Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  ‘Yes, Miss Olivera.’

  ‘Could you come to the Gothic House, please? There is something I feel you ought to know.’

  ‘Certainly. What time would be convenient?’

  ‘At six-thirty, please.’

  ‘I will be there.’

  For a moment the autocratic note wavered:

  ‘I—I hope I am not interrupting your work?’

  ‘Not at all. I was expecting you to call me.’

  He put down the receiver quickly. He moved away from it smiling. He wondered what excuse Jane Olivera had found for summoning him. On arrival at the Gothic House he was shown straight into the big library overlooking the river. Alistair Blunt was sitting at the writing-table playing absent-mindedly with a paper-knife. He had the slightly harassed look of a man whose womenfolk have been too much for him. Jane Olivera was standing by the mantelpiece. A plump middle-aged woman was speaking fretfully as Poirot entered—‘and I really think my feelings should be considered in the matter, Alistair.’

  ‘Yes, Julia, of course, of course.’

  Alistair Blunt spoke soothingly as he rose to greet Poirot.

  ‘And if you’re going to talk horrors I shall leave the room,’ added the good lady. ‘I should, mother,’ said Jane Olivera.

  Mrs Olivera swept from the room without condescending to take any notice of Poirot. Alistair Blunt said: ‘It’s very good of you to come, M. Poirot. You’ve met Miss Olivera, I think? It was she who sent for you—’

  Jane said abruptly: ‘It’s about this missing woman that the papers are full of. Miss Something Seale.’

  ‘Sainsbury Seale? Yes?’

  Jane turned once more to Poirot. ‘It’s such a pompous name, that’s why I remember. Shall I tell him, or will you, Uncle Alistair?’

  ‘My dear, it’s your story.’

  Jane turned once more to Poirot. ‘It mayn’t be important in the least—but I thought you ought to know.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was the last time Uncle Alistair went to the dentist’s—I don’t mean the other day—I mean about three months ago. I went with him to Queen Charlotte Street in the Rolls and it was to take me on to some friends in Regent’s Park and come back for him. We stopped at 58, and Uncle got out, and just as he did, a woman came out of 58—a middle-aged woman with fussy hair and rather arty clothes. She made a bee-line for Uncle and said (Jane Olivera’s voice rose to an affected squeak): “Oh, Mr Blunt, you don’t remember me, I’m sure!” Well, of course, I could see by Uncle’s face that he didn’t remember her in the slightest—’

  Alistair Blunt sighed. ‘I never do. People are always saying it—’

  ‘He put on his special face,’ went on Jane. ‘I know it well. Kind of polite and make-believe. It wouldn’t deceive a baby. He said in a most unconvincing voice: “Oh—er—of course.” The terrible woman went on: “I was a great friend of your wife’s, you know!”’

  ‘They usually say that, too,’ said Alistair Blunt in a voice of even deeper gloom. He smiled rather ruefully. ‘It always ends the same way! A subscription to something or other. I got off this time with five pounds to a Zenana Mission or something. Cheap!’

  ‘Had she really known your wife?’

  ‘Well, her being interested in Zenana Missions made me think that, if so, it would have been in India. We were there about ten yours ago. But, of course, she couldn’t have been a great friend or I’d have known about it. Probably met her once at a reception.’ Jane Olivera said: ‘I don’t believe she’d ever met Aunt Rebecca at all. I think it was just an excuse to speak to you.’ Alistair Blunt said tolerantly: ‘Well, that’s quite possible.’ Jane said: ‘I mean, I think it’s queer the way she tried to scrape an acquaintance with you, Uncle.’ Alistair Blunt said with the same tolerance: ‘She did not try to follow it up in any way?’ Blunt shook his head. ‘I never thought of her again. I’d even forgotten her name till Jane spotted it in the paper.’

  Jane said a little unconvincingly: ‘Well, I thought M. Poirot ought to be told!’

  Poirot said politely: ‘Thank you, Mademoiselle.’

  He added: ‘I must not keep you, Mr Blunt. You are a busy man.’ Jane said quickly: ‘I’ll come down with you.’ Under his moustaches, Hercule Poirot smiled to himself. On the ground floor, Jane paused abruptly. She said: ‘Come in here.’ They went into a small room off the hall. She turned to face him. ‘What did you mean on the telephone when you said that you had been expecting me to call you?’

