Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  “Miss Plenderleith might tell us,” suggested Poirot.

  “She might,” said Japp gloomily. “On the other hand she might not. I’ve no doubt she could tell us a good deal if she liked. What about you, Poirot, old boy? You were alone with her for a bit. Didn’t you trot out that Father Confessor manner of yours that sometimes makes such a hit?”

  Poirot spread out his hands.

  “Alas, we talked only of gas fires.”

  “Gas fires—gas fires.” Japp sounded disgusted. “What’s the matter with you, old cock? Ever since you’ve been here the only things you’ve taken an interest in are quill pens and wastepaper baskets. Oh, yes, I saw you having a quiet look into the one downstairs. Anything in it?”

  Poirot sighed.

  “A catalogue of bulbs and an old magazine.”

  “What’s the idea, anyway? If anyone wants to throw away an incriminating document or whatever it is you have in mind they’re not likely just to pitch it into a wastepaper basket.”

  “That is very true what you say there. Only something quite unimportant would be thrown away like that.”

  Poirot spoke meekly. Nevertheless Japp looked at him suspiciously.

  “Well,” he said. “I know what I’m going to do next. What about you?”

  “Eh bien,” said Poirot. “I shall complete my search for the unimportant. There is still the dustbin.”

  He skipped nimbly out of the room. Japp looked after him with an air of disgust.

  “Potty,” he said. “Absolutely potty.”

  Inspector Jameson preserved a respectful silence. His face said with British superiority: “Foreigners!”

  Aloud he said:

  “So that’s Mr. Hercule Poirot! I’ve heard of him.”

  “Old friend of mine,” explained Japp. “Not half as balmy as he looks, mind you. All the same he’s getting on now.”

  “Gone a bit gaga as they say, sir,” suggested Inspector Jameson. “Ah well, age will tell.”

  “All the same,” said Japp, “I wish I knew what he was up to.”

  He walked over to the writing table and stared uneasily at an emerald green quill pen.

  VII

  Japp was just engaging his third chauffeur’s wife in conversation when Poirot, walking noiselessly as a cat, suddenly appeared at his elbow.

  “Whew, you made me jump,” said Japp. “Got anything?”

  “Not what I was looking for.”

  Japp turned back to Mrs. James Hogg.

  “And you say you’ve seen this gentleman before?”

  “Oh, yes sir. And my husband too. We knew him at once.”

  “Now look here, Mrs. Hogg, you’re a shrewd woman, I can see. I’ve no doubt that you know all about everyone in the mews. And you’re a woman of judgment—unusually good judgment, I can tell that—” Unblushingly he repeated this remark for the third time. Mrs. Hogg bridled slightly and assumed an expression of superhuman intelligence. “Give me a line on those two young women—Mrs. Allen and Miss Plenderleith. What were they like? Gay? Lots of parties? That sort of thing?”

  “Oh, no sir, nothing of the kind. They went out a good bit—Mrs. Allen especially—but they’re class, if you know what I mean. Not like some as I could name down the other end. I’m sure the way that Mrs. Stevens goes on—if she is a Mrs. at all which I doubt—well I shouldn’t like to tell you what goes on there—I. . . .”

  “Quite so,” said Japp, dexterously stopping the flow. “Now that’s very important what you’ve told me. Mrs. Allen and Miss Plenderleith were well liked, then?”

  “Oh yes, sir, very nice ladies, both of them—especially Mrs. Allen. Always spoke a nice word to the children, she did. Lost her own little girl, I believe, poor dear. Ah well, I’ve buried three myself. And what I say is . . .”

  “Yes, yes, very sad. And Miss Plenderleith?”

  “Well, of course she was a nice lady too, but much more abrupt if you know what I mean. Just go by with a nod, she would, and not stop to pass the time of day. But I’ve nothing against her—nothing at all.”

  “She and Mrs. Allen got on well together?”

  “Oh, yes sir. No quarrelling—nothing like that. Very happy and contented they were—I’m sure Mrs. Pierce will bear me out.”

