by Mark Place
"Frances Cary," said Claudia.
"She was quite incoherent, and stammered out something about someone being dead -- someone she knew -- David Someone -- I didn't catch his last name. She was sobbing and shaking all over. I brought her in, gave her some brandy, and went to see for myself." Everyone felt that throughout life that would be what Miss Jacobs would invariably do.
"You know what I found. Need I describe it?"
"Just briefly, perhaps."
"A young man, one of these modern young men -- gaudy clothes and long hair. He was lying on the floor and he was clearly dead. His shirt was stiff with blood." Stillingfleet stirred. He turned his head and looked keenly at Miss Jacobs.
"Then I became aware that there was a girl in the room. She was holding a kitchen knife. She seemed quite calm and self-possessed -- really, most peculiar." Stillingfleet said: "Did she say anything ?" "She said she had been into the bathroom to wash the blood off her hands -- and then she said "But you can't wash things like that off, can you?' "
"Out, damned spot, in fact?"
"I cannot say that she reminded me particularly of Lady Macbeth. She was -- how shall I put it -- perfectly composed. She laid the knife down on the table and sat down on a chair."
"What else did she say?" asked Chief Inspector Neele, his eyes dropping to a scrawled note in front of him.
"Something about hate. That it wasn't safe to hate anybody." "She said something about 'poor David', didn't she? Or so you told Sergeant Connolly. And that she wanted to be free of him."
"I'd forgotten that. Yes. She said something about his making her come here -- and something about Louise, too."
"What did she say about Louise?" It was Poirot who asked, leaning forward sharply. Miss Jacobs looked at him doubtfully.
"Nothing, really, just mentioned the name. Like Louise, she said, and then stopped. It was after she had said about its not being safe to hate people..."
"And then?"
"Then she told me, quite calmly, I had better ring up the police. Which I did. We just -- sat there until they came... I did not think I ought to leave her. We did not say anything. She seemed absorbed in her thoughts, and I -- well, frankly, I couldn't think of anything to say." "You could see, couldn't you, that she was mentally unstable?" said Andrew Restarick. "You could see that she didn't know what she had done or why, poor child?" He spoke pleadingly -- hopefully.
"If it is a sign of mental instability to appear perfectly cool and collected after committing a murder, then I will agree with you." Miss Jacobs spoke in the voice of one who quite decidedly did not agree.
Stillingfleet said: "Miss Jacobs, did she at any time admit that she had killed him?" "Oh yes. I should have mentioned that before— It was the very first thing she did say. As though she was answering some question I had asked her. She said 'Yes, I’ve killed him. And then went on about having washed her hands." Restarick groaned and buried his face in his hands. Claudia put her hand on his arm. Poirot said: "Miss Jacobs, you say the girl put down the knife she was carrying on that table. It was quite near you? You saw it clearly? Did it appear to you that the knife also had been washed?" Miss Jacobs looked hesitantly at Chief Inspector Neele. It was clear that she felt that Poirot struck an alien and unofficial note in this presumably official enquiry.
"Perhaps you would be kind enough to answer that?" said Neele.
"No — I don't think the knife had been washed or wiped in any way. It was stained and discoloured with some thick sticky substance." "Ah," Poirot leaned back in his chair.
"I should have thought you would have known all about the knife yourself," said Miss Jacobs to Neele accusingly. "Didn't your police examine it? It seems to me very lax if they didn't."
"Oh yes, the police examined it," said Neele. "But we — er — always like to get corroboration." She darted him a shrewd glance.
"What you really mean, I suppose, is that you like to find out how accurate the observation of your witnesses is. How much they make up, or how much they actually see, or think they have seen." He smiled slightly as he said: "I don't think we need have doubts about you. Miss Jacobs. You will make an excellent witness."
"I shan't enjoy it. But it's the kind of thing one has to go through with, I suppose."
"I'm afraid so. Thank you. Miss Jacobs." He looked round. "No one has any additional questions?" Poirot indicated that he had. Miss Jacobs paused near the doorway, displeased.
"Yes?" she said.