  Poirot smiled. He spread out his hands. ‘Just that, Mademoiselle. I was expecting a call from you—and the call came.’

  ‘You mean that you knew I’d ring up about this Sainsbury Seale woman.’ Poirot shook his head.

  ‘That was only the pretext. You could have found something else if necessary.’

  Jane said: ‘Why the hell should I call you up?’

  ‘Why should you deliver this titbit of information about Miss Sainsbury Seale tome instead of giving it to Scotland Yard? That would have been the natural thing to do.’

  ‘All right, Mr Know All, how much exactly do you know?’

  ‘I know that you are interested in me since you heard that I paid a visit to the Holborn Palace Hotel the other day.’ She went so white that it startled him. He had not believed that that deep tan could change to such a greenish hue. He went on, quietly and steadily: ‘You got me to come here today because you wanted to pump me—that is the expression, is it not?—yes, to pump me on the subject of Mr Howard Raikes.’

  Jane Olivera said: ‘Who’s he, anyway?’

  It was not a very successful parry. Poirot said: ‘You do not need to pump me, Mademoiselle. I will tell you what I know—or rather what I guessed. That first day that we came here, Inspector Japp and I, you were startled to see us—alarmed. You thought something had happened to your uncle. Why?’

  ‘Well, he’s the kind of man things might happen to. He had a bomb by post one day—after the Herjoslovakian Loan. And he gets lots of threatening letters.’ Poirot went on: ‘Chief Inspector Japp told you that a certain dentist, Mr Morley, had been shot. You may recollect your answer. You said: “But that’s absurd.”’

  Jane bit her lip. She said: ‘Did I? That was rather absurd of me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was a curious remark, Mademoiselle. It revealed that you knew of the existence of Mr Morley, that you had rather expected something to happen—not to happen to him—but possibly to happen in his house.’

  ‘You do like telling yourself stories, don’t you?’

  Poirot paid no attention. ‘You had expected—or rather you had feared—that something might happen at Mr Morley’s house. You had feared that that something would have happened to your uncle. But if so, you must know something that we did not know . I reflected on the people who had been in Mr Morley’s house that day, and I seized at once on the one person who might possibly have a connection with you—which was that young American, Mr Howard Raikes.’

  ‘It’s just like a serial, isn’t it? What’s the next thrilling instalment?’

  ‘I went to see Mr Howard Raikes. He is a dangerous and attractive young man—’ Poirot paused expressively. Jane said meditatively: ‘He is, isn’t he?’ She smiled. ‘All right! You win! I was scared stiff.’ She leaned forward. ‘I’m going to tell you things, M. Poirot. You’re not the kind one can just string along. I’d rather tell you than have you snooping around finding out. I love that man, Howard Raikes. I’m just crazy about him. My mother brought me over here just to get me away from him. Partly that and partly because she hopes Uncle Alistair might get fond enough of me to leave me his money when he dies.’ She went on: ‘Mother is his niece by marriage. Her mother was Rebecca Arnholt’s sister. He’s my great-uncle-in-law. Only he hasn’t got any near relatives of his own, so mother doesn’t see why we shouldn’t be his residuary legatees. She cadges off him pretty freely too.

  ‘You see, I’m being frank with you, M. Poirot. That’s the kind of people we are. Actually we’ve g
ot plenty of money ourselves—an indecent amount according to Howard’s ideas—but we’re not in Uncle Alistair’s class.’ She paused. She struck with one hand fiercely on the arm of her chair. ‘How can I make you understand? Everything I’ve been brought up to believe in, Howard abominates and wants to do away with. And sometimes, you know, I feel like he does. I’m fond of Uncle Alistair, but he gets on my nerves sometimes. He’s so stodgy —so British—so cautious and conservative. I feel sometimes that he and his kind ought to be swept away, that they are blocking progress—that without them we’d get things done!’

  ‘You are a convert to Mr Raikes’ ideas?’

  ‘I am—and I’m not. Howard is—is wilder than most of his crowd. There are people, you know, who—who agree with Howard up to a point. They would be willing to—to try things—if Uncle Alistair and his crowd would agree. But they never will! They just sit back and shake their heads and say: “We could never risk that.” And “It wouldn’t be sound economically.” And “We’ve got to consider our responsibility.” And “Look at history.” But I think that one mustn’t look at history. That’s looking back.

