by Mark Place
V
At the Gothic House, Poirot was received by a secretary, a tall, limp young man with an accomplished social manner. He was pleasantly apologetic. ‘I am so sorry, M. Poirot—and so is Mr Blunt. He has been called to Downing Street. The result of this—er—incident last night. I rang your flat, but unfortunately you had already left.’
The young man went on rapidly: ‘Mr Blunt commissioned me to ask you if it would be possible for you to spend the week-end with him at his house in Kent. Exsham, you know. If so, he would call for you in the car tomorrow evening.’
Poirot hesitated. The young man said persuasively: ‘Mr Blunt is really most anxious to see you.’ Hercule Poirot bowed his head.
He said: ‘Thank you. I accept.’
‘Oh, that’s splendid. Mr Blunt will be delighted. If he calls for you about a quarter to six, will that—Oh, good morning, Mrs Olivera—’
Jane Olivera’s mother had just entered. She was very smartly dressed, with a hat clinging to an eyebrow in the midst of a very soignée coiffure. ‘Oh! Mr Selby, did Mr Blunt give you any instructions about those garden chairs? I meant to talk to him about them last night, because I knew we’d be going down this week-end and’
Mrs Olivera took in Poirot and paused.
‘Do you know Mrs Olivera, M. Poirot?’
‘I have already had the pleasure of meeting Madame.’
Poirot bowed.
Mrs Olivera said vaguely: ‘Oh? How do you do. Of course, Mr Selby, I know that Alistair is a very busy man and that these small domestic matters mayn’t seem to him important’
‘It’s quite all right, Mrs Olivera,’ said the efficient Mr Selby. ‘He told me about it and I rang up Messrs Deevers about them.’
‘Well, now, that’s a real load off my mind. Now, Mr Selby, can you tell me…’ Mrs Olivera clacked on. She was, thought Poirot, rather like a hen. A big, fat hen! Mrs Olivera, still clacking, moved majestically after her bust towards the door.
‘…And if you’re quite sure that there will only be ourselves this week-end—’ Mr Selby coughed.
‘Er—M. Poirot is also coming down for the week-end.’
Mrs Olivera stopped. She turned round and surveyed Poirot with visible distaste. ‘Is that really so?’
‘Mr Blunt has been kind enough to invite me,’ said Poirot.
‘Well, I wonder—why, if that isn’t queer of Alistair. You’ll excuse me, M. Poirot, but Mr Blunt particularly told me that he wanted a quiet family week-end!’
Selby said firmly: ‘Mr Blunt is particularly anxious that M. Poirot should come.’
‘Oh really? He didn’t mention it tome .’
The door opened. Jane stood there. She said impatiently:
‘Mother, aren’t you coming? Our lunch appointment is at one-fifteen!’
‘I’m coming, Jane. Don’t be impatient.’
‘Well, get a move on, for goodness sake—Hallo, M. Poirot.’
She was suddenly very still—her petulance frozen. Her eyes more wary. Mrs Olivera said in a cold voice: ‘M. Poirot is coming down to Exsham for the week-end.’
‘Oh—I see.’
Jane Olivera stood back to let her mother pass her. On the point of following her, she whirled back again. ‘M. Poirot!’ Her voice was imperious. Poirot crossed the room to her. She said in a low voice: ‘You’re coming down to Exsham? Why?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said: ‘It is a kind thought of your uncle’s.’
Jane said: ‘But he can’t know…He can’t…When did he ask you? Oh, there’s no need—’
‘Jane!’
Her mother was calling from the hall. Jane said in a low, urgent tone: ‘Stay away. Please don’t come.’ She went out. Poirot heard the sounds of altercation. Heard Mrs Olivera’s high, complaining, clucking voice. ‘I really will not tolerate your rudeness, Jane…I shall take steps to see that you do not interfere—’ The secretary said: ‘Then at a little before six tomorrow, M. Poirot?’ Poirot nodded assent mechanically. He was standing like a man who has seen a ghost. But it was his ears, not his eyes, that had given him the shock. Two of the sentences that had drifted in through the open door were almost identical with those he had heard last night through the telephone, and he knew why the voice had been faintly familiar. As he walked out into the sunshine he shook his head blankly. Mrs Olivera? But it was impossible! It could not have been Mrs Olivera who had spoken over the ’phone! That empty-headed society woman—selfish, brainless, grasping, self-centred? What had he called her to himself just now? ‘That good fat hen? C’est ridicule! ’ said Hercule Poirot. His ears, he decided, must have deceived him. And yet.