"About this mention of someone called Louise. Did you know who it was the girl meant?"
"How should I know?"
"Isn't it possible that she might have meant Mrs. Louise Charpentier. You knew Mrs. Charpentier, didn't you?"
"I did not."
"You knew that she recently threw herself out of a window in this block of flats?"
"I knew that, of course. I didn't know her Christian name was Louise, and I was not personally acquainted with her."
"Nor, perhaps, particularly wished to be?"
"I have not said so, since the woman is dead. But I will admit that that is quite true. She was a most undesirable tenant, and I and other residents have frequently complained to the management here." "Of what exactly?"
"To speak frankly, the woman drank. Her flat was actually on the top floor above mine and there were continual disorderly parties, with broken glass, furniture knocked over, singing and shouting, a lot of— er — coming and going."
"She was, perhaps, a lonely woman," suggested Poirot.
"That was hardly the impression she conveyed," said Miss Jacobs acidly. "It was put forward at the inquest that she was depressed over the state of her health. Entirely her own imagination. She seems to have had nothing the matter with her." And having disposed of the late Mrs. Charpentier without sympathy. Miss Jacobs took her departure. Poirot turned his attention to Andrew Restarick. He asked delicately: "Am I correct in thinking, Mr. Restarick, that you were at one time well acquainted with Mrs. Charpentier?" Restarick did not answer for a moment or two. Then he sighed deeply and transferred his gaze to Poirot. "Yes. At one time, many years ago, I knew her very well indeed... Not, I may say, under the name of Charpentier. She was Louise Birell when I knew her."
"You were — er — in love with her!"
"Yes, I was in love with her... Head over ears in love with her! I left my wife on her account. We went to South Africa. After barely a year the whole thing blew up. She returned to England. I never heard from her again. I never even knew what had become of her."
"What about your daughter? Did she, also, know Louise Birell?"
"Not to remember her, surely. A child of five years old!"
"But did she know her?" Poirot persisted.
"Yes," said Restarick slowly. "She knew Louise. That is to say, Louise came to our house. She used to play with the child."
"So it is possible that the girl might remember her, even after a lapse of years?"
"I don't know. I simply don't know. I don't know what she looked like, how much Louise might have changed. I never saw her again, as I told you." Poirot said gently, "But you heard from her, didn't you, Mr. Restarick? I mean, you have heard from her since your return to England?" Again there came that pause, and the deep unhappy sigh: "Yes -- I heard from her..." said Restarick. And then, with sudden curiosity, he asked: "How did you know that, M. Poirot?" From his pocket, Poirot drew a neatly folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and handed it to Restarick. The latter looked at it with a faintly puzzled frown.
Dear Andy, I see from the papers you're home again. We must meet and compare notes as to what we've both been doing all these years -- It broke off here -- and started again. Andy-- Guess who this is from! Louise. Don’t dare to say you've forgotten me I -- Dear Andy, As you will see by this letterhead, I’m living in the same block of flats as your secretary. What a small world it is! We must meet. Could you come for a drink Monday or Tuesday next week? Andy darling, I must see you again... Nobody has ever mattered to me but you -- you haven�
�t really forgotten me, either, have you?
"How did you get this?" asked Restarick of Poirot, tapping it curiously.
"From a friend of mine via a furniture van," said Poirot, with a glance at Mrs. Oliver. Restarick looked at her without favour.
"I couldn't help it," said Mrs. Oliver, interpreting his look correctly. "I suppose it was her furniture being moved out, and the men let go of a desk, and a drawer fell out and scattered a lot of things, and the wind blew this along the courtyard, so I picked it up and tried to give it back to them, but they were cross and didn't want it, so I just put it in my coat pocket without thinking. And I never even looked at it until this afternoon when I was taking things out of pockets before sending the coat to the cleaners. So it really wasn't my fault." She paused, slightly out of breath.
"Did she get her letter to you written in the end?" Poirot asked.
