by Mark Place
Poirot said: ‘Do you think it is possible that he could have shot your brother?’ Miss Morley said slowly: ‘I do feel perhaps that he would be capable of it—he has a very uncontrollable temper. But I don’t really see that he had any motive—nor opportunity for that matter. You see, it wasn’t as though Henry had succeeded in persuading Gladys to give him up. She was sticking to him in the most faithful way.’
‘Could he have been bribed, do you think?’
‘Bribed? To kill my brother? What an extraordinary idea!’
A nice-looking dark-haired girl brought in the tea at this moment. As she closed the door behind her again, Poirot said: ‘That girl was with you in London, was she not?’
‘Agnes? Yes, she was house-parlourmaid. I let the cook go—she didn’t want to come to the country anyway—and Agnes does everything for me. She is turning into quite a nice little cook.’
Poirot nodded. He knew very accurately the domestic arrangements of 58, Queen Charlotte Street. They had been thoroughly gone into at the time of the tragedy. Mr Morley and his sister had occupied the two top floors of the house as a maisonette. The basement had been shut up altogether except for a narrow passage leading from the area to the back yard where a wire cage ran up to the top floor with the tradesmen’s deliveries and where a speaking-tube was installed. Therefore the only entrance to the house was by the front door which it was Alfred’s business to answer. This had enabled the police to be sure that no outsider could have entered the house on that particular morning. Both cook and house-parlourmaid had been with the Morleys for some years and bore good characters.
So, although it was theoretically possible that one or the other of them might have crept down to the second floor and shot her master, the possibility had never been taken seriously into account. Neither of the two had appeared unduly flustered or upset at being questioned, and there certainly seemed no possible reason for connecting either of them with his death. Nevertheless, as Agnes handed Poirot his hat and stick on leaving, she asked him with an unusually nervous abruptness:
‘Does—does anyone know anything more about the master’s death, sir?’
Poirot turned to look at her. He said: ‘Nothing fresh has come to light.’
‘They’re still quite sure as he did shoot himself because he’d made a mistake with that drug?’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
Agnes pleated her apron. Her face was averted. She said rather indistinctly:
‘The—the mistress doesn’t think so.’
‘And you agree with her, perhaps?’
‘Me? Oh, I don’t know nothing, sir. I only—I only wanted to be sure.’
Hercule Poirot said in his most gentle voice: ‘It would be a relief to you to feel beyond any possible doubt that it was suicide?’
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ Agnes agreed quickly, ‘it would indeed.’
‘For a special reason, perhaps?’
Her startled eyes met his. She shrank back a little.
‘I—I don’t know anything about it, sir. I only just asked.’
‘But why did she ask?’ Hercule Poirot demanded of himself, as he walked down the path to the gate. He felt sure that there was an answer to that question. But as yet he could not guess what it was. All the same, he felt a step nearer.
VI
When Poirot returned to his flat he was surprised to find an unexpected visitor waiting for him. A bald head was visible above the back of a chair, and the small neat figure of Mr Barnes rose to his feet. With eyes that twinkled as usual, he made a dry little apology. He had come, he explained, to return M. Hercule Poirot’s visit. Poirot professed himself delighted to see Mr Barnes. George was instructed to bring some coffee unless his visitor preferred tea or whisky and soda?
‘Coffee will be admirable,’ said Mr Barnes. ‘I imagine that your manservant prepares it well. Most English servants do not.’
Presently, after a few interchanges of polite remarks, Mr Barnes gave a little cough and said: ‘I will be frank with you, M. Poirot. It was sheer curiosity that brought me here. You, I imagined, would be well posted in all the details of this rather curious case. I see by the papers that the missing Miss Sainsbury Seale has been found. That an inquest was held and adjourned for further evidence. Cause of death was stated to have been an overdose of medinal.’
‘That is quite correct,’ said Poirot.
There was a pause and then Poirot asked:
‘Have you ever heard of Albert Chapman, Mr Barnes?’
‘Ah, the husband of the lady in whose flat Miss Sainsbury Seale came to die? Rather an elusive person, it would seem.’
‘But hardly non-existent?’
