by Mark Place
Frank Carter said sullenly: ‘He’s made a mistake now.’
‘Quiet, you,’ said Raikes.
Hercule Poirot murmured to himself: ‘I wonder…’
IV
Dressing for dinner, adjusting his tie to an exact symmetry, Hercule Poirot frowned at his reflection in the mirror. He was dissatisfied—but he would have been at a loss to explain why. For the case, as he owned to himself, was so very clear. Frank Carter had indeed been caught red-handed.
It was not as though he had any particular belief in, or liking for, Frank Carter. Carter, he thought dispassionately, was definitely what the English call a ‘wrong ’un’. He was an unpleasant young bully of the kind that appeals to women, so that they are reluctant to believe the worst, however plain the evidence. And Carter’s whole story was weak in the extreme. This tale of having been approached by agents of the ‘Secret Service’—and offered a plummy job. To take the post of gardener and report on the conversations and actions of the other gardeners. It was a story that was disproved easily enough—there was no foundation for it. A particularly weak invention—the kind of thing, Poirot reflected, that a man like Carter would invent. And on Carter’s side, there was nothing at all to be said. He could offer no explanation, except that somebody else must have shot off the revolver. He kept repeating that. It was a frame-up. No, there was nothing to be said for Carter except, perhaps, that it seemed an odd coincidence that Howard Raikes should have been present two days running at the moment when a bullet had just missed Alistair Blunt. But presumably there wasn’t anything in that. Raikes certainly hadn’t fired the shot in Downing Street.
And his presence down here was fully accounted for—he had come down to be near his girl. No, there was nothing definitely improbable in his story. It had turned out, of course, very fortunately for Howard Raikes. When a man has just saved you from a bullet, you cannot forbid him the house. The least you can do is to show friendliness and extend hospitality. Mrs Olivera didn’t like it, obviously, but even she saw that there was nothing to be done about it. Jane’s undesirable young man had got his foot in and he meant to keep it there! Poirot watched him speculatively during the evening.
He was playing his part with a good deal of astuteness. He did not air any subversive views, he kept off politics. He told amusing stories of his hitch-hikes and tramps in wild places. ‘He is no longer the wolf,’ thought Poirot. ‘No, he has put on the sheep’s clothing. But underneath? I wonder…’ As Poirot was preparing for bed that night, there was a rap on the door. Poirot called, ‘Come in,’ and Howard Raikes entered. He laughed at Poirot’s expression. ‘Surprised to see me? I’ve had my eye on you all evening. I didn’t like the way you were looking. Kind of thoughtful.’
‘Why should that worry you, my friend?’
‘I don’t know why, but it did. I thought maybe that you were finding certain things just a bit hard to swallow.’
‘Eh bien? And if so?’
‘Well, I decided that I’d best come clean. About yesterday, I mean. That was a fake show all right! You see, I was watching his lordship come out of 10, Downing Street and I saw Ram Lal fire at him. I know Ram Lal. He’s a nice kid. A bit excitable but he feels the wrongs of India very keenly. Well, there was no harm done, that precious pair of stuffed shirts weren’t harmed—the bullet had missed ’em both by miles—so I decided to put up a show and hope the Indian kid would get clear. I grabbed hold of a shabby little guy just by me and called out that I’d got the villain and hoped Ram Lal was beating it all right. But the dicks were too smart. They were on to him in a flash. That’s just how it was. See?’
Hercule Poirot said: ‘And today?’
‘That’s different. There weren’t any Ram Lals about today. Carter was the only man on the spot. He fired that pistol all right! It was still in his hand when I jumped on him. He was going to try a second shot, I expect.’
Poirot said: ‘You were very anxious to preserve the safety of M. Blunt?’ Raikes grinned—an engaging grin. ‘A bit odd, you think, after all I’ve said? Oh, I admit it. I think Blunt is a guy who ought to be shot—for the sake of Progress and Humanity—I don’t mean personally—he’s a nice enough old boy in his British way. I think that, and yet when I saw someone taking a pot-shot at him I leap in and interfere. That shows you how illogical the human animal is. It’s crazy, isn’t it?’
‘The gap between theory and practice is a wide one.’
‘I’ll say it is!’ Mr Raikes got up from the bed where he had been sitting. His smile was easy and confiding. ‘I just thought,’ he said, ‘that I’d come along and explain the thing to you.’ He went out shutting the door carefully behind him.
V
‘Deliver me, O Lord, from the evil man: and preserve me from the wicked man,’ sang Mrs Olivera in a firm voice, slightly off the note. There was a relentlessness about her enunciation of the sentiment which made Hercule Poirot deduce that Mr Howard Raikes was the wicked man immediately in her mind. Hercule Poirot had accompanied his host and the family to the morning service in the village church. Howard Raikes had said with a faint sneer: ‘So you always go to church, Mr Blunt?’ And Alistair had murmured vaguely something about it being expected of you in the country—can’t let the parson down, you know—which typically English sentiment had merely bewildered the young man, and had made Hercule Poirot smile comprehendingly. Mrs Olivera had tactfully accompanied her host and commanded Jane to do likewise.