  One must look forward all the time.’

  Poirot said gently: ‘It is an attractive vision.’

  Jane looked at him scornfully. ‘You say that too!’

  ‘Perhaps because I am old. Their old men have dreams —only dreams, you see.’ He paused and then asked in a matter-of-fact voice: ‘Why did Mr Howard Raikes make that appointment in Queen Charlotte Street?’

  ‘Because I wanted him to meet Uncle Alistair and I couldn’t see otherwise how to manage it. He’d been so bitter about Uncle Alistair—so full of—well, hate really, that I felt if he could only see him—see what a nice kindly unassuming person he was—that—that he would feel differently…I couldn’t arrange a meeting here because of mother—she would have spoilt everything.’

  Poirot said: ‘But after having made that arrangement, you were—afraid.’ Her eyes grew wide and dark. She said: ‘Yes. Because—because—sometimes Howard gets carried away. He—he—’

  Hercule Poirot said: ‘He wants to take a short cut. To exterminate—’ Jane Olivera cried: ‘Don’t!’

  Seven, Eight, Lay them Straight

  I

  Time went on. It was over a month since Mr Morley’s death, and there was still no news of Miss Sainsbury Seale. Japp became increasingly wrathful on the subject. ‘Dash it all, Poirot, the woman’s got to be somewhere.’

  ‘Indubitably, mon cher.’

  ‘Either she’d dead or alive. If she’s dead, where’s her body? Say, for instance, she committed suicide’

  ‘Another suicide?’

  ‘Don’t let’s get back to that. You still say Morley was murdered—I say it was suicide.’

  ‘You haven’t traced the pistol?’

  ‘No, it’s a foreign make.’

  ‘That is suggestive, is it not?’

  ‘Not in the way you mean. Morley had been abroad. He went on cruises, he and his sister. Everybody in the British Isles goes on cruises. He may have picked it up abroad. They like to feel life’s dangerous.’ He paused and said: ‘Don’t side track me. I was saying that if —only if, mind you—that blasted woman committed suicide, if she’d drowned herself for instance, the body would have come ashore by now. If she was murdered, the same thing.’

  ‘Not if a weight was attached to her body and it was put into the Thames.’

  ‘From a cellar in Limehouse, I suppose! You’re talking like a thriller by a lady novelist.’

  ‘I know—I know. I blush when I say these things!’

  ‘And she was done to death by an international gang of crooks, I suppose?’ Poirot sighed. He said: ‘I have been told lately that there really are such things.’

  ‘Who told you so?’

  ‘Mr Reginald Barnes of Castlegarden Road, Ealing.’

  ‘Well, he might know,’ said Japp dubiously. ‘He dealt with aliens when he was at the Home Office.’

  ‘And you do not agree?’ ‘It isn’t my branch—oh yes, there are such things—but they’re rather futile as a rule.’ There was a momentary silence as Poirot twirled his moustache.

  Japp said: ‘We’ve got one or two additional bits of information. She came home from India on the same boat as Amberiotis. But she was second class and he was first, so I don’t suppose there’s anything in that, although one of the waiters at the Savoy thinks she lunched there with him about a week or so before he died.’

  ‘So there may have been a connection between them?’

  ‘There may be—but I can’t feel it’s likely. I can’t see a Missionary lady being mixed up in any funny business.’

  ‘Was Amberiotis mixed up in any “funny business”, as you term it?’

  ‘Yes, he was. He was in close touch with some of our Central European friends. Espionage racket.’

  ‘You are sure of that?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, he wasn’t doing any of the dirty work himself. We wouldn’t have been able to touch him.

  Organizing and receiving reports—that was his lay.’

  Japp paused and then went on:

  ‘But that doesn’t help us with the Sainsbury Seale. She wouldn’t have been in on that racket.’

  ‘She had lived in India, remember. There was a lot of unrest there last year.’

  ‘Amberiotis and the excellent Miss Sainsbury Seale—I can’t feel that they were team-mates.’

  ‘Did you know that Miss Sainsbury Seale was a close friend of the late Mrs Alistair Blunt?’

