by Mark Place
Poirot nodded. “We will not touch,” he said. “We will look, that is all.”
He moved into the room. Mildred had come down with Donovan, and all four young people stood in the doorway and watched him with breathless interest.
“What I can’t understand, sir, is this,” said Donovan. “I never went near the window - how did the blood come on my hand?”
“My young friend, the answer to that stares you in the face. Of what colour is the tablecloth? Red, is it not? And doubtless you did put your hand on the table.”
“Yes, I did. Is that -” He stopped.
Poirot nodded. He was bending over the table. He indicated with his hand a dark patch on the red. “It was here that the crime was committed,” he said solemnly.
“The body was moved afterwards.”
Then he stood upright and looked slowly round the room. He did not move, he handled nothing, but nevertheless the four watching felt as though every object in that rather frowsty place gave up its secret to his observant eye. Hercule Poirot nodded his head as though satisfied. A little sigh escaped him. “I see,” he said.
“You see what?” asked Donovan curiously.
“I see,” said Poirot, “what you doubtless felt - that the room is overfull of furniture.”
Donovan smiled ruefully. “I did go barging about a bit,” he confessed. “Of course, everything was in a different place to Pat’s room, and I couldn’t make it out.”
“Not everything,” said Poirot.
Donovan looked at him inquiringly.
“I mean,” Said Poirot apologetically, “that certain things are always fixed. In a block of flats the door, the window, the fireplace - they are in the same place in the rooms which are below each other.”
“Isn’t that rather splitting hairs?” asked Mildred. She was looking at Poirot with faint disapproval.
“One should always speak with absolute accuracy. That is a little - how do you say? - fad of mine.”
There was the noise of footsteps on the stairs, and three men came in. They were a police inspector, a constable, and the divisional surgeon. The inspector recognized Poirot and greeted him in an almost reverential manner. Then he turned to the others. “I shall want statements from everyone,” he began, “but in the first place”
“Poirot interrupted. “A little suggestion. We will go back to the flat upstairs and mademoiselle here shall do what she was planning to do - make us an omelette. Me, I have a passion for the omelettes. Then, M. L’inspecteur, when you have finished here, you will mount to us and ask questions at your leisure.” It was arranged accordingly, and Poirot went up with them.
“M. Poirot,” said Pat, “I think you’re a perfect dear. And you shall have a lovely omelette. I really make omelettes frightfully well.”
“That is good. Once, mademoiselle, I loved a beautiful young English girl, who resembled you greatly -but alas! she could not cook. So perhaps everything was for the best.” There was a faint sadness in his voice, and Jimmy Faulkener looked at him curiously. Once in the flat, however, he exerted himself to please and amuse. The grim tragedy below was almost forgotten. The omelette had been consumed and duly praised by the time that Inspector Rice’s footsteps were heard. He came in accompanied by the doctor, having left the constable below.
“Well, Monsieur Poirot,” he said. “It all seems clear and above-board - not much in your line, though we may find it hard to catch the man. I’d just like to hear how the discovery came to be made.” Donovan and Jimmy between them recounted the happenings of the evening. The inspector turned reproachful y to Pat.
“You shouldn’t leave your lift door unbolted, miss. You really shouldn’t.”
“I shan’t again,” said Pat, with a shiver. “Somebody might come in and murder me like that poor woman below.”
“Ah, but they didn’t come in that way, though,” said the inspector.
“You will recount to us what you have discovered, yes?” said Poirot.
“I don’t know as I ought to - but seeing it’s you, M. Poirot -”
“Pricisement” said Poirot. “And these young people - they will be discreet.”
“The newspapers will get hold of it, anyway, soon enough,” said the inspector. “There’s no real secret about the matter. Well, the dead woman’s Mrs Grant, all right. I had the porter up to identify her. Woman of about thirty-five. She was sitting at the table, and she was shot with an automatic pistol of small calibre, probably by someone sitting opposite her at table. She fell forward, and that’s how the bloodstain came on the table.”
“But wouldn’t someone have heard the shot?” asked Mildred.
“The pistol was fitted with a silencer. No, you wouldn’t hear anything. By the way, did you hear the screech the maid let out when we told her her mistress was dead? No well, that just shows how unlikely it was that anyone would hear the other.”
“Has the maid no story to tell?” asked Poirot.
“It was her evening out. She’s got her own key. She came in about ten o’clock. Everything was quiet. She thought her mistress had gone to bed.”
“She did not look in the sitting-room, then?”
“Yes, she took the letters in there which had come by the evening post, but she saw nothing unusual - any more than Mr Faulkener and Mr Bailey did. You see, the murderer had concealed the body rather neatly behind the curtains.”
“But it was a curious thing to do, don’t you think?” Poirot’s voice was very gentle, yet it held something that made the inspector look up quickly. “Didn’t want the crime discovered till he’d had time to make his getaway.”
“Perhaps, perhaps - but continue with what you were saying.” “The maid went out at five o’clock. The doctor here puts the time of death as - roughly - about four to five hours ago. That’s right, isn’t it?”
