Agatha Christie The Hollow Chapter I At 6:13 a.m. ... - bzelbublive.info

was--impossible.'' "It was impossible?" "Of course it was impossible! He cameover. He wouldn't listen to what I had to say. He was just as insistent. I told him thatit was no good, that I didn't love him, that I hated him. ..." She paused, breathinghard. "I had to be brutal about it. So we parted in anger. . . .And now--he's dead."He saw her hands creep together,saw the twisted fingers and the knuckles stand out.They were large, rather cruel hands. The strong emotion that she was feelingcommunicated itself to him. It was not sorrow, not grief--no, it was anger. The anger, hethought, of a baffled egoist. "Well, M. Poirot?" Her voice was controlled andsmooth again. "What am I to do? Tell the story, or keep it to myself. It's whathappened--but it takes a bit of believing." Poirot looked at her, a long consideringgaze. He did not think that Veronica Cray was telling the truth, and yet there wasan undeniable undercurrent of sincerity. It happened, he thought, but it did nothappen like that. . . . And suddenly he got it. It was a true story, inverted. Itwas she who had been unable to forget John Christow. It was she who had I beenbaffled and repulsed. And now, unable to bear in silence the furious anger of a tigressdeprived of what she considered her legitimate prey, she had invented a version of thetruth that should satisfy her wounded pride and feed a little the aching hunger for aman who had gone beyond the reach of herclutching hands. Impossible to admit that she, Veronica Cray, could not have whatshe wanted! So she had changed it all round. Poirot drew a deep breath and spoke:"If all this had any bearing on John Christow's death, you would have to speak out, butif it has not--and I cannot see why it should have--then I think you are quite justifiedin keeping it to yourself." He wondered if she was disappointed. He had a fancythat in her present mood, she would like to hurl her story into the printed page ofa newspaper. She had come to him --why? To try out her story? To test hisreaction? Or to use him--to induce him to pass the story on. If his mild responsedisappointed her, she did not show it. She got up and gave himone of those long, well-manicured hands. "Thank you, M. Poirot. What you sayseems eminently sensible. I'm so glad I came to you. I--I felt I wanted somebody toknow." "I shall respect your confidence, Madame." When she had gone, heopened the windows a little. Scents affected him. He did not like Veronica's scent.It was expensive but cloying, overpowering like her personality. Hewondered, as he flapped the curtains, whether Veronica Cray had killed JohnChristow. She would have been willing to kill him --he believed that. She wouldhave enjoyed pressing the trigger--would have enjoyedseeing him stagger and fall. But behind that vindictive anger was something coldand shrewd, something that appraised chances, a cool, calculating intelligence.However much Veronica Cray wished to kill John Christow, he doubted whethershe would have taken the risk.