Three Blind Mice by Agatha Christie Page A

had forced her to drink.
    Sergeant Trotter himself, his face set and angry, looked round at the assembled people. Just five minutes had elapsed since Molly’s terrified screams had brought him and the others racing to the library.
    “She’d only just been killed when you got to her, Mrs. Davis,” he said. “Are you sure you didn’t see or hear anybody as you came across the hall?”
    “Whistling,” said Molly faintly. “But that was earlier. I think—I’m not sure—I think I heard a door shut—softly, somewhere—just as I—as I—went into the library.”
    “Which door?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Think, Mrs. Davis—try and think —upstairs—downstairs—right, left?”
    “I don’t know, I tell you,” cried Molly. “I’m not even sure I heard anything.”
    “Can’t you stop bullying her?” said Giles angrily. “Can’t you see she’s all in?”
    “I’m investigating a murder, Mr. Davis—I beg your pardon— Commander Davis.”
    “I don’t use my war rank, Sergeant.”
    “Quite so, sir.” Trotter paused, as though he had made some subtle point. “As I say, I’m investigating a murder. Up to now nobody has taken this thing seriously. Mrs. Boyle didn’t. She held out on me with information. You all held out on me. Well, Mrs. Boyle is dead. Unless we get to the bottom of this—and quickly, mind, there may be another death.”
    “Another? Nonsense. Why?”
    “Because,” said Sergeant Trotter gravely, “there were three little blind mice.”
    Giles said incredulously, “A death for each of them? But there would have to be a connection—I mean another connection with the case.”
    “Yes, there would have to be that.”
    “But why another death here? ”
    “Because there were only two addresses in the notebook. There was only one possible victim at Seventy-Four Culver Street. She’s dead. But at Monkswell Manor there is a wider field.”
    “Nonsense, Trotter. It would be a most unlikely coincidence that there should be two people brought here by chance, both of them with a share in the Longridge Farm case.”
    “Given certain circumstances, it wouldn’t be so much of a coincidence. Think it out, Mr. Davis.” He turned toward the others. “I’ve had your accounts of where you all were when Mrs. Boyle was killed. I’ll check them over. You were in your room, Mr. Wren, when you heard Mrs. Davis scream?”
    “Yes, Sergeant.”
    “Mr. Davis, you were upstairs in your bedroom examining the telephone extension there?”
    “Yes,” said Giles.
    “Mr. Paravicini was in the drawing room playing tunes on the piano. Nobody heard you, by the way, Mr. Paravicini?”
    “I was playing very, very softly, Sergeant, just with one finger.”
    “What tune was it?”
    “ ‘Three Blind Mice,’ Sergeant.” He smiled. “The same tune that Mr. Wren was whistling upstairs. The tune that’s running through everybody’s head.”
    “It’s a horrid tune,” said Molly.
    “How about the telephone wire?” asked Metcalf. “Was it deliberately cut?”
    “Yes, Major Metcalf. A section had been cut out just outside the dining room window—I had just located the break when Mrs. Davis screamed.”
    “But it’s crazy. How can he hope to get away with it?” demanded Christopher shrilly.
    The sergeant measured him carefully with his eye.
    “Perhaps he doesn’t very much care about that,” he said. “Or again, he may be quite sure he’s too clever for us. Murderers get like that.” He added, “We take a psychology course, you know, in our training. A schizophrenic’s mentality is very interesting.”
    “Shall we cut out the long words?” said Giles.
    “Certainly, Mr. Davis. Two six-letter words are all that concern us at the moment. One’s ‘murder’ and the other’s ‘danger.’ That’s what we’ve got to concentrate upon. Now, Major Metcalf, let me be quite clear about your movements. You say you were in the cellar — Why?”
    “Looking around,” said the major. “I looked