VI
The Rolls called punctually for Poirot at a little before six. Alistair Blunt and his secretary were the only occupants. Mrs Olivera and Jane had gone down in another car earlier, it seemed. The drive was uneventful. Blunt talked a little, mostly of his garden and of a recent horticultural show. Poirot congratulated him on his escape from death, at which Blunt demurred. He said: ‘Oh that ! Don’t think the fellow was shooting at me particularly. Anyway, the poor chap hadn’t the first idea of how to aim! Just one of these half-crazed students. There’s no harm in them really. They just get worked up and fancy a pot shot at the P.M. will alter the course of history. It’s pathetic, really.’
‘There have been other attempts on your life, have there not?’
‘Sounds quite melodramatic,’ said Blunt, with a slight twinkle. ‘Someone sent me a bomb by post not long ago. It wasn’t a very efficient bomb. You know, these fellows who want to take on the management of the world—what sort of an efficient business do they think they could make of it, when they can’t even devise an effectual bomb?’ He shook his head. ‘It’s always the same thing—long-haired woolly idealists—without one practical bit of knowledge in their heads. I’m not a clever chap—never have been—but I can just read and write and do arithmetic. D’you understand what I mean by that?’
‘I think so, but explain to me further.’
‘Well, if I read something that is written down in English I can understand what it means —I am not talking of abstruse stuff, formulae or philosophy—just plain business like English—most people can’t! If I want to write down something I can write down what I mean —I’ve discovered that quite a lot of people can’t do that either! And, as I say, I can do plain arithmetic. If Jones has eight bananas and Brown takes ten away from him, how many will Jones have left? That’s the kind of sum people like to pretend has a simple answer. They won’t admit, first that Brown can’t do it—and second that there won’t be an answer in plus bananas!’
‘They prefer the answer to be a conjuring trick?’
‘Exactly. Politicians are just as bad. But I’ve always held out for plain common sense. You can’t beat it, you know, in the end.’
He added with a slightly self-conscious laugh: ‘But I mustn’t talk shop. Bad habit. Besides, I like to leave business matters behind when I get away from London. I’ve been looking forward, M. Poirot, to hearing a few of your adventures. I read a lot of thrillers and detective stories, you know. Do you think any of them are true to life?’
The conversation dwelt for the rest of the journey on the more spectacular cases of Hercule Poirot. Alistair Blunt displayed himself as vivid as any schoolboy for details. This pleasant atmosphere sustained a chill on arrival at Exsham, where behind her massive bust Mrs Olivera radiated a freezing disapproval. She ignored Poirot as far as possible, addressing herself exclusively to her host and to Mr Selby. The latter showed Poirot to his room. The house was a charming one, not very big, and furnished with the same quiet good taste that Poirot had noticed in London. Everything was costly but simple. The vast wealth that owned it was only indicated by the smoothness with which this apparent simplicity was produced. The service was admirable—the cooking English, not Continental—the wines at dinner stirred Poirot to a passion of appreciation. They had a perfect clear soup, a grilled sole, saddle of lamb with tiny young
garden peas and strawberries and cream.
Poirot was so enjoying these creature comforts that the continued frigid demeanour of Mrs Olivera and the brusque rudeness of her daughter hardly attracted his attention. Jane, for some reason, was regarding him with definite hostility. Hazily, towards the end of the dinner, Poirot wondered why! Looking down the table with mild curiosity, Blunt asked: ‘Helen not dining with us tonight?’