‘Oh no,’ said Mr Barnes. ‘He exists. Oh yes, he exists—or did exist. I had heard he was dead. But you can’t trust these rumours.’
‘Who was he, Mr Barnes?’
‘I don’t suppose they’ll say at the inquest. Not if they can help it. They’ll trot out the armaments firm traveller story.’
‘He was in the Secret Service then?’
‘Of course he was. But he had no business to tell his wife so—no business at all. In fact he ought not to have continued in the Service after his marriage. It isn’t usually done—not, that is, when you’re one of the really hush-hush people.’
‘And Albert Chapman was?’
‘Yes. Q.X.912. That’s what he was known as. Using a name is most irregular. Oh, I don’t mean that Q.X.912 was specially important—or anything of that kind. But he was useful because he was an insignificant kind of chap—the kind whose face isn’t easily remembered. He was used a lot as a messenger up and down Europe. You know the sort of thing. One dignified letter sent via our Ambassador in Ruritania—one unofficial ditto containing the dirt per Q.X.912—that is to say: Mr Albert Chapman.’
‘Then he knew a lot of useful information?’
‘Probably didn’t know a thing,’ said Mr Barnes cheerfully. ‘His job was just hopping in and out of trains and boats and aeroplanes and having the right story to explain why he was going where he was going!’
‘And you heard he was dead?’
‘That’s what I heard,’ said Mr Barnes. ‘But you can’t believe all you hear. I never do.’
Looking at Mr Barnes intently, Poirot asked:
‘What do you think has happened to his wife?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ said Mr Barnes. He looked, wide-eyed at Poirot. ‘Can you?’
Poirot said: ‘I had an idea—’ He stopped.
He said slowly: ‘It is very confusing.’
Mr Barnes murmured sympathetically: ‘Anything worrying you in particular?’
Hercule Poirot said slowly: ‘Yes. The evidence of my own eyes…’
VII
Japp came into Poirot’s sitting-room and slammed down his bowler hat with such force that the table rocked.
He said: ‘What the devil made you think of it?’
‘My good Japp, I do not know what you are talking about.’
Japp said slowly and forcefully: ‘What gave you the idea that the body wasn’t Miss Sainsbury Seale’s body?’
Poirot looked worried. He said: ‘It was the face that worried me. Why smash up a dead woman’s face?’
Japp said: ‘My word, I hope old Morley’s somewhere where he can know about it. It’s just possible, you know, that he was put out of the way on purpose—so that he couldn’t give evidence.’
‘It would certainly be better if he could have given evidence himself.’
‘Leatheran will be all right. Morley’s successor. He’s a thoroughly capable man with a good manner and the evidence is unmistakable.’
The evening papers came out with a sensation the next day. The dead body found in the Battersea flat, believed to be that of Miss Sainsbury Seale, was positively identified as that of Mrs Albert Chapman. Mr Leatheran, of 58, Queen Charlotte Street, unhesitatingly pronounced it to be Mrs Chapman on the evidence of the teeth and jaw, full particulars of which were recorded in the late
Mr Morley’s professional chart. Miss Sainsbury Seale’s clothes had been found on the body and Miss Sainsbury Seale’s handbag with the body—but where was Miss Sainsbury Seale herself?
Nine, Ten, a Good Fat Hen
I
As they came away from the inquest Japp said jubilantly to Poirot: ‘A smart piece of work, that. Gave ’em a sensation!’
Poirot nodded. ‘You tumbled to it first,’ said Japp, ‘but, you know, I wasn’t happy about that body myself. After all, you don’t go smashing a dead person’s face and head about for nothing. It’s messy, unpleasant work, and it was pretty plain there must be some reason for it. And there’s only one reason there could be—to confuse the identity.’ He added generously: ‘But I shouldn’t have tumbled so quickly to the fact that it actually was the other woman.’
Poirot said with a smile: ‘And yet, my friend, the actual descriptions of the women were not unlike as regards fundamentals. Mrs Chapman was a smart, good-looking woman, well made up and fashionably turned out. Miss Sainsbury Seale was dowdy and innocent of lipstick or rouge. But the essentials were the same. Both were women of forty odd. Both were roughly about the same height and build. Both had hair turning grey which they touched up to make it appear golden.’
