by Mark Place
‘What you might describe as very dead!’
Poirot cocked his head at a familiar sound coming from a door on his right.
‘That’s the porter,’ said Japp. ‘Being sick in the scullery sink! I had to get him up here to see if he could identify her.’
He led the way down the passage and Poirot followed him. His nose wrinkled. ‘Not nice,’ said Japp. ‘But what can you expect? She’s been dead well over a month.’
The room they went into was a small lumber and box room. In the middle of it was a big metal chest of the kind used for storing furs. The lid was open. Poirot stepped forward and looked inside. He saw the foot first, with the shabby shoe on it and the ornate buckle. His first sight of Miss Sainsbury Seale had been, he remembered, a shoe buckle. His gaze travelled up, over the green wool coat and skirt till it reached the head. He made an inarticulate noise.
‘I know,’ said Japp. ‘It’s pretty horrible.’
The face had been battered out of all recognizable shape. Add to that the natural process of decomposition, and it was no wonder that both men looked a shade pea green as they turned away.
‘Oh well,’ said Japp. ‘It’s all in a day’s work—our day’s work. No doubt about it, ours is a lousy job sometimes. There’s a spot of brandy in the other room. You’d better have some.’
The living-room was smartly furnished in an up-to-date style—a good deal of chromium and some large square-looking easy chairs upholstered in a pale fawn geometric fabric. Poirot found the decanter and helped himself to some brandy. As he finished drinking, he said: ‘It was not pretty, that! Now tell me, my friend, all about it.’
Japp said: ‘This flat belongs to a Mrs Albert Chapman. Mrs Chapman is, I gather, a well-upholstered smart blonde of forty-odd. Pays her bills, fond of an occasional game of bridge with her neighbours but keeps herself to herself more or less. No children. Mr Chapman is a commercial traveller. ‘Sainsbury Seale came here on the evening of our interview with her. About seven-fifteen. So she probably came straight here from the Glengowrie Court. She’d been here once before, so the porter says. You see, all perfectly clear and above-board—nice friendly call. The porter took Miss Sainsbury Seale up in the lift to this flat. The last he saw of her was standing on the mat pressing the bell.’ Poirot commented: ‘He has taken his time to remember this!’
‘He’s had gastric trouble, it seems, been away in hospital while another man took on temporarily for him. It wasn’t until about a week ago that he happened to notice in an old paper the description of a “wanted woman” and he said to his wife, “Sounds quite like that old cup of tea who came to see Mrs Chapman on the second floor. She had on a green wool dress and buckles on her shoes.” And after about another hour he registered again—“Believe she had a name, too, something like that. Blimey, it was —Miss Something or other Seale!”
‘After that,’ continued Japp, ‘it took him about four days to overcome his natural distrust of getting mixed up with the police and come along with his information.
‘We didn’t really think it would lead to anything. You’ve no idea how many of these false alarms we’ve had. However, I sent Sergeant Beddoes along—he’s a bright young fellow. A bit too much of this high-class education but he can’t help that. It’s fashionable now.
‘Well, Beddoes got a hunch at once that we were on to something at last. For one thing this Mrs Chapman hadn’t been seen about for over a month. She’d gone away without leaving any address. That was a bit odd. In fact everything he could learn about Mr and Mrs Chapman seemed odd.
‘He found out the porter hadn’t seen Miss Sainsbury Seale leave again. That in itself wasn’t unusual. She might easily have come down the stairs and gone out without his seeing her. But then the porter told him that Mrs Chapman had gone away rather suddenly. There was just a big printed notice outside the door the next morning:
NO MILK. TELL NELLIE I AM CALLED AWAY.
‘Nellie was the daily maid who did for her. Mrs Chapman had gone away suddenly once or twice before, so the girl didn’t think it odd, but what was odd was the fact that she hadn’t rung for the porter to take her luggage down or get her a taxi.
‘Anyway, Beddoes decided to get into the flat. We got a search warrant and a pass key from the manager. Found nothing of interest except in the bathroom. There had been some hasty clearing up done there. There was a trace of blood on the linoleum—in the corners where it had been missed when the floor was washed over. After that, it was just a question of finding the body. Mrs Chapman couldn’t have left with any luggage with her or the porter would have known. Therefore the body must still be in the flat. We soon spotted that fur chest—airtight, you know—just the place. Keys were in the dressing-table drawer. ‘We opened it up—and there was the missing lady! Mistletoe Bough up-to-date.’ Poirot asked: ‘What about Mrs Chapman?’
