The Calico Cat (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 8)

by Frank Howell Evans

  Mrs. Diss telephoned. Detective Jules Poiret could hear it in her voice. There seemed to be a cold distance between them. Again! “Mais pourquoi?” thought Poiret, “Things, they were alright between the two of us only yesterday. What has Poiret done wrong this time?” She told him that she would be home the following day. She reminded him that she had asked him to look through a couple of application forms and to weed out the troublesome applicants, before they ever had the opportunity to cause problems for the theatre of which she was a governor. Poiret looked at the canaries in their cage and said, “Poiret, he does not desire to do that. He cannot make himself do it. Not today.” The two canaries, Bellevue and Albert twittered happily. “Poiret, he will have to make up the excuses tomorrow. He knows she will look to him with the “You let me down again” look. She should be more considerate of Poiret. He too can be exhausted. He too can be in need of the leisure time. After all he has not yet completely, how do you say, shaken the bout of pneumonia. Poiret, he just wants to sit at the breakfast table and read his newspapers and look into the garden.” The garden was a beautiful sight. He saw two rabbits hopping around in the grass. In Southampton there were a lot of rabbits and other animals. The reason for that was the location of the town at the bottom of a valley.

  Poiret was an optimist by nature. He himself assigned the responsibility for this to the fact that he must have been born in the morning. Poiret had read an article in the newspaper which stated that someone’s view of life depended on the time of day that they were born. People born in the morning look at the sun coming up and say to themselves, “Wonderful, I have a whole day to do all the work I want to do today. Let’s get started.” People, who were born in the evening look at the sun disappearing into the earth and think, “There is no time left to do the things I want to do. I’ll do it tomorrow.” The people, who were born in the morning, were successful. The people, who were born in the evening, were not. Some scientists refuted the theory. They declared it an old wives’ tale, but there seemed to be some truth in it according to Poiret. Experience had taught him that people’s chances in life sometimes seemed to be connected to Astrological signs and the day and hour of their births. This was an idea, which had only recently taken hold of his mind. Being born during the summer made you a more happy and fortunate person than being born during the winter. It was a pretty theory. “Tres jolie,” he thought, but he knew that hard work trumped everything, even the alignment of the planets.

  Poiret was woken up from his reverie by Sarah’s sudden appearance in the room. Sarah was Sarah Long, his assistant. Poiret asked Sarah to see if she could find some carrots in the kitchen and give them to the rabbits he had seen in the garden. Poiret had a reason for this. Either the rabbits would eat the carrots or they would end up in his soup at dinnertime. Soup was how his housekeeper from Yorkshire liked to call it. Sarah found some carrots in one of the cabinets. She opened the kitchen door and went outside. She looked at Poiret through the window. He pointed in the direction of the rabbits. At first they were frightened, but Sarah broke the carrots in pieces and threw the pieces to them. Poiret smiled. He thought to himself, “If Sarah, she had been born in the city, she would have thrown the carrots to the rabbits in one piece.” Animals don’t have hands, so you need to break their food in small pieces, so they can swallow it more easily.

  Poiret thought back to something that had happened forty years before. He was still a student at the police school and he was waiting at a bus stop in Paris. It was a nice day, so he did not mind waiting. He sat down on a bench and watched a couple of old men play jeux de boules. All of a sudden a pigeon landed close-by. The pigeon had one leg. He limped around for a few seconds looking for food. He found a biscuit. He tried, but he couldn’t break it in pieces with his beak and therefore couldn’t eat it. Poiret was looking at the scene and felt sorry for the bird. He thought to himself, “Having only one leg makes it very difficult for him to find food.” So he decided to help the pigeon. He picked up the biscuit. The pigeon flew up, but landed just a few yards away. Poiret broke the biscuit in small pieces and threw a few crumbs in front of him. The pigeon, after some hesitation and looking around ate them. Then Poiret decided to put the crumbs on the bench. To his surprise the pigeon sprang up on the bench. At first he was nervous and he would eat a crumb and look at Poiret, ready to fly away. Later he felt more comfortable and he would eat the crumb Poiret broke off for him and look at Poiret, asking for more. Poiret must have spent at least ten minutes feeding the pigeon. After the biscuit was all gone, the pigeon looked at Poiret and Poiret showed him his empty hands. Poiret sat back and waited for the bus. So did the pigeon. He sat down next to Poiret on the bench, facing the road. For some strange reason, Mrs. Diss would probably call it silliness Poiret felt a certain bond between him and the pigeon. They felt very comfortable sitting there looking at the traffic. After ten minutes the bus arrived. Poiret stood up, so did the one-legged pigeon. Poiret told him that was his bus. He also remembered telling him, “Take care, mon ami,” before he entered the bus. He sat down next to the window. He looked at the bird, smiling. The pigeon looked at him. Poiret waved at him. As the bus drove away, he flew away.