  “Yes, we’ve talked to her. Do you know Mrs. Allen’s fiancé by sight?”

  “The gentleman she’s going to marry? Oh, yes. He’s been here quite a bit off and on. Member of Parliament, they do say.”

  “It wasn’t he who came last night?”

  “No, sir, it was not.” Mrs. Hogg drew herself up. A note of excitement disguised beneath intense primness came into her voice. “And if you ask me, sir, what you are thinking is all wrong. Mrs. Allen wasn’t that kind of lady, I’m sure. It’s true there was no one in the house, but I do not believe anything of the kind—I said so to Hogg only this morning. ‘No, Hogg,’ I said, ‘Mrs. Allen was a lady—a real lady—so don’t go suggesting things’—knowing what a man’s mind is, if you’ll excuse my mentioning it. Always coarse in their ideas.”

  Passing this insult by, Japp proceeded:

  “You saw him arrive and you saw him leave—that’s so, isn’t it?”

  “That’s so, sir.”

  “And you didn’t hear anything else? Any sounds of a quarrel?”

  “No, sir, nor likely to. Not, that is to say, that such things couldn’t be heard—because the contrary to that is well-known—and down the other end the way Mrs. Stevens goes for that poor frightened maid of hers is common talk—and one and all we’ve advised her not to stand it, but there, the wages is good—temper of the devil she may have but pays for it—thirty shillings a week. . . .”

  Japp said quickly:

  “But you didn’t hear anything of the kind at No. 14?”

  “No, sir. Nor likely to with fireworks popping off here, there and everywhere and my Eddie with his eyebrows singed off as near as nothing.”

  “This man left at ten twenty—that’s right, is it?”

  “It might be, sir. I couldn’t say myself. But Hogg says so and he’s a very reliable, steady man.”

  “You actually saw him leave. Did you hear what he said?”

  “No, sir. I wasn’t near enough for that. Just saw him from my windows, standing in the doorway talking to Mrs. Allen.”

  “See her too?”

  “Yes, sir, she was standing just inside the doorway.”

  “Notice what she was wearing?”

  “Now really, sir, I couldn’t say. Not noticing particularly as it were.”

  Poirot said:

  “You did not even notice if she was wearing day dress or evening dress?”

  “No, sir, I can’t say I did.”

  Poirot looked thoughtfully up at the window above and then across to No. 14. He smiled and for a moment his eye caught Japp’s.

  “And the gentleman?”

  “He was in a dark-blue overcoat and a bowler hat. Very smart and well set up.”

  Japp asked a few more questions and then proceeded to his next interview. This was with Master Frederick Hogg, an impish-faced, bright-eyed lad, considerably swollen with self-importance.

  “Yes, sir. I heard them talking. ‘Think it over and let me know,’ the gent said. Pleasant like, you know. And then she said something and he answered, ‘All right. So long.’ And he got into the car—I was holding the door open but he didn’t give me nothing,” said Master Hogg with a slight tinge of depression in his tone. “And he drove away.”

  “You didn’t hear what Mrs. Allen said?”

  “No, sir, can’t say I did.”

  “Can you tell me what she was wearing? What colour, for instance?”

  “Couldn’t say, sir. You see, I didn’t really see her. She must have been round behind the door.”

  “Just so,” said Japp. “Now look here, my boy, I want you to think and answer my next question very carefully. If you don’t know and can’t remember, say so. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” />
  Master Hogg looked at him eagerly.

  “Which of ’em closed the door, Mrs. Allen or the gentleman?”

  “The front door?”

  “The front door, naturally.”

  The child reflected. His eyes screwed themselves up in an effort of remembrance.

  “Think the lady probably did—No, she didn’t. He did. Pulled it to with a bit of a bang and jumped into the car quick. Looked as though he had a date somewhere.”

  “Right. Well, young man, you seem a bright kind of shaver. Here’s sixpence for you.”

  Dismissing Master Hogg, Japp turned to his friend. Slowly with one accord they nodded.

  “Could be!” said Japp.

  “There are possibilities,” agreed Poirot.