"Yes — she did — one of the more formal versions! I didn't answer it. I thought it would be wiser not to do so." "You didn't want to see her again?" "She was the last person I wanted to see! She was a particularly difficult woman -- always had been. And I'd heard things about her -- for one that she had become a heavy drinker. And well -- other things."
"Did you keep her letter to you?"
"No, I tore it up I"
Dr. Stillingfleet asked an abrupt question. "Did your daughter ever speak about her to you?" Restarick seemed unwilling to answer.
Dr. Stillingfleet urged him: "It might be significant if she did, you know."
"You doctors! Yes, she did mention her once."
"What did she say exactly?" "She said quite suddenly: 'I saw Louise the other day. Father.' I was startled.
I said 'Where did you see her?' And she said 'In the restaurant of our flats.' I was a bit embarrassed. I said: 'I never dreamed you'd remember her.' And she said: 'I've never forgotten. Mother wouldn't have let me forget, even if I wanted to."
"Yes, that could certainly be significant," said Dr. Stillingfleet.
"And you. Mademoiselle," said Poirot, turning suddenly to Claudia. "Did Norma ever speak to you about Louise Carpenter?" "Yes -- it was after the suicide. She said something about her being a wicked woman. She said it in rather a childish way, if you know what I mean." "You were here in the flats yourself on the night--or more correctly the early morning when Mrs. Carpenter's suicide occurred?"
"I was not here that night, no! I was away from home. I remember arriving back here the next day and hearing about it." She half turned to Restarick...
"You remember? It was the 23rd. I had gone to Liverpool."
"Yes, of course. You were to represent me at the Hever Trust meeting." Poirot said: "But Norma slept here that night?"
"Yes." Claudia seemed uncomfortable.
"Claudia?" Restarick laid his hand on her arm. "What is it you know about Norma? There's something. Something that you're holding back."
"Nothing! What should I know about her?"
"You think she's off her head, don't you?" said Dr. Stillingfleet in a conversational voice. "And so does the girl with the black hair. And so do you.," he added, turning suddenly on Restarick. "All of us behaving nicely and avoiding the subject and thinking the same thing! Except, that is, the chief inspector. He's not thinking anything. He's collecting facts: mad or a murderess. What about you. Madam?" "Me?" Mrs. Oliver jumped. "I -- don't know."
"You reserve judgement? I don't blame you. It's difficult. On the whole, most people agree on what they think. They use different terms for it -- that's all. Bats in the Belfry. Scatty. Wanting in the top storey. Off her onion. Mental Delusions. Does anyone think that girl is sane?"
"Miss Battersby," said Poirot.
"Who the devil is Miss Battersby?"
"A schoolmistress."
"If I ever have a daughter I shall send her to that school... Of course I'm in a different category. I know. I know everything about that girl!" Norma's father stared at him.
"Who is this man?" he demanded of Neele. "What can he possibly mean by saying that he knows everything about my daughter?"
"I know about her," said Stillingfleet, "because she's been under my professional care for the last ten days."
"Dr. Stillingfleet," said Chief Inspector Neele, "is a highly qualified and reputable psychiatrist."
"And how did she come into your clutches -- without someone getting my consent first?"
"Ask Moustaches," said Dr. Stillingfleet, nodding to Poirot.
"You--you..." Restarick could hardly speak he was so angry.
Poirot spoke placidly. "I had your instructions. You wanted care and protection for your daughter when she was found. I found her--and I was able to interest Dr. Stillingfleet in her case. She was in danger, Mr. Restarick, very grave danger."
"She could hardly be in any more danger than she is now! Arrested on a charge of murder!"
"Technically she is not yet charged," murmured Neele.
He went on: "Dr. Stillingfleet, do I understand that you are willing to give your professional opinion as to Miss Restarick's mental condition, and as to how well she knows the nature and meaning of her acts?"
"We can save the Naughten act for court," said Stillingfleet. "What you want to know now is, quite simply, if the girl is mad or sane? All right, I'll tell you. That girl is sane — as sane as anyone or you sitting here in this room!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THEY stared at him. "Didn't expect that, did you?" Restarick said angrily: "You're wrong. That girl doesn't even know what she's done. She's innocent—completely innocent. She can't be held responsible for what she doesn't know she's done."