  Poiret wondered what happened to his one-legged friend. He was probably dead by then, but still Poiret wondered about him. It was one of those moments when you met someone, in this case a pigeon, you bonded with this person, you never saw that person again, but you always remembered that person.

  Sarah’s encounter with the rabbits wasn’t as carefree as Poiret’s encounter with the pigeon. The rabbits ate the pieces of carrot she gave them. More rabbits arrived and soon the garden was filled with about ten of these creatures hopping around and sometimes fighting over the pieces of carrot. Sarah was wearing open shoes. Women paint their toenails and hers were reddish orange. One of the rabbits bit her toe. Sarah screamed out loud and almost in a panic she tried to walk to the kitchen door. This wasn’t at all easy, because the rabbits had surrounded her, waiting for their pieces of carrot. Poiret saw another rabbit bite her toe. She screamed again, sprang up, threw the carrots away and ran to the door, followed by the rabbits, who probably thought she still had the carrots. Poiret opened the door for her, let her in and closed the door behind her. He asked her what happened as if he had not been watching her through the window. She told him that the rabbits were trying to eat her toes. Poiret laughed out loud. The rabbits waited at the salon door for at least two hours. Poiret pointed at them once in a while and told Sarah, “The rabbits, they are, how do you say, still after you.” He laughed. It was a wonderful spring day.

  Outside it was a beautiful warm day. Inside it was freezing. Mrs. Diss was angry, because Poiret had not read the application forms. She was in a foul mood, when she arrived at the bungalow two hours earlier. There was no “Hello,” no, “How are you?” Her first words were, “Did you read the forms?” Poiret told her he fell asleep. That he must have been exhausted, because of his health issues. She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I thought we could spend the day together, but now I have to annotate the papers myself,” she said. Poiret was sitting at the table drinking coffee and reading the newspapers. She put the application forms all over the salon. Every time he made a noise, she gave him a stare, so he went into the kitchen and stayed there.

  He wished to listen to the radio, but he didn't dare to go back into the salon to fetch it. “C’est magnifique,” Poiret thought to himself. “N’importe quoi! It was worth it. The rest yesterday, it has done Poiret a lot of good.” He felt pumped up, ready for the day. He wished to do something that day. He didn't know what, though. As long as it was outside of the bu
ngalow. Maybe he should just get into his car and drive around. Maybe he should drive along the coast on the new road they had built recently. The scenery was beautiful at this time of year. He hadn’t done this in years. That should be pleasing. Maybe he would even take in a show at one of the resorts, which they had built along the coast. His friend Frank Sewell was playing at the music hall in Swanwick. He was famous for singing, “Oh Emma, I am but a fool. I should've married you. The one I have, she treats me so cruel.”

  Poiret was on his way down the coast. Sarah was driving. Poiret was listening to the radio. They were driving to Swanwick. They stopped at a small roadside restaurant in Netley Abbey. The building was built in the time of the Tudors and looked quite distinctive. Poiret wished to inspect it from close-by. They ate grilled ostrich steak there. One of Poiret’s friends, who had recently come back from South Africa, had recommended it to him. It tasted like chicken, but with a deeper taste. Poiret liked it very much. He said to Sarah, “Maybe Poiret, he should accept the invitation he received from Monsieur Rickmansworth to visit his farm in South Africa. The food, it is appealing, but the heat and the sweating, they will ruin Poiret’s clothes.” Sarah liked James Rickmansworth. He was a nice and funny man. The other ladies, who used to work at Poiret’s office, when he was still a consulting detective made fun of the way he talked. They would say he talked like a donkey. He had the habit of adding sounds to his sentences, which reminded them of a donkey. He would say, “I was on the EeeAaaa train, travelling to Umh Kimberley and Theee train was Aaaaah moving slowly.” You couldn't conduct a normal conversation with him. Sarah agreed. The noises were distracting, but that was no reason to laugh at someone.