‘What indeed? Who is Sylvia (her name’s Sylvia, by the way), what is she? One thing is certain. Sylvia, or Sylvia’s friends, murdered the lady and put her in the box.’
Poirot nodded. He asked: ‘But why was her face battered in? It is not nice, that.’
‘I’ll say it isn’t nice! As to why —well, one can only guess. Sheer vindictiveness, perhaps. Or it may have been with the idea of concealing the woman’s identity.’
‘But it did not conceal her identity.’
‘No, because not only had we got a pretty good description of what Mabelle Sainsbury Seale was wearing when she disappeared, but her handbag had been stuffed into the fur box too and inside the handbag there was actually an old letter addressed to her at her hotel in Russell Square.’
Poirot sat up. He said: ‘But that—that does not make the common sense!’
‘It certainly doesn’t. I suppose it was a slip.’
‘Yes—perhaps—a slip. But—’
He got up.
‘You have been over the flat?’
‘Pretty well. There’s nothing illuminating.’
‘I should like to see Mrs Chapman’s bedroom.’
‘Come along then.’
The bedroom showed no signs of a hasty departure. It was neat and tidy. The bed had not been slept in, but was turned down ready for the night. There was a thick coating of dust everywhere.
Japp said: ‘No finger-prints, so far as we can see. There are some on the kitchen things, but I expect they’ll turn out to be the maid’s.’
‘That means that the whole place was dusted very carefully after the murder?’
‘Yes.’
Poirot’s eyes swept slowly round the room. Like the sitting-room it was furnished in the modern style—and furnished, so he thought, by someone with a moderate income. The articles in it were expensive but not ultra-expensive. They were showy but not first-class. The colour scheme was rose pink. He looked into the built-in wardrobe and handled the clothes—smart clothes but again not of first-class quality. His eyes fell to the shoes—they were largely of the sandal variety popular at the moment, some had exaggerated cork soles. He balanced one in his hand, registered the fact that Mrs Chapman had taken a 5 in shoes and put it down again. In another cupboard he found a pile of furs, shoved in a heap.
Japp said: ‘Came out of the fur chest.’
Poirot nodded. He was handling a grey squirrel coat. He remarked appreciatively: ‘First-class skins.’ He went into the bathroom. There was a lavish display of cosmetics. Poirot looked at them with interest. Powder, rouge, vanishing cream, skin food, two bottles of hair application. Japp said: ‘Not one of our natural platinum blondes, I gather.’
Poirot murmured: ‘At forty, mon ami, the hair of most women has begun to go grey but Mrs Chapman was not one to yield to nature.’
‘She’s probably gone henna red by now for a change.’
‘I wonder.’
Japp said: ‘There’s something worrying you, Poirot. What is it?’
Poirot said: ‘But yes, I am worried. I am very seriously worried. There is here, you see, for me an insoluble problem.’
Resolutely, he went once more into the box-room… He took hold of the shoe on the dead woman’s foot. It resisted and came off with difficulty. He examined the buckle. It had been clumsily sewn on by hand. Hercule Poirot sighed. He said: ‘It is that I am dreaming!’
Japp said curiously: ‘What are you trying to do—make the thing more difficult?’
‘Exactly that.’
Japp said: ‘One patent leather shoe, complete with buckle. What’s wrong with that?’
Hercule Poirot said: ‘Nothing—absolutely nothing. But all the same—I do not understand.’
III
Mrs Merton of No. 82, King Leopold Mansions had been designated by the porter as Mrs Chapman’s closest friend in the Mansions. It was, therefore, to No. 82 that Japp and Poirot betook themselves next. Mrs Merton was a loquacious lady, with snapping black eyes, and an elaborate coiffure. It needed no pressure to make her talk. She was only too ready to rise to a dramatic situation.
‘Sylvia Chapman—well, of course, I don’t know her really well—not intimately, so to speak. We had a few bridge evenings occasionally and we went to the pictures together, and of course shopping sometimes. But oh, do tell me—she isn’t dead, is she?’
