Crooked House by Agatha Christie

people like that,” said my father. “And they're not really stupid either. They're bad judges of men, that's all. And they're enthusiastic at the wrong time.”
    “A man like that oughtn't to be in business at all,” said Taverner.
    “He probably wouldn't be,” said my father, “except for the accident of being Aristide Leonides's son.”
    “That show was absolutely booming when the old man handed it over to him. It ought to have been a gold mine! You'd think he could have just sat back and let the show run itself.”
    “No,” my father shook his head. “No show runs itself. There are always decisions to be made - a man sacked here - a man appointed there - small questions of policy. And with Roger Leonides the answer seems to have been always wrong.”
    “That's right,” said Taverner. “He's a loyal sort of chap, for one thing. He kept on the most frightful duds - just because he had an affection for them - or because they'd been there a long time. And then he sometimes had wild impractical ideas and insisted on trying them out in spite of the enormous outlay involved.”
    “But nothing criminal?” my father insisted.
    “No, nothing criminal.”
    “Then why murder?” I asked.
    “He may have been a fool and not a knave,” said Taverner. “But the result was the same - or nearly the same. The only thing that could save Associated Catering from the smash was a really colossal sum of money by next -” (he consulted a notebook) “by next Wednesday at the latest.”
    “Such a sum as he would inherit, or thought he would have inherited, under his father's will?”
    “Exactly.”
    “But he wouldn't be able to have got that sum in cash.”
    “No. But he'd have got credit. It's the same thing.”
    The Old Man nodded.
    “Wouldn't it have been simpler to go to old Leonides and ask for help?” he suggested.
    “I think he did,” said Taverner. “I think that's what the kid overheard. The old boy refused point blank, I should imagine, to throw good money after bad. He would, you know.”
    I thought that Taverner was right there. Aristide Leonides had refused the backing for Magda's play - he had said that it would not be a Box Office success. Events had proved him correct. He was a generous man to his family, but he was not a man to waste money in unprofitable enterprises.
    And Associated Catering ran to thousands, or probably hundreds of thousands. He had refused point blank, and the only way for Roger to avoid financial ruin was for his father to die.
    Yes, there was certainly a motive there all right.
    My father looked at his watch.
    “I've asked him to come here,” he said. “He'll be here any minute now.”
    “Roger?”
    “Yes.”
    “Will you walk into my parlour said the spider to the fly?” I murmured.
    Taverner looked at me in a shocked way.
    “We shall give him all the proper cautions,” he said severely.
    The stage was set, the shorthand writer established. Presently the buzzer sounded, and a few minutes later Roger Leonides entered the room.
    He came in eagerly - and rather clumsily - he stumbled over a chair. I was reminded as before of a large friendly dog. At the same time I decided quite definitely that it was not he who had carried out the actual process of transferring eserine to an insulin bottle. He would have broken it, spilled it, or muffed the operation in some way or other. No. Clemency's, I decided, had been the actual hand, though Roger had been privy to the deed.
    Words rushed from him:
    “You wanted to see me? You've found out something? Hullo, Charles, I didn't see you. Nice of you to come along. But please tell me. Sir Arthur -”
    Such a nice fellow - really such a nice fellow. But lots of murderers had been nice fellows - so their astonished friends had said afterwards. Feeling rather like Judas, I smiled a greeting.
    My father was deliberate, coldly official. The glib phrases were uttered. Statement... taken down... no compulsion... solicitor...
    Roger Leonides