  They ate their meal outside as the weather was nice and the view of very old buildings and the ocean in the distance was breathtaking. A woman drove a cabriolet onto the parking lot next to the restaurant and stepped out, holding hands with two small boys of about eight to ten. She walked to a couple sitting a few tables away from Poiret and begged them for money. She told them she lived in the car and they hadn’t eaten since the day before. The couple, shamed into caring, gave her five Pounds. She went into a grocery store across the road. Poiret looked at her car. Behind the windshield was a flag for one of the political parties. The political party advocated self-reliance. Poiret thought about it for a moment. If the lady was poor and how could she be, she owned a car or at least was driving one then she was voting against her interests. Poiret had dealt with many cases, which after being solved left him guessing as to how someone could be so foolish as to commit the crime even though the chance of being caught was very high. The leader of the aforementioned political party was a good communicator. Poiret understood that people could be influenced to do things, which were not to their own benefit or worse, they were to their detriment.

  After lunch, driving in the car, as they approached Swanwick, they were stopped by the police at a roadblock. A policeman told Sarah that it was a routine check and asked her for her driving license. He looked at the name and back at her. He looked Poiret up and down. Poiret was as usual immaculately dressed in an expensive suit, made by his tailors in Fitzrovia. “And what’s your name, sir?” he said. Poiret replied, “My name, it is Jules Poiret.” He nodded and looked from Poiret to Sarah and back. “I’ve heard your name mentioned, sir. You used to be a private detective.” Poiret smiled and nodded enthusiastically. He looked at Sarah for a moment to see if she was impressed. She was not. He looked back at the policeman and asked him what was going on as it was obvious the roadblock was not routine. The policeman told him one of the mansions on the road had been burglarized that night and an elderly lady had been murdered. Poiret nodded. He was not disinterested, but also not interested. He looked in front of him again, waiting for the policeman to end his check and allow them to continue on their journey. The policeman however proved to be a talker. He told Poiret that the lady’s name was Lady Gloria Haslemere. She was a well-known supporter of local charities. The chief superintendent of police had made apprehending her murderers the number one priority.

  Poiret knew Lady Gloria Haslemere. She had donated generously to Mrs. Diss’ theatre in Brighton. Poiret met her and her son at a function organized by the Board of Governors of the theatre. She appeared in his mind’s eye and he had to smile thinking about her. She was an old war horse, very pushy, but a pleasant lady nevertheless. Poiret asked the policeman for his name. The policeman gave him his calling card. His name was Dennis Ritchie. He asks Poiret if he was in Southampton working on a case. Poiret told him that he had retired and lived in Southampton, because he liked the weather. Poiret was not telling the truth, but he did not want the policeman, who seemed to be much more intelligent than he was trying to come off as, to get involved in his affairs. Poiret had met the type before and knew the less you revealed about yourself the better your chance to stay out of the web they were weaving. Poiret thanked the policeman for the calling card and looked away, indicating he considered the conversation done. The policeman gave Sarah her driving license back. He straightened himself out, took a step back and waved them through. Sarah put the car in gear and drove away slowly.

  Poiret was not able to take in Frank Sewell’s show as he was not performing that day. He decided to attend Barbara Biltmore’s show instead. She used to be in an all-female group called the “Applebees.” They were very popular twenty year before. She sang her most memorable songs, “Love is not for the Faint of Heart” and “Sweetheart, Your Kiss is Fine.” She had aged beautifully, like most brunettes. Her songs put Poiret in a state of reverie and he was loath to leave after the performance ended. Poiret was the first to stand up and clap his hands. This led to the whole audience standing up and giving her an ovation. Barbara Biltmore thanked him by blowing him a kiss. Poiret waved back and looked at Sarah. She looked back at him in admiration. On the way back home Poiret asked Sarah to stop at a flower shop. He bought two dozen roses and after attaching a short note thanking her for her delightful performance, he asked the florist to deliver them to Barbara Biltmore.