"You let me talk for a while. I know what I'm talking about. You don't. That girl is sane and responsible for her actions. In a moment or two we'll have her in and let her speak for herself. She's the only one who hasn't had the chance of speaking for herself! Oh yes, they've got her here still —locked up with a police matron in her bedroom. But before we ask her a question or two, I've got something to say that you'd better hear first.
"When that girl came to me she was full of drugs.,"
"And he gave them to her!" shouted Restarick. "That degenerate, miserable boy."
"He started her on them, no doubt."
"Thank God," said Restarick. "Thank God for it."
"What are you thanking God for?"
"I misunderstood you. I thought you were going to throw her to the lions when you kept harping on her being sane. I misjudged you. It was the drugs that did it. Drugs that made her do things she would never have done of her own volition, and left her with no knowledge of having done them." Stillingfleet raised his voice: "If you let me talk instead of talking so much yourself, and being so sure you know all about everything, we might get on a bit. First of all, she's not an addict. There are no marks of injections. She didn't sniff snow. Someone or other, perhaps the boy, perhaps someone else, was administering drugs to her without her knowledge. Not just a purple heart or two in the modern fashion. A rather interesting medley of drugs -- L.S.D. giving vivid dream sequences -- nightmares or pleasurable. Hemp distorting the time factor, so that she might believe an experience has lasted an hour instead of a few minutes. And a good many other curious substances that I have no intention of letting any of you know about. Somebody who was clever with drugs played merry hell with that girl. Stimulants, sedatives, they all played their part in controlling her, and showing her to herself as a completely different person."
Restarick interrupted: "That's what I say. Norma wasn't responsible! Someone was hypnotising her to do these things."
"You still haven't got the point! Nobody could make the girl do what she didn't want to do. What they could do, was make her think she had done it. Now we'll have her in and make her see what's been happening to her." He looked enquiringly at Chief Inspector Neele, who nodded. Stillingfleet spoke over his shoulder to Claudia, as he went out of the sitting-room. "Where'd you put that other girl, the one you took away from Jacobs, gave a sedative to? In her room on her
bed? Better shake her up a bit, and drag her along, somehow. We'll need all the help we can get." Claudia also went out of the sitting room. Stillingfleet came back, propelling Norma, and uttering rough encouragement.
"There's a good girl... Nobody's going to bite you. Sit there." She sat obediently. Her docility was still rather frightening. The policewoman hovered by the door looking scandalised.
"All I'm asking you to do is to speak the truth. It isn't nearly as difficult as you think." Claudia came in with Frances Cary. Frances was yawning heavily. Her black hair hung like a curtain hiding half her mouth as she yawned and yawned again.
"You need a pick-me-up," said Stillingfleet to her.
"I wish you'd all let me go to sleep," murmured Frances indistinctly.
"Nobody's going to have a chance of sleep until I've done with them! Now, Norma, you answer my questions-- That woman along the passage says you admitted to her that you killed David Baker.
Is that right?" Her docile voice said: "Yes. I killed David." "Stabbed him?"
"Yes." "How do you know you did?" She looked faintly puzzled. "I don't know what you mean. He was there on the floor -- dead."
"Where was the knife?"
"I picked it up."
"It had blood on it?"
"Yes. And on his shirt."
"What did it feel like -- the blood on the knife? The blood that you got on your hand and had to wash off-- Wet? Or more like strawberry jam."
"It was like strawberry jam -- sticky." She shivered. "I had to go and wash it off my hands."
"Very sensible. Well, that ties up everything very nicely. Victim, murder--you -- all complete with the weapon. Do you remember actually doing it?"
"No... I don't remember that... But I must have done it, mustn't I?"
"Don't ask me! I wasn't there. It's you are the one who's saying it. But there was another killing before that, wasn't there?
An earlier killing."
"You mean -- Louise?"
"Yes. I mean Louise... When did you first think of killing her?"
"Years ago. Oh, years ago."