‘Yes, of course, when you put it like that . One thing we’ve got to admit—the fair Mabelle put it over on both of us, good and proper. I’d have sworn she was the genuine article.’
‘But, my friend, she was the genuine article. We know all about her past life.’
‘We didn’t know she was capable of murder—and that’s what it looks like now. Sylvia didn’t murder Mabelle. Mabelle murdered Sylvia.’ Hercule Poirot shook his head in a worried fashion. He still found it difficult to reconcile Mabelle Sainsbury Seale with murder. Yet in his ears he heard the small, ironic voice of Mr Barnes: ‘Look among the respectable people…’ Mabelle Sainsbury Seale had been eminently respectable. Japp said with emphasis: ‘I’m going to get to the bottom of this case, Poirot. That woman isn’t going to put it over on me.’
II
The following day, Japp rang up. His voice held a curious note.
He said: ‘Poirot, do you want to hear a piece of news? It’s Na Poo, my lad. Na Poo!’
‘Pardon?—the line is perhaps not very clear. I did not quite catch—’
‘It’s off, my boy. O.F.F. Call it a day! Sit down and twiddle our thumbs!’
There was no mistaking the bitterness now. Poirot was startled.
‘What is off?’
‘The whole ruddy blinking thing! The hue and cry! The publicity! The whole bag of tricks!’
‘But I still do not understand.’
‘Well, listen. Listen carefully, because I can’t mention names very well. You know our inquiry? You know we’re combing the country for a performing fish?’
‘Yes, yes, perfectly. I comprehend now.’
‘Well, that’s been called off . Hushed up—kept mum. Now do you understand?’
‘Yes, yes. But why ?’
‘Orders from the ruddy Foreign Office.’
‘Is not that very extraordinary?’
‘Well, it does happen now and again.’
‘Why should they be so forbearing to Miss—to the performing fish?’
‘They’re not. They don’t care tuppence about her. It’s the publicity—if she’s brought to trial too much might come out about Mrs A. C. The corpse. That’s the hush-hush side! I can only suppose that the ruddy husband—Mr A. C.—Get me?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘That he’s somewhere abroad in a ticklish spot and they don’t want to queer his pitch.’
‘Tchah!’
‘What did you say?’
‘I made, mon ami, an exclamation of annoyance!’
‘Oh! that was it. I thought you’d caught cold. Annoyance is right! I could use a stronger word. Letting that dame get away with it makes me see red.’
Poirot said very softly: ‘She will not get away with it.’
‘Our hands are tied, I tell you!’
‘Yours may be—mine are not!’
‘Good old Poirot! Then you are going on with it?’
‘Mais oui—to the death.’
‘Well, don’t let it be your death, old boy! If this business goes on as it has begun someone will probably send you a poisoned tarantula by post!’ As he replaced the receiver, Poirot said to himself: ‘Now, why did I use that melodramatic phrase—“to the death”
‘Vraiment , it is absurd!’
III
The letter came by evening post. It was typewritten except for the signature.
Dear M. Poirot(it ran),
I should be greatly obliged if you would call upon me some time tomorrow. I may have a commission for you. I suggest twelve-thirty, at my house in Chelsea. If this is inconvenient to you, perhaps you would telephone my secretary? I apologize for giving you such short notice.
Yours sincerely,
Alistair Blunt.
Poirot smoothed out the letter and read it a second time. At that moment the telephone rang. Hercule Poirot occasionally indulged in the fancy that he knew by the ring of his telephone bell what kind of message was impending. On this occasion he was at once quite sure that the call was significant. It was not a wrong number—not one of his friends. He got up and took down the receiver. He said in his polite, foreign voice: ’Allo?’ An impersonal voice said: ‘What number are you, please?’
‘This is Whitehall 7272.’
There was a pause, a click, and then a voice spoke. It was a woman’s voice.
‘M. Poirot?’
‘Yes.’
‘M. Hercule Poirot?’
‘Yes.’
