday is a mistake.”
    Passing back to the living room, he tapped the glass on the wall and glanced at the thermometer.
    â€œSet fair, and seventy degrees Fahrenheit. An orthodox English summer’s day.”
    Ingles was still examining various pieces of Chinese pottery.
    â€œYou do not take much interest in this inquiry, monsieur?” said Poirot.
    The other gave a slow smile.
    â€œIt’s not my job, you see. I’m a connoisseur of some things, but not of this. So I just stand back and keep out of the way. I’ve learnt patience in the East.”
    The Inspector came bustling in, apologizing for having been so long away. He insisted on taking us over most of the ground again, but finally we got away.
    â€œI must appreciate your thousand politenesses, Inspector,” said Poirot, as we were walking down the village street again.
    â€œThere is just one more