  His eyes shone with a green light. They looked like a cat’s.

  VIII

  On reentering the sitting room of No. 14, Japp wasted no time in beating about the bush. He came straight to the point.

  “Now look here, Miss Plenderleith, don’t you think it’s better to spill the beans here and now. It’s going to come to that in the end.”

  Jane Plenderleith raised her eyebrows. She was standing by the mantelpiece, gently warming one foot at the fire.

  “I really don’t know what you mean.”

  “Is that quite true, Miss Plenderleith?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “I’ve answered all your questions. I don’t see what more I can do.”

  “Well, it’s my opinion you could do a lot more—if you chose.”

  “That’s only an opinion, though, isn’t it, Chief Inspector?”

  Japp grew rather red in the face.

  “I think,” said Poirot, “that mademoiselle would appreciate better the reason for your questions if you told her just how the case stands.”

  “That’s very simple. Now then, Miss Plenderleith, the facts are as follows. Your friend was found shot through the head with a pistol in her hand and the door and the window fastened. That looked like a plain case of suicide. But it wasn’t suicide. The medical evidence alone proves that.”

  “How?”

  All her ironic coolness had disappeared. She leaned forward—intent—watching his face.

  “The pistol was in her hand—but the fingers weren’t grasping it. Moreover there were no fingerprints at all on the pistol. And the angle of the wound makes it impossible that the wound should have been self-inflicted. Then again, she left no letter—rather an unusual thing for a suicide. And though the door was locked the key has not been found.”

  Jane Plenderleith turned slowly and sat down in a chair facing them.

  “So that’s it!” she said. “All along I’ve felt it was impossible that she should have killed herself! I was right! She didn’t kill herself. Someone else killed her.”

  For a moment or two she remained lost in thought. Then she raised her head brusquely.

  “Ask me any questions you like,” she said. “I will answer them to the best of my ability.”

  Japp began:

  “Last night Mrs. Allen had a visitor. He is described as a man of forty-five, military bearing, toothbrush moustache, smartly dressed and driving a Standard Swallow saloon car. Do you know who that is?”

  “I can’t be sure, of course, but it sounds like Major Eustace.”

  “Who is Major Eustace? Tell me all you can about him?”

  “He was a man Barbara had known abroad—in India. He turned up about a year ago, and we’ve seen him on and off since.”

  “He was a friend of Mrs. Allen’s?”

  “He behaved like one,” said Jane dryly.

  “What was her attitude to him?”

  “I don’t think she really liked him—in fact, I’m sure she didn’t.”

  “But she treated him with outward friendliness?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she ever seem—think carefully, Miss Plenderleith—afraid of him?”

  Jane Plenderleith considered this thoughtfully for a minute or two. Then she said:

  “Yes—I think she was. She was always nervous when he was about.”

  “Did he and Mr. Laverton-West meet at all?”

  “Only once, I think. They didn’t take to each other much. That is to say, Major Eustace made himself as agreeable as he could to Charles, but Charles wasn’t having any. Charles has got a very good nose for anybody who isn’t well—quite—quite.”

  “And Major Eustace was not—what you call—quite—quite?” asked Poirot.

  The girl said dryly:

  “No, he wasn’t. Bit hairy at the heel. Definitely not out of the top drawer.”

  “Alas—I do not know those two expressions. You mean to say he was not the pukka sahib?”

  A fleeting smile passed across Jane Plenderleith’s face, but she replied gravely, “No.”

  “Would it come as a great surprise to you, Miss Plenderleith, if I suggested that this man was blackmailing Mrs. Allen?”

  Japp sat forward to observe the result of his suggestion.

  He was well satisfied. The girl started forward, the colour rose in her cheeks, she brought down her hand sharply on the arm of her chair.

  “So that was it! What a fool I was not to have guessed. Of course!”

  “You think the suggestion feasible, mademoiselle?” asked Poirot.

  “I was a fool not to have thought of it! Barbara’s borrowed small sums off me several times during the last six months. And I’ve seen her sitting poring over her passbook. I knew she was living well within her income, so I didn’t bother, but, of course, if she was paying out sums of money—”

  “And it would accord with her general demeanour—yes?” asked Poirot.