Julia Olivera’s lips drew themselves in with a taut line. She said: ‘Dear Helen has been over-tiring herself, I think, in the garden. I suggested it would be far better for her to go to bed and rest than to bother to dress herself up and come here. She quite saw my point.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Blunt looked vague and a little puzzled. ‘I thought it made a bit of a change for her at week-ends.’
‘Helen is such a simple soul. She likes turning in early,’ said Mrs Olivera firmly.
When Poirot joined the ladies in the drawing-room, Blunt having remained behind for a few minutes’ conversation with his secretary, he heard Jane Olivera say to her mother: ‘Uncle Alistair didn’t like the cool way you’d shelved Helen Montressor, Mother.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Olivera robustly. ‘Alistair is too good-natured. Poor relations are all very well—very kind of him to let her have the cottage rent free, but to think he has to have her up to the house every week-end for dinner is absurd! She’s only a second cousin or something. I don’t think Alistair ought to be imposed upon!’
‘I think she’s proud in her way,’ said Jane. ‘She does an awful lot in the garden.’
‘That shows a proper spirit,’ said Mrs Olivera comfortably. ‘The Scotch are very independent and one respects them for it.’
She settled herself comfortably on the sofa and, still not taking any notice of Poirot, added: ‘Just bring me the Low Down Review , dear. There’s something about Lois Van Schuyler in it and that Moroccan guide of hers.’
Alistair Blunt appeared in the doorway. He said: ‘Now M. Poirot, come into my room.’ Alistair Blunt’s own sanctum was a low, long room at the back of the house, with windows opening upon the garden. It was comfortable, with deep armchairs and settees and just enough pleasant untidiness to make it livable. (Needless to say, Hercule Poirot would have preferred a greater symmetry!) After offering his guest a cigarette and lighting his own pipe, Alistair Blunt came to the point quite simply and directly. He said: ‘There’s a good deal that I’m not satisfied about. I’m referring, of course, to this Sainsbury Seale woman. For reasons of their own—reasons no doubt which are perfectly justified—the authorities have called off the hunt. I don’t know exactly who Albert Chapman is or what he’s doing—but whatever it is, it’s something pretty vital and it’s the sort of business that might land him in a tight spot. I don’t know the ins and outs of it, but the P.M. did just mention that they can’t afford any publicity whatever about this case and that the sooner it fades out of the public’s memory the better. ‘That’s quite O.K. That’s the official view, and they know what’s necessary. So the police have got their hands tied.’
He leaned forward in his chair.
‘But I want to know the truth, M. Poirot. And you’re the man to find it out for me. You aren’t hampered by officialdom.’
‘What do you want me to do, M. Blunt?’
‘I want you to find this woman—Sainsbury Seale.’
‘Alive or dead?’
Alistair Blunt’s eyebrows rose.
‘You think it’s possible that she is dead?’
Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said, speaking slowly and with weight: ‘If you want my opinion—but it is only an opinion, remember—then, yes, I think she is dead…’
‘Why do you think so?’
Hercule Poirot smiled slightly.
He said: ‘It would not make sense to you if I said it was because of a pair of unworn stockings in a drawer.’ Alistair Blunt stared at him curiously. ‘You’re an odd man, M. Poirot.’
‘I am very odd. That is to say, I am methodical, orderly and logical—and I do not like distorting facts to support a theory—that, I find—is unusual!’
Alistair Blunt said: ‘I’ve been turning the whole thing over in my mind—it takes me a little time always to think a thing out. And the whole business is deuced odd! I mean—that dentist chap shooting himself, and then this Chapman woman packed away in her own fur chest with her face smashed in. It’s nasty! It’s damned nasty! I can’t help feeling that there’s something behind it all.’ Poirot nodded.
Blunt said: ‘And you know—the more I think of it—I’m quite sure that woman never knew my wife. It was just a pretext to speak to me. But why? What good did it do her? I mean—bar a small subscription—and even that was made out to the society, not to her personally. And yet I do feel—that—that it was engineered—just meeting me on the steps of the house. It was all so pat. So suspiciously well-timed! But why? That’s what I keep asking myself—why?’
‘It is indeed the word—why? I too ask myself—and I cannot see it—no, I cannot see it.’