  Driving back home Poiret turned on the radio and thought back to the past twenty years. He had led a strange life. When he was courting Mrs. Diss, she would ask him what his favorite song was. He couldn’t tell her the truth. His favorite song was “Sweetheart, your Kiss is Fine” by the Applebees. He felt like he couldn’t say that, because it was too romantic a song. So he decided to say it was “The Seagulls of Margate” by the Margate Marauders. He felt it was the right thing to do at the time. He was not a young man and she was not a young woman, though considerably younger than him. She was a sensible woman, who had dedicated her life to her husband for twenty years. Poiret did not want to give her the wrong impression of his intentions and it was not her character to seek romance, so what better song than “The Seagulls of Margate”? It was perfect. Poiret did like the Margate Marauders. Most people did at that time as they were for a while the most celebrated swing band in England. Their record had been the bestselling record in England for five years. Their best song though was “Your Love makes me Sweet, Sweet, Sweet.” Everybody would agree with Poiret on that one and would know that he was being honest. But he felt he couldn’t tell Mrs. Diss that he liked the song “Your Love makes me Sweet, Sweet, Sweet” as he was trying to give her the impression he was a mature man and not some frivolous bounder.

  The problem with telling Mrs. Diss that he liked the song “The Seagulls of Margate” without really liking that particular song was the fact that she would ask visiting bands to play the song for him, when they performed at her theatre. Many times Poiret had to listen to a guitar player playing “The Seagulls of Margate.”

  When Mrs. Diss was away and he was at home with Sarah or alone with the birds he would play his favorite records, the ones he didn’t want Mrs. Diss to know he owned. He would play them and the canaries would sing along. They loved the songs too.

  Poiret smiled and stretched himself contently in his seat as Sarah drove on the emp
ty road through the dark, listening to the songs on the radio. When Poiret arrived home, Mrs. Diss was asleep. He was pleased about that. He went to his room, made himself ready for bed without making any noise, stepped into bed, closed his eyes and fell asleep with a smile on his face.

  Mrs. Diss woke up early as she usually did. She made herself ready for the day and walked into the salon. Poiret had woken up early too. He was sitting at the dining table as the housekeeper brought in breakfast. After saying good morning Mrs. Diss commenced doing her exercises. Poiret frowned. He didn’t understand why she didn’t do them in another room away from him. He couldn’t eat breakfast while she was close-by tying herself in the most amazing knots. He was worried that she would break her neck. Apart from that it was not an appetizing sight. Poiret stood up and went into the salon, taking his coffee cup with him. He left his dish with eggs and bacon behind on the table as Mrs. Diss’ housekeeper, the one from Yorkshire did not just excel in not being able to prepare dinner, but she was also limited in her breakfast cooking abilities. He knew these exercises usually continued for about an hour.

  The sun was shining and as soon as Sarah arrived at the bungalow with the newspapers, Poiret sat down on a chair in the garden. There he could drink his coffee and read his newspapers in peace. He asked Sarah to bring the canaries outside. He saw a flower bud on the pear tree, which he had planted in the garden, when he bought the bungalow. He was not born on a farm, but he appreciated the beauty of nature. That is to say the beauty of manicured nature. The beauty, which was carefully hewn out of a jungle of flowers, bushes and trees and maintained by a master gardener. Poiret shared his joy with Sarah and the canaries. “Poiret has the first flower bud,” he told them cheerfully, “That means we will have the pears in September.” Sarah smiled back then continued working on her correspondence. The canaries twittered happily. Poiret looked around. He loved the garden. He had planted all the flowers. Mrs. Diss didn't like flowers. She was born in Cambridge. Her late father was a well-known mathematician. She said that flowers gave her a headache. “Who ever heard of that?” thought Poiret to himself. “The girl, who gets the headaches from the flowers. C’est incroyable!” But that was how Mrs. Diss was.