The doctor, who was a man of few words, contented himself with jerking his head affirmatively. “It’s a quarter to twelve now. The actual time can, I think, be narrowed down to a fairly definite hour.”
He took out a crumpled sheet of paper. “We found this in the pocket of the dead woman’s dress. You needn’t be afraid of handling it. There are no fingerprints on it.”
Poirot smoothed out the sheet. Across it some words were printed in small, prim capitals.
I WILL COME TO SEE YOU THIS EVIING AT HALF PAST SEVEN.
“A compromising document to leave behind,” commented Poirot, as he handed it back.
“Well, he didn’t know she’d got it in her pocket,” said the inspector. “He probably thought she’d destroyed it. We’ve evidence that he was a careful man, though. The pistol she was shot with we found under the body - and there again no fingerprints. They’d been wiped off very carefully with a silk handkerchief.”
“How do you know,” said Poirot, “that it was a silk handkerchief?”
“Because we found it,” said the inspector triumphantly. “At the last, as he was drawing the curtains, he must have let it fall unnoticed.”
He handed across a big white silk handkerchief - a good-quality handkerchief. It did not need the inspector’s finger to draw Poirot’s attention to the mark on it in the centre. It was neatly marked and quite legible. Poirot read the name out.
“John Fraser.” “That’s it,” said the inspector.
“John Fraser - J.F. in the note.
We know the name of the man we have to look for, and I dare say when we find out a little about the dead woman, and her relations come forward, we shall soon get a line on him.” “I wonder,” said Poirot. “No, mon cher, somehow I do not think he will be easy to find, your John Fraser. He is a strange man-careful, since he marks his handkerchiefs and wipes the pistol with which he has committed the crime - yet careless since he loses his handkerchief and does not search for a letter that might incriminate him.”
“Flurried, that’s what he was,” said the inspector.
“It is possible,” said Poirot. “Yes, it is possible. And he was not seen entering the
building?”
“There are all sorts of people going in and out at the time. These are big blocks. I suppose none of you - “ he addressed the four collectively. “Saw anyone coming out of the flat?” Pat shook her head. “We went out earlier about seven o’clock.”
“I see.” The inspector rose. Poirot accompanied him to the door. “As a little favour, may I examine the flat below?”
“Why, certainly M. Poirot. I know what they think of you at headquarters. I’ll leave you a key. I’ve got two. It will be empty. The maid cleared out to some relatives, too scared to stay there
“I thank you,” said M. Poirot. He went back into the flat, thoughtful.
“You’re not satisfied, M. Poirot?” said Jimmy.
“No,” said Poirot. “I am not satisfied.”
Donovan looked at him curiously. “What is it that - well, worries you?”
Poirot did not answer. He remained silent for a minute or two, frowning, as though in thought, then he made a sudden impatient movement of shoulders.
“I will say good night to you, mademoiselle. You must be tired. You have had much cooking to do - eh?”
Pat laughed. “Only the omelette. I didn’t do dinner. Donovan and Jimmy came and called for us, and we went out to a little place in Soho.”
“And then without doubt, you went to a theatre?” “Yes. The Brown Eyes of Caroline.”
“Ah!” said Poirot. “It should have been blue eyes - the blue eye: of mademoiselle.”
He made a sentimental gesture, and then once more wished Pat good night, also Mildred, who was staying the night by special request, as Pat admitted frankly that she would get the horrors, if left alone on this particular night. The two young men accompanied Poirot. When the door was, shut, and they were preparing to say goodbye to him on the landing, Poirot forestalled them.
“My young friends, you heard me say that I was not satisfied! Eh bien, it is true - I am not. I go now to make some little investigations of my own. You would like to accompany me - yes?” An eager assent greeted this proposal. Poirot led the way to the flat below and inserted the key the inspector had given him in the lock. On entering, he did not, as the others had expected, enter the sitting-room. Instead he went straight to the kitchen. In a little recess which served as a scullery a big iron bin was standing. Poirot uncovered this and, doubling himself up, began to root in it with the energy of a ferocious terrier. Both Jimmy and Donovan stared at him in amazement. Suddenly with a cry of triumph he emerged. In his hand he held aloft a small stoppered bottle. “Voila!” he said. “I find what I seek.” He sniffed at it delicately. “Alas! I am injured - I have the cold in the head.” Donovan took the bottle from him and sniffed in his turn, but could smell nothing. He took out the stopper and held the bottle to his nose before Poirot’s warning cry could stop him. Immediately he fell like a log. Poirot, by springing forward: partly broke his fall.
“Imbecile!” he cried. “The idea. To remove the stopper in that foolhardy manner! Did he not observe how delicately I handled it? onsieur Faulkener - is it not? Will you be so good as to get me a little brandy? I observed a decanter in the sitting-room.”
Jimmy hurried off, but by the time he returned, Donovan was sitting up and declaring himself quite al right again. He had to listen to a short lecture from Poirot on the necessity of caution in sniffing at possibly poisonous substances.
“I think I’ll be off home,” said Donovan, rising shakily to his feet. “That is, if I can’t be any more use here. I feel a bit wonky still.”
“Assuredly,” said Poirot. “That is the best thing you can do. M. Faulkener, attend me here a little minute. I will return on the instant.”
