Free Three Blind Mice by Agatha Christie Page A

of them had noticed the soft opening of the kitchen door. Mr. Paravicini gave a little cough.
    “So embarrassing,” he murmured. “I do hope you young people are not both saying just a little more than you mean. One is so apt to in these lovers’ quarrels.”
    “Lovers’ quarrels,” said Giles derisively. “That’s good.”
    “Quite so, quite so,” said Mr. Paravicini. “I know just how you feel. I have been through all this myself when I was a younger man. But what I came to say was that the inspector person is simply insisting that we should all come into the drawing room. It appears that he has an idea.” Mr. Paravicini sniggered gently. “The police have a clue—yes, one hears that frequently. But an idea? I very much doubt it. A zealous and painstaking officer, no doubt, our Sergeant Trotter, but not, I think, over endowed with brains.”
    “Go on, Giles,” said Molly. “I’ve got the cooking to see to. Sergeant Trotter can do without me.”
    “Talking of cooking,” said Mr. Paravicini, skipping nimbly across the kitchen to Molly’s side, “have you ever tried chicken livers served on toast that has been thickly spread with foie gras and a very thin rasher of bacon smeared with French mustard?”
    “One doesn’t see much foie gras nowadays,” said Giles, “Come on, Paravicini.”
    “Shall I stay and assist you, dear lady?”
    “You come along to the drawing room, Paravicini,” said Giles.
    Mr. Paravicini laughed softly.
    “Your husband is afraid for you. Quite natural. He doesn’t fancy the idea of leaving you alone with me. It is my sadistic tendencies he fears—not my dishonorable ones. I yield to force.” He bowed gracefully and kissed the tips of his fingers.
    Molly said uncomfortably, “Oh, Mr. Paravicini, I’m sure—”
    Mr. Paravicini shook his head. He said to Giles, “You’re very wise, young man. Take no chances. Can I prove to you—or to the inspector for that matter—that I am not a homicidal maniac? No, I cannot. Negatives are such difficult things to prove.”
    He hummed cheerfully.
    Molly flinched. “Please Mr. Paravicini—not that horrible tune.”
    “ ‘Three Blind Mice’—so it was! The tune has got into my head. Now I come to think of it, it is a gruesome little rhyme. Not a nice little rhyme at all. But children like gruesome things. You may have noticed that? That rhyme is very English—the bucolic, cruel English countryside. ‘She cut off their tails with a carving knife.’ Of course a child would love that—I could tell you things about children—”
    “Please don’t,” said Molly faintly, “I think you’re cruel, too.” Her voice rose hysterically. “You laugh and smile—you’re like a cat playing with a mouse—playing—”
    She began to laugh.
    “Steady, Molly,” said Giles. “Come along, we’ll all go into the drawing room together. Trotter will be getting impatient. Never mind the cooking. Murder is more important than food.”
    “I’m not sure that I agree with you,” said Mr. Paravicini as he followed them with little skipping steps. “The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast—that’s what they always say.”
    Christopher Wren joined them in the hall and received a scowl from Giles. He looked at Molly with a quick, anxious glance, but Molly, her head held high, walked looking straight ahead of her. They marched almost like a procession to the drawing room door. Mr. Paravicini brought up the rear with his little skipping steps.
    Sergeant Trotter and Major Metcalf were standing waiting in the drawing room. The major was looking sulky. Sergeant Trotter was looking flushed and energetic.
    “That’s right,” he said, as they entered. “I wanted you all together. I want to make a certain experiment—and for that I shall require your cooperation.”
    “Will it take long?” Molly asked. “I’m rather busy in the kitchen. After all, we’ve got to have a meal sometime.”
    “Yes,” said Trotter. “I appreciate that,