‘You’ve no ideas at all on the subject?’
Poirot waved an exasperated hand. ‘My ideas are childish in the extreme. I tell myself, it was perhaps a ruse to indicate you to someone—to point you out. But that again is absurd—you are quite a well-known man—and anyway how much more simple to say “See, that is he—the man who entered now by that door.”
‘And anyway,’ said Blunt, ‘why should anyone want to point me out?’
‘Mr Blunt, think back once more on your time that morning in the dentist’s chair. Did nothing that Morley said strike an unusual note? Is there nothing at all that you can remember which might help as a clue?’ Alistair Blunt frowned in an effort of memory. Then he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything.’
‘You’re quite sure he didn’t mention this woman—this Miss Sainsbury Seale?’
‘No.’
‘Or the other woman—Mrs Chapman?’
‘No—no—we didn’t speak of people at all. We mentioned roses, gardens needing rain, holidays—nothing else.’ ‘And no one came into the room while you were there?’
‘Let me see—no, I don’t think so. On other occasions I seem to remember a young woman being there—fair-haired girl. But she wasn’t there this time. Oh, another dentist fellow came in, I remember—the fellow with an Irish accent.’
‘What did he say or do?’
‘Just asked Morley some question and went out again. Morley was a bit short with him, I fancy. He was only there a minute or so.’
‘And there is nothing else you can remember? Nothing at all?’
‘No. He was absolutely normal.’
Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully: ‘I, too, found him absolutely normal.’ There was a long pause. Then Poirot said: ‘Do you happen to remember, Monsieur, a young man who was in the waiting-room downstairs with you that morning?’
Alistair Blunt frowned. ‘Let me see—yes, there was a young man—rather restless he was. I don’t remember him particularly, though. Why?’
‘Would you know him again if you saw him?’ Blunt shook his head. ‘I hardly glanced at him.’
‘He didn’t try to enter into conversation with you at all?’
‘No.’
Blunt looked with frank curiosity at the other.
‘What’s the point? Who is this young man?’
‘His name is Howard Raikes.’
Poirot watched keenly for any reaction, but he saw none.
‘Ought I to know his name? Have I met him elsewhere?’
‘I do not think you have met him. He is a friend of your niece, Miss Olivera’s.’
‘Oh, one of Jane’s friends.’
‘Her mother, I gather, does not approve of the friendship.’
Alistair Blunt said absently: ‘I don’t suppose that will cut any ice with Jane.’
‘So seriously does her mother regard the friendship that I gather she brought her daughter
over from the States on purpose to get her away from this young man.’
‘Oh!’ Blunt’s face registered comprehension. ‘It’s that fellow, is it?’
‘Aha, you become more interested now.’
‘He’s a most undesirable young fellow in every way, I believe. Mixed up in a lot of subversive activities.’
‘I understand from Miss Olivera that he made an appointment that morning in Queen Charlotte Street, solely in order to get a look at you.’
‘To try and get me to approve of him?’
‘Well—no—I understand the idea was that he should be induced to approve of you.’
‘Well, of all the damned cheek!’ Poirot concealed a smile.
‘It appears you are everything that he most disapproves of.’
‘He’s certainly the kind of young man I disapprove of! Spends his time tub-thumping and talking hot air, instead of doing a decent job of work!’ Poirot was silent for a minute, then he said: ‘Will you forgive me if I ask you an impertinent and very personal question?’
‘Fire ahead.’
‘In the event of your death, what are your testamentary dispositions?’
Blunt stared. He said sharply: ‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘Because, it is just possible,’ he shrugged his shoulders—‘that it might be relevant to this case.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘Perhaps. But perhaps not.’
Alistair Blunt said coldly: ‘I think you are being unduly melodramatic, M. Poirot. Nobody has been trying to murder me —or anything like that!’
‘A bomb on your breakfast table—a shot in the street—’
‘Oh those! Any man who deals in the world’s finance in a big way is liable to that kind of attention from some crazy fanatic!’
‘It might possibly be a case of someone who is not a fanatic and not crazy.’