He accompanied Donovan to the door and beyond. They remained outside on the landing talking for some minutes When Poirot at last re-entered the flat he found Jimmy standing in the sitting-rom gazing round him with puzzled eyes.
“Well, M. Poirot,” he said, “what next?” “There is nothing next. The case is finished.” “What?”
“I know everything - now.”
Jimmy stared at him. “That little bottle you found?”
“Exactly. That little bottle.”
Jimmy shook his head. “I can’t make head or tail of it. For some reason or other I can see you are dissatisfied with the evidence against this John Fraser, whoever he may be.”
“Whoever he may be,” repeated Poirot softly.
“If he is anyone at all - well, I shall be surprised.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He is a name - that is all - a name carefully marked on a handkerchief!”
“And the letter?”
“Did you notice that it was printed? Now, why? I will tell you. Handwriting might be recognized, and a typewritten letter is more easily traced than you would imagine - but if a real John Fraser wrote that letter those two points would not have appealed to him! No, it was written on purpose, and put in the dead woman’s pocket for us to find. There is no such person as John Fraser.” Jimmy looked at him inquiringly.
“And so,” went on Poirot, “I went back to the point that first struck me. You heard me say that certain things in a room were always in the same place under given circumstances. I gave three instances. I might have mentioned a fourth - the electric-light switch, my friend.” Jimmy still stared uncomprehendingly. Poirot went on.
“Your friend Donovan did not go near the window - it was by resting his hand on this table that he got it covered in blood! But I asked myself at once - why did he rest it there? What was he doing groping about this room in darkness? For remember, my friend, the electric-light switch is always in the same place - by the door. Why, when he came to this room, did he not at once feel for the light and turn it on? That was the natural, the normal thing to do. According to him, he tried to turn on the light in the kitchen, but failed. Yet when I tried the switch it was in perfect working order. Did he, then, not wish the light to go on just then? If it had gone on you would both have seen at once that you were in the wrong flat. There would have been no reason to come into this room.”
“What are you driving at, M. Poirot? I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“I mean - this.” Poirot held up a Yale door key.
“The key of this flat?”
“No, mon ami, the key of the flat above. Mademoiselle Patricia’s key, which M. Donovan Bailey abstracted from her bag sometime during the evening.”
“But why - why?”
“Parbleu! So that he could do what he wanted to do - gain admission to this flat in a perfectly unsuspicious manner. He made sure that the lift door was unbolted earlier in the evening.”
“Where did you get the key?” Poirot’s smile broadened. “I found it just now - where I looked for it- in M. Donovan’s pocket.
“See you, that little bottle I pretended to find was a ruse. M. Donovan is taken in. He does what I knew he would do - unstoppers it and sniffs. And in that little bottle is ethyl chloride, a very powerful instant anaesthetic. It gives me just the moment or two of unconsciousness I need. I take from his pocket the two things that I knew would be there. This key was one of them - the other” He stopped and then went on. “I questioned at the time the reason the inspector gave for the body being concealed behind the curtain. To gain time? No, there was more than that. And so I thought of just one thing the post, my friend. The evening post that comes at half past nine or thereabouts. Say the murderer does not find something he expects to find, but that something may be delivered by post later. Clearly, then, he must come back. But the crime must not be discovered by the maid when she comes in, or the police would take possession of the flat, so he hides the body behind the curtain. And the maid suspects nothing and lays the letters on the table as usual.”
“The letters?”
“Yes, the letters.” Poirot drew something from his pocket. “This is the second article I took from M. Donovan when he was unconscious.” He showed the superscription - a typewritten envelope addressed to Mr
s Ernestine Grant. “But I will ask you one thing first, M. Faulkener, before we look at the contents of this letter. Are you or are you not in love with Mademoiselle Patricia?”
“I care for Pat damnably - but I’ve never thought I had a chance.”
“You thought that she cared for M. Donovan? It may be that she had begun to care for him - but it was only a beginning, my friend. It is for you to make her forget - to stand by her in her trouble.”
“Trouble?” said Jimmy sharply.
“Yes, trouble. We will do all we can to keep her name out of it, but it will be impossible to do so entirely. She was, you see, the motive.” He ripped open the envelope that he held. An enclosure fell out. The covering letter was brief, and was from a firm of solicitors.
Dear Madam,
The document you enclose is quite in order, and the fact of the marriage having taken place in a foreign country does not invalidate it in any way.
Yours truly, etc.
Poirot spread out the enclosure. It was a certificate of marriage between Donovan Bailey and Ernestine Grant, dated eight years ago.
“Oh, my God!” said Jimmy. “Pat said she’d had a letter from the taxman asking to see her, but she never dreamed it was anything important.” Poirot nodded.
“M. Donovan knew - he went to see his wife this evening before going to the flat above - a strange irony, by the ray, that led the unfortunate woman to come to this building where her rival lived - he murdered her in cold blood, and then went on to his evening’s amusement. His wife must have told him that she had sent the marriage certificate to her solicitors and was expecting to hear from them. Doubtless he himself had tried to make her believe that there was a flaw in the marriage.”
