夜雨聆风“Really?”
“I thought it one of those silly remarks women will make. If thereseemed one thing sure on earth it was that Protheroe had written thatnote.”
We looked at each other.
“It’s curious,” I said slowly. “Miss Marple was saying this evening thatthat note was all wrong.”
“Confound the woman, she couldn’t know more about it if she had com-mitted the murder herself.”
At that moment the telephone bell rang. There is a queer kind of psycho-logy about a telephone bell. It rang now persistently and with a kind ofsinister significance.
I went over and took up the receiver.
“This is the Vicarage,” I said. “Who’s speaking?”
A strange, high-pitched hysterical voice came over the wire:
“I want to confess,” it said. “My God, I want to confess.”
“Hallo,” I said, “hallo. Look here you’ve cut me off. What number wasthat?”
A languid voice said it didn’t know. It added that it was sorry I had beentroubled.
I put down the receiver, and turned to Melchett.
“You once said,” I remarked, “that you would go mad if anyone else ac-cused themselves of the crime.”
“What about it?”
“That was someone who wanted to confess … And the Exchange has cutus off.”
Melchett dashed over and took up the receiver.
“I’ll speak to them.”
“Do,” I said. “You may have some effect. I’ll leave you to it. I’m going out.
I’ve a fancy I recognized that voice.”