Japp reassured her. ‘Well, I’m sure I’m thankful to hear it! But the postman just now was all agog about a body having been found in one of the flats—but then one really can’t believe half one hears, can one? I never do.’ Japp asked a further question. ‘No, I haven’t heard anything of Mrs Chapman—not since we had spoken about going to see the new Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire the following week, and she said nothing about going away then.’
Mrs Merton had never heard a Miss Sainsbury Seale mentioned. Mrs Chapman had never spoken of anyone of that name. ‘And yet, you know, the name is familiar to me, distinctly familiar. I seem to have seen it somewhere quite lately.’
Japp said drily: ‘It’s been in all the papers for some weeks’
‘Of course—some missing person, wasn’t it? And you thought Mrs Chapman might have known her? No, I’m sure I’ve never heard Sylvia mention that name.’
‘Can you tell me anything about Mr Chapman, Mrs Merton?’
A rather curious expression came over Mrs Merton’s face. She said: ‘He was a commercial traveller, I believe, so Mrs Chapman told me. He travelled abroad for his firm—armaments, I believe. He went all over Europe.’
‘Did you ever meet him?’
‘No, never. He was at home so seldom, and when he was at home he and Mrs Chapman didn’t want to bother with outsiders. Very naturally.’
‘Do you know if Mrs Chapman had any near relations or friends?’
‘I don’t know about friends. I don’t think she had any near relations. She never spoke of any.’
‘Was she ever in India?’
‘Not that I know of.’
Mrs Merton paused, and then broke out: ‘But please tell me—why are you asking all these questions? I quite understand that you come from Scotland Yard and all that, but there must be some special reason?’
‘Well, Mrs Merton, you are bound to know some time. As a matter of fact, a dead body has been found in Mrs Chapman’s flat.’
‘Oh—?’ Mrs Merton looked for a moment like the dog whose eyes were as big as saucers.
‘A dead body! It wasn’t Mr Chapman, was it? Or perhaps some foreigner?’
Japp said: ‘It wasn’t a man at all—it was a woman.’
‘A woman.’ Mrs Merton seemed even more surprised.
Poirot said gently: ‘Why should you think it was a man?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It seemed more likely somehow.’
‘But why? Was it because Mrs Chapman was in the habit of receiving gentleman visitors?’
‘Oh no—oh no indeed.’ Mrs Merton was indignant. ‘I never meant anything of that kind. Sylvia Chapman wasn’t in the least that kind of woman—not at all! It was just that, with Mr Chapman—I mean—’ She came to a stop.
Poirot said: ‘I think, Madame, that you know a little more than you have told us.’
Mrs Merton said uncertainly: ‘I don’t know, I’m sure—what I ought to do! I mean, I don’t exactly want to betray a confidence and of course I never have repeated what Sylvia told me—except just to one or two intimates whom I knew were really safe’
Mrs Merton leaned forward and lowered her voice: ‘It just—slipped out, as it were, one day. When we were seeing a film—about the Secret Service and Mrs Chapman said you could see that whoever had written it didn’t know much about their subject, and then it came out—only she swore me to secrecy. Mr Chapman was in the Secret Service, I mean. That was the real reason he had to go abroad so much. The armament firm was only a blind. And it was terribly worrying for Mrs Chapman because she couldn’t write to him or get letters from him while he was away. And, of course, it was terribly dangerous!’
IV
As they went down the stairs again to No. 42, Japp ejaculated with feeling: ‘Shades of Phillips Oppenheim, Valentine Williams and William le Queux, I think I’m going mad!’ That smart young man, Sergeant Beddoes, was waiting for them. He said respectfully: ‘Haven’t been able to get anything helpful from the maid, sir. Mrs Chapman changed maids pretty often, it seems. This one only worked for her for a month or two. She says Mrs Chapman was a nice lady, fond of the radio and pleasant spoken. Girl was of the opinion the husband was a gay deceiver but that Mrs Chapman didn’t suspect it. She got letters from abroad sometimes, some from Germany, two from America, one from Italy and one from Russia. The girl’s young man collects stamps, and Mrs Chapman used to give them to her off the letters.’