  “Absolutely. She was nervous. Quite jumpy sometimes. Altogether different from what she used to be.”

  Poirot said gently:

  “Excuse me, but that is not just what you told us before.”

  “That was different,” Jane Plenderleith waved an impatient hand. “She wasn’t depressed. I mean she wasn’t feeling suicidal or anything like that. But blackmail—yes. I wish she’d told me. I’d have sent him to the devil.”

  “But he might have gone—not to the devil, but to Mr. Charles Laverton-West?” observed Poirot.

  “Yes,” said Jane Plenderleith slowly. “Yes . . . that’s true. . . .”

  “You’ve no idea of what this man’s hold over her may have been?” asked Japp.

  The girl shook her head.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. I can’t believe, knowing Barbara, that it could have been anything really serious. On the other hand—” she paused, then went on. “What I mean is, Barbara was a bit of a simpleton in some ways. She’d be very easily frightened. In fact, she was the kind of girl who would be a positive gift to a blackmailer! The nasty brute!”

  She snapped out the last three words with real venom.

  “Unfortunately,” said Poirot, “the crime seems to have taken place the wrong way round. It is the victim who should kill the blackmailer, not the blackmailer his victim.”

  Jane Plenderleith frowned a little.

  “No—that is true—but I can imagine circumstances—”

  “Such as?”

  “Supposing Barbara got desperate. She may have threatened him with that silly little pistol of hers. He tries to wrench it away from her and in the struggle he fires it and kills her. Then he’s horrified at what he’s done and tries to pretend it was suicide.”

  “Might be,” said Japp. “But there’s a difficulty.”

  She looked at him inquiringly.

  “Major Eustace (if it was him) left here last night at ten twenty and said goodbye to Mrs. Allen on the doorstep.”

  “Oh,” the girl’s face fell. “I see.” She paused a minute or two. “But he might have come back later,” she said slowly.

  “Yes, that is possible,” said Poirot.

  Japp continued:

  “Tell me, Miss Plenderleith, where was Mrs. Allen in the habit
of receiving guests, here or in the room upstairs?”

  “Both. But this room was used for more communal parties or for my own special friends. You see, the arrangement was that Barbara had the big bedroom and used it as a sitting room as well, and I had the little bedroom and used this room.”

  “If Major Eustace came by appointment last night, in which room do you think Mrs. Allen would have received him?”

  “I think she would probably bring him in here.” The girl sounded a little doubtful. “It would be less intimate. On the other hand, if she wanted to write a cheque or anything of that kind, she would probably take him upstairs. There are no writing materials down here.”

  Japp shook his head.

  “There was no question of a cheque. Mrs. Allen drew out two hundred pounds in cash yesterday. And so far we’ve not been able to find any trace of it in the house.”

  “And she gave it to that brute? Oh, poor Barbara! Poor, poor Barbara!”

  Poirot coughed.

  “Unless, as you suggest, it was more or less an accident, it still seems a remarkable fact that he should kill an apparently regular source of income.”

  “Accident? It wasn’t an accident. He lost his temper and saw red and shot her.”

  “That is how you think it happened?”

  “Yes.” She added vehemently, “It was murder—murder!”

  Poirot said gravely:

  “I will not say that you are wrong, mademoiselle.”

  Japp said:

  “What cigarettes did Mrs. Allen smoke?”

  “Gaspers. There are some in that box.”

  Japp opened the box, took out a cigarette and nodded. He slipped the cigarette into his pocket.

  “And you, mademoiselle?” asked Poirot.

  “The same.”

  “You do not smoke Turkish?”

  “Never.”

  “Nor Mrs. Allen?”

  “No. She didn’t like them.”

  Poirot asked:

  “And Mr. Laverton-West. What did he smoke?”

  She stared hard at him.

  “Charles? What does it matter what he smoked? You’re not going to pretend that he killed her?”

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “A man has killed the woman he loved before now, mademoiselle.”