‘M. Poirot, you have either already received—or will shortly receive, a letter.’
‘Who is speaking?’
‘It is not necessary that you should know.’
‘Very well. I have received, Madame, eight letters and three bills by the evening post.’
‘Then you know which letter I mean. You will be wise, M. Poirot, to refuse the commission you have been offered.’
‘That, Madame, is a matter I shall decide myself.’
The voice said coldly: ‘I am warning you, M. Poirot. Your interference will no longer be tolerated. Keep out of this business .’
‘And if I do not keep out of it?’
‘Then we shall take steps to see that your interference is no longer to be feared…’
‘That is a threat, Madame!’
‘We are only asking you to be sensible…It is for your own good.’
‘You are very magnanimous!’
‘You cannot alter the course of events and what has been arranged. So keep out of what doesn’t concern you! Do you understand?’
‘Oh yes, I understand. But I consider that Mr Morley’s death is my concern.’
The woman’s voice said sharply: ‘Morley’s death was only an incident. He interfered with our plans.’
‘He was a human being, Madame, and he died before his time.’
‘He was of no importance.’
Poirot’s voice was dangerous as he said very quietly: ‘There you are wrong…’
‘It was his own fault. He refused to be sensible.’
‘I, too, refuse to be sensible.’
‘Then you are a fool.’
There was a click the other end as the receiver was replaced.
Poirot said, ‘Allo?’ then put down his receiver in turn. He did not trouble to ask the Exchange to trace the number. He was fairly sure that the call had been put through from a public telephone box. What intrigued and puzzled him was the fact that he thought he had heard the voice somewhere before. He racked his brains, trying to bring the elusive memory back. Could it be the voice of Miss Sainsbury Seale? As he remembered it, Mabelle Sainsbury Seale’s voice had been high-pitched and somewhat affected, with rather overemphasized diction. This voice was not at all like that, and yet—perhaps it might be Miss Sainsbury Seale with her voi
ce disguised. After all, she had been an actress in her time. She could alter her voice, probably, easily enough. In actual timbre, the voice was not unlike what he remembered. But he was not satisfied with that explanation. No, it was some other person that the voice brought back to him. It was not a voice he knew well—but he was still quite sure that he had heard it once, if not twice, before. Why, he wondered, bother to ring up and threaten him? Could these people actually believe that threats would deter him? Apparently they did. It was poor psychology!
IV
There was some sensational news in the morning papers. The Prime Minister had been shot at when leaving 10, Downing Street with a friend yesterday evening. Fortunately the bullet had gone wide. The man, an Indian, had been taken into custody. After reading this, Poirot took a taxi to Scotland Yard where he was shown up to Japp’s room. The latter greeted him heartily. ‘Ah, so the news has brought you along. Have any of the papers mentioned who “the friend” was with the P.M.?’
‘No, who was it?’
‘Alistair Blunt.’
‘Really?’
‘And,’ went on Japp, ‘we’ve every reason to believe that the bullet was meant for Blunt and not for the P.M. That is, unless the man was an even more thundering bad shot than he is already!’
‘Who did it?’
‘Some crazy Hindu student. Half baked, as usual. But he was put up to it. It wasn’t all his own idea.’ Japp added: ‘Quite a sound bit of work getting him. There’s usually a small group of people, you know, watching No. 10. When the shot was fired, a young American grabbed hold of a little man with a beard. He held on to him like grim death and yelled to the police that he’d got the man. Meanwhile the Indian was quietly hooking it—but one of our people nabbed him all right.’
‘Who was the American?’ asked Poirot curiously.
‘Young fellow by the name of Raikes. Why—’ He stopped short, staring at Poirot. ‘What’s the matter?’ Poirot said: ‘Howard Raikes, staying at the Holborn Palace Hotel?’
‘That’s right. Who—why, of course! I thought the name seemed familiar. He’s the patient who ran away that morning when Morley shot himself…’ He paused. He said slowly: ‘Rum—how that old business keeps cropping up. You’ve still got your ideas about it, haven’t you, Poirot?’ Hercule Poirot replied gravely: ‘Yes. I still have my ideas…’