‘Anything among Mrs Chapman’s papers?’
‘Absolutely nothing, sir. She didn’t keep much. A few bills and receipted accounts—all local. Some old theatre programmes, one or two cookery recipes cut out of the papers, and a pamphlet about Zenana Missions.’
‘And we can guess who brought that here. She doesn’t sound like a murderess, does she? And yet that’s what it seems to be. She’s bound to be an accomplice anyway. No strange men seen about that evening?’
‘The porter doesn’t remember any—but then I don’t suppose he would by now, and anyway it’s a big block of flats—people always going in and out. He can only fix the date of Miss Sainsbury Seale’s visit because he was taken off to the hospital the next day and was actually feeling rather bad that evening.’
‘Anybody in the other flats hear anything out of the way?’
The younger man shook his head.
‘I’ve inquired at the flat above this and the one below. Nobody can remember hearing anything unusual. Both of them had their radios on, I gather.’
The divisional surgeon came out of the bathroom where he had been washing his hands.
‘Most unsavoury corpse,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Send her along when you’re ready and I’ll get down to brass tacks.’
‘No idea of the cause of death, doctor?’
‘Impossible to say until I’ve done the autopsy. Those face injuries were definitely inflicted after death, I should say. But I shall know better when I’ve got her at the mortuary. Middle-aged woman, quite healthy—grey hair at the roots but tinted blonde. There may be distinguishing marks on the body—if there isn’t, it may be a job to identify her—oh, you know who she is, splendid? What? Missing woman there’s been all the fuss about? Well, you know, I never read the papers. Just do the crosswords.’
Japp said bitterly: ‘And that’s publicity for you!’ as the doctor went out. Poirot was hovering over the desk. He picked up a small brown address book. The indefatigable Beddoes said: ‘Nothing of special interest there—most hairdressers, dressmakers, etc. I’ve noted down any private names and addresses.’
Poirot opened the book at the letter D.
He read: Dr Davis, 17, Prince Albert Road,
Drake and Pomponetti, Fishmongers.
And below it: Dentist. Mr Morley, 58, Queen Charlotte Street. There was a green light in Poirot
’s eyes. He said: ‘There will be no difficulty, I imagine, in positively identifying the body.’ Japp looked at him curiously. He said: ‘Surely—you don’t imagine—?’ Poirot said with vehemence: ‘I want to be sure.’
V
Miss Morley had moved to the country. She was living in a small country cottage near Hertford. The Grenadier greeted Poirot amicably. Since her brother’s death her face had perhaps grown slightly grimmer, her carriage more upright, her general attitude towards life more unyielding. She resented bitterly the slur cast upon her brother’s professional name by the findings of the inquest. Poirot, she had reason to believe, shared the view that the verdict of the Coroner’s inquest was untrue. Hence the Grenadier unbent a little. She answered his questions readily enough and with competence. All Mr Morley’s professional papers had been carefully filed by Miss Nevill and had been handed over by her to Mr Morley’s successor. Some of the patients had transferred themselves to Mr Reilly, others had accepted the new partner, others again had gone to other dentists elsewhere. Miss Morley, after she had given what information she could, said: ‘So you have found that woman who was Henry’s patient—Miss Sainsbury Seale—and she was murdered too.’ The ‘too’ was a little defiant. She stressed the word. Poirot said: ‘Your brother never mentioned Miss Sainsbury Seale particularly to you?’
‘No, I don’t remember his doing so. He would tell me if he had had a particularly trying patient, or if one of his patients had said something amusing he would pass it on to me, but we didn’t usually talk about his work much. He was glad to forget it when the day was over. He was very tired sometimes.’
‘Do you remember hearing of a Mrs Chapman amongst your brother’s patients?’
‘Chapman? No, I don’t think so. Miss Nevill is really the person to help you over all this.’
‘I am anxious to get in touch with her. Where is she now?’
‘She has taken a post with a dentist in Ramsgate, I believe.’
‘She has not married that young man Frank Carter yet?’
‘No. I rather hope that will never come off. I don’t like that young man, M. Poirot. I really don’t. There is something wrong about him. I still feel that he hasn’t really any proper moral sense.’