  ‘Who says so? I don’t believe it. Not in the same class.’

  ‘She said so.’

  ‘Who’d she say that to?’

  ‘Mr Alistair Blunt.’

  ‘Oh! That sort of thing. He must be used to that lay. Do you mean that Amberiotis was using her that way? It wouldn’t work. Blunt would get rid of her with a subscription. He wouldn’t ask her down for a week-end or anything of that kind. He’s not so unsophisticated as that.’ This was so palpably true that Poirot could only agree. After a minute or two, Japp went on with his summing up of the Sainsbury Seale situation. ‘I suppose her body might have been lowered into a tank of acid by a mad scientist—that’s another solution they’re very fond of in books! But take my word for it, these things are all my eye and Betty Martin. If the woman is dead, her body has just been quietly buried somewhere.’

  ‘But where?’

  ‘Exactly. She disappeared in London. Nobody’s got a garden there—not a proper one. A lonely chicken farm, that’s what we want!’

  A garden! Poirot’s mind flashed suddenly to that neat prim garden in Ealing with its formal beds. How fantastic if a dead woman should be buried there ! He told himself not to be absurd. ‘And if she isn’t dead,’ went on Japp, ‘where is she? Over a month now, description published in the Press, circulated all over England—’

  ‘And nobody has seen her?’

  ‘Oh yes, practically everybody has seen her! You’ve no idea how many middle-aged faded-looking women wearing olive green cardigan suits there are. She’s been seen on Yorkshire moors, and in Liverpool hotels, in guest houses in Devon and on the beach at Ramsgate! My men have spent their time patiently investigating all these reports—and one and all they’ve led nowhere, except to getting us in wrong with a number of perfectly respectable middle-aged ladies.’

  Poirot clicked his tongue sympathetically.

  ‘And yet,’ went on Japp, ‘she’s a real person all right. I mean, sometimes you come across a dummy, so to speak—someone who just comes to a place and poses as a Miss Spinks—when all the time there isn’t a Miss Spinks. But this woman’s genuine —she’s got a past, a background! We know all about her from her childhood upwards! She’s led a perfectly normal, reasonable life—and suddenly, hey presto—vanish!’

  ‘There must be a reason,’ said Poirot.

  ‘She didn’t shoot Morley, if that’s what you mean. Amberiotis saw him alive after she left—and we’ve checked up on he
r movements after she left Queen Charlotte Street that morning.’

  Poirot said impatiently: ‘I am not suggesting for a moment that she shot Morley. Of course she did not. But all the same’

  Japp said: ‘If you are right about Morley, then it’s far more likely that he told her something which, although she doesn’t suspect it, gives a clue to his murderer. In that case, she might have been deliberately got out of the way.’ Poirot said: ‘All this involves an organization, some big concern quite out of proportion to the death of a quiet dentist in Queen Charlotte Street.’

  ‘Don’t you believe everything Reginald Barnes tells you! He’s a funny old bird—got spies and communists on the brain.’

  Japp got up and Poirot said: ‘Let me know if you have news.’

  When Japp had gone out, Poirot sat frowning down at the table in front of him. He had definitely the feeling of waiting for something. What was it? He remembered how he had sat before, jotting down various unrelated facts and a series of names. A bird had flown past the window with a twig in its mouth. He, too, had been collecting twigs. Five, six, picking up sticks. He had the sticks—quite a number of them now. They were all there, neatly pigeonholed in his orderly mind—but he had not as yet attempted to set them in order. That was the next step—lay them straight. What was holding him up? He knew the answer. He was waiting for something. Something inevitable, fore-ordained, the next link in the chain. When it came—then—then he could go on…

  II

  It was late evening a week later when the summons came. Japp’s voice was brusque over the telephone. ‘That you, Poirot? We’ve found her . You’d better come round. King Leopold Mansions. Battersea Park. Number 45.’ A quarter of an hour later a taxi deposited Poirot outside King Leopold Mansions. It was a big block of mansion flats looking out over Battersea Park. Number 45 was on the second floor. Japp himself opened the door. His face was set in grim lines.

  ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘It’s not particularly pleasant, but I expect you’ll want to see for yourself.’

  Poirot said—but it was hardly a question: ‘Dead?’