‘They have sharpened their tongues like a serpent,’ sang the choir boys in shrill treble, ‘adder’s poison is under their lips.’
The tenors and basses demanded with gusto: ‘Keep me, O Lord, from the hands of the ungodly. Preserve me from the wicked men who are purposed to overthrow my goings.’
Hercule Poirot essayed in a hesitant baritone. ‘The proud have laid a snare for me,’ he sang, ‘and spread a net with cords: yea, and set traps in my way…’ His mouth remained open. He saw it—saw clearly the trap into which he had so nearly fallen! Like a man in a trance Hercule Poirot remained, mouth open, staring into space. He remained there as the congregation seated themselves with a rustle; until Jane Olivera tugged at his arm and murmured a sharp, ‘Sit down.’
Hercule Poirot sat down. An aged clergyman with a beard intoned: ‘Here beginneth the fifteenth chapter of the First Book of Samuel,’ and began to read. But Poirot heard nothing of the smiting of the Amalekites. A snare cunningly laid—a net with cords—a pit open at his feet—dug carefully so that he should fall into it. He was in a daze—a glorious daze where isolated facts spun wildly round before settling neatly into their appointed places. It was like a kaleidoscope—shoe buckles, 10-inch stockings, a damaged face, the low tastes in literature of Alfred the page-boy, the activities of Mr Amberiotis, and the part played by the late Mr Morley, all rose up and whirled and settled themselves down into a coherent pattern. For the first time, Hercule Poirot was looking at the case the right way up. ‘For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft and stubborness is as iniquity and idolatry. Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord he hath also rejected thee from being king. Here endeth the first lesson,’ quavered the aged clergyman all in one breath. As one in a dream, Hercule Poirot rose to praise the Lord in the Te Deum.
Thirteen, Fourteen, Maids are Courting
I
‘M. Reilly, is it not?’
The young Irishman started as the voice spoke at his elbow. He turned. Standing next to him at the counter of the Shipping Co. was a small man with large moustaches and an egg-shaped head. ‘You do not remember me, perhaps?’
‘You do yourself an injustice, M. Poirot. You’re not a man that’s easily forgotten.’ He turned back to speak to the clerk behind the counter who was waiting. The voice at his elbow murmured: ‘You are going abroad for a holiday?’
‘It’s not a holiday I’m taking. And you yourself, M. Poirot? You’re not turning your back on this country, I hope?’
‘Sometimes,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘I return for a
short while to my own country—Belgium.’
‘I’m going farther than that,’ said Reilly. ‘It’s America for me.’ He added: ‘And I don’t think I’ll be coming back, either.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Reilly. You are, then, abandoning your practice in Queen Charlotte Street.’
‘If you’d say it was abandoning me, you’d be nearer the mark.’
‘Indeed? That is very sad.’
‘It doesn’t worry me. When I think of the debts I shall leave behind me unpaid, I’m a happy man.’
He grinned engagingly. ‘It’s not I who’ll be shooting myself because of money troubles. Leave them behind you, I say, and start afresh. I’ve got my qualifications and they’re good ones if I say so myself.’ Poirot murmured: ‘I saw Miss Morley the other day.’
‘Was that a pleasure to you? I’d say it was not. A more sour-faced woman never lived. I’ve often wondered what she’d be like drunk—but that’s what no one will ever know.’ Poirot said: ‘Did you agree with the verdict of the Coroner’s Court on your partner’s death?’
‘I did not,’ said Reilly emphatically.
‘You don’t think he made a mistake in the injection?’
Reilly said: ‘If Morley injected that Greek with the amount that they say he did, he was either drunk or else he meant to kill the man. And I’ve never seen Morley drink.’
‘So you think it was deliberate?’
‘I’d not like to be saying that. It’s a grave accusation to be making. Truly now, I don’t believe it.’
‘There must be some explanation.’
‘There must indeed—but I’ve not thought of it yet.’
Poirot said: ‘When did you last actually see Mr Morley alive?’
‘Let me see now. It’s a long time after to be asking me a thing like that. It would be the night before—about a quarter to seven.’
‘You didn’t see him on the actual day of the murder?’ Reilly shook his head. ‘You are sure?’ Poirot persisted. ‘Oh, I’d not say that. But I don’t remember—’
‘You did not, for instance, go up to his room about eleven-thirty-five when he had a patient there?’
‘You’re right now. I did. There was a technical question I had to ask him about some instruments I was ordering. They’d rung me up about it. But I was only there for a minute, so it slipped my memory. He had a patient there at the time.’
Poirot nodded. He said: ‘There is another question I always meant to ask you. Your patient, Mr Raikes, cancelled his appointment by walking out. What did you do during that half-hour’s leisure?’
‘What I always do when I have any leisure. Mixed myself a drink. And as I’ve been telling you, I put through a telephone call and ran up to see Morley for a minute.’
Poirot said: ‘And I also understand that you had no patient from half-past twelve to one after Mr Barnes left. When did he leave, by the way?’
‘Oh! Just after half-past twelve.’
‘And what did you do then?’
‘The same as before. Mixed myself another drink!’
