The Pale Horse by Agatha Christie

success. I left a message, however, that I'd be in between six and seven, if he could come for a drink. He was a busy man, I knew, and I doubted if he would be able to come at such a short notice, but he turned up all right at about ten minutes to seven. While I was getting him a whisky he wandered round looking at my pictures and books. He remarked finally that he wouldn't have minded being a Mogul emperor himself instead of a hard-pressed over-worked police surgeon.
    “Though, I dare say,” he remarked as he settled down in a chair, “that they suffered a good deal from woman trouble. At least I escape that.”
    “You're not married, then?”
    “No fear. And no more are you, I should say, from the comfortable mess in which you live. A wife would tidy all that up in next to no time.”
    I told him that I didn't think women were as bad as he made out.
    I took my drink to the chair opposite him and began:
    “You must wonder why I wanted to get hold of you so urgently, but as a matter of fact something has come up that may have a bearing on what we were discussing the last time we met.”
    “What was that? - oh, of course. The Father Gorman business.”
    “Yes - But first, does the phrase The Pale Horse mean anything to you?”
    “The Pale horse... the Pale horse... no, I don't think so - why?”
    “Because I think it's possible that it might have a connection with that list of names you showed me. I've been down in the country with friends, at a place called Much Deeping, and they took me to an old pub, or what was once a pub, called the Pale Horse.”
    “Wait a bit! Much Deeping? Much Deeping. It is anywhere near Bournemouth?”
    “It's about fifteen miles or so from Bournemouth.”
    “I suppose you didn't come across anyone called Venables down there?”
    “Certainly I did.”
    “You did?” Corrigan sat up in some excitement. “You certainly have a knack of going places! What is he like?”
    “He's a most remarkable man.”
    “He is, is he? Remarkable in what way?”
    “Principally in the force of his personality. Although he's completely crippled by polio -”
    Corrigan interrupted me sharply.
    “What?”
    “He had polio some years ago. He's paralyzed from the waist down.”
    Corrigan threw himself back in his chair with a look of disgust.
    “That tears it! I thought it was too good to be true.”
    “I don't understand what you mean?”
    Corrigan said, “You'll have to meet the D.D.I. Divisional Detective-Inspector Lejeune. He'll be interested in what you have to say. When Gorman was killed, Lejeune asked for information from anyone who had seen him in the street that night. Most of the answers were useless, as is usual. But there was a pharmacist, name of Osborne, who has a shop in those parts. He reported having seen Gorman pass his place that night, and he also saw a man who followed close after him - naturally he didn't think anything of it at that time. But he managed to describe this chap pretty closely - seemed quite sure he'd know him again. Well, a couple of days ago Lejeune got a letter from Osborne. He's retired, and living in Bournemouth. He'd been over to some local fкte and he said he'd seen the man in question there. He was at the fкte in a wheelchair. Osborne asked who he was and was told his name was Venables.”
    He looked at me questioningly. I nodded.
    “Quite right,” I said. “It was Venables. He was at the fкte. But he couldn't have been the man who was walking along a street in Paddington following Father Gorman. It's physically impossible. Osborne made a mistake.”
    “He described him very meticulously. Height about six feet, a prominent beaked nose, and a noticeable Adam's apple. Correct?”
    “Yes. It fits Venables. But all the same -”
    “I know. Mr Osborne isn't necessarily as good as he thinks he is at recognising people. Clearly he was misled by the coincidence of a chance resemblance. But it's disturbing to have you come along shooting your mouth off about