‘And went up to see Morley again?’ Mr Reilly smiled. ‘Are you meaning did I go up and shoot him? I’ve told you already, long ago, that I did not. But you’ve only my word for it.’
Poirot said: ‘What did you think of the house-parlourmaid, Agnes?’ Reilly stared: ‘Now that’s a funny question to be asking.’
‘But I should like to know.’
‘I’ll answer you. I didn’t think about her. Georgina kept a strict eye on the maids—and quite right too. The girl never looked my way once—which was bad taste on her part.’
‘I have a feeling,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘that that girl knows something.’
He looked inquiringly at Mr Reilly. The latter smiled and shook his head. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said. ‘I know nothing about it. I can’t help you at all.’ He gathered up the tickets which were lying in front of him and went off with a nod and a smile. Poirot explained to a disillusioned clerk that he would not make up his mind about that cruise to the Northern Capitals after all.
II
Poirot paid another visit to Hampstead. Mrs Adams was a little surprised, perhaps, to see him. Though he had been vouched for, so to speak, by a Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, she nevertheless regarded him as a ‘quaint little foreigner’ and had not taken his pretentions very seriously. She was, however, very willing to talk. After the first sensational announcement about the identity of the victim, the finding of the inquest had received very little publicity. It had been a case of mistaken identity—the body of Mrs Chapman had been mistaken for that of Miss Sainsbury Seale. That was all that the public knew. The fact that Miss Sainsbury Seale had been probably the last person to see the unfortunate Mrs Chapman alive was not stressed. There had been no hint in the Press that Miss Sainsbury Seale might possibly be wanted by the police on a criminal charge.
Mrs Adams had been very relieved when she knew that it was not her friend’s body which had been discovered so dramatically. She appeared to have no idea that any suspicion might attach to Mabelle Sainsbury Seale. ‘But it is so extraordinary that she has disappeared like this. I feel sure, M. Poirot, that it must be loss of memory.’ Poirot said that it was very probable. He had known cases of the kind. ‘Yes—I remember a friend of one of my cousins. She’d had a lot of nursing and worry, and it brought it on. Amnesia, I think they called it.’
Poirot said that he believed that that was the technical term.
He paused and then asked if Mrs Adams had ever heard Miss Sainsbury Seale speak of a Mrs Albert Chapman? No, Mrs Adams never remembered her friend mentioning anyone of that name. But then, of course, it wasn’t likely that Miss Sainsbury Seale should happen to mention everyone with whom she was acquainted. Who was this Mrs Chapman? Had the police any idea who could have murdered her? ‘It is still a mystery, Madame.’ Poirot shook his head and then asked if it was Mrs Adams who had recommended Mr Morley as a dentist to Miss Sainsbury Seale. Mrs Adams replied in the negative. She herself went to a Mr French in Harley Street, and if Mabelle had asked her about a dentist she would have sent her to him. Possibly, Poirot thought, it might have been this Mrs Chapman who recommended Miss Sainsbury Seale to go to Mr Morley. Mrs Adams agreed that it might have been. Didn’t they know at the dentist’s?
But Poirot had already asked Miss Nevill that question and Miss Nevill had not known or had not remembered. She recollected Mrs Chapman, but did not think the latter had ever mentioned a Miss Sainsbury Seale—the name being an odd one, she would have remembered it had she heard it then. Poirot persevered with his questions. Mrs Adams had known Miss Sainsbury Seale first in India, had she not? Mrs Adams agreed. Did Mrs Adams know if Miss Sainsbury Seale had met Mr or Mrs Alistair Blunt at any time out there? ‘Oh, I don’t think so, M. Poirot. You mean the big banker? They were out some years ago staying with the Viceroy, but I’m sure if Mabelle had met them at all, she would have talked about it or mentioned them.’
‘I’m afraid,’ added Mrs Adams, with a faint smile, ‘one does usually mention the important people.
We’re all such snobs at heart.’
‘She never did mention the Blunts—Mrs Blunt in particular?’
‘Never.’
‘If she had been a close friend of Mrs Blunt’s probably you would have known?’
‘Oh yes. I don’t believe she knew anyone like that. Mabelle’s friends were all very ordinary people—like us.’
‘That, Madame, I cannot allow,’ said Poirot gallantly.
Mrs Adams went on talking of Mabelle Sainsbury Seale as one talks of a friend who has recently died. She recalled all Mabelle’s good works, her kindnesses, her indefatigable work for the mission, her zeal, her earnestness. Hercule Poirot listened. As Japp had said, Mabelle Sainsbury Seale was a real person. She had lived in Calcutta and taught elocution and worked amongst the native population. She had been respectable, well meaning, a little fussy and stupid perhaps, but also what is termed a woman with a he
art of gold. And Mrs Adams’ voice ran on: ‘She was so much in earnest over everything, M. Poirot. And she found people so apathetic—so hard to rouse. It was very difficult to get subscriptions out of people—worse every year, with the income tax rising and the cost of living and everything. She said to me once: “When one knows what money can do—the wonderful good you can accomplish with it—well, really sometimes, Alice, I feel I would commit a crime to get it.” That shows, doesn’t it, M. Poirot, how strongly she felt?’
‘She said that, did she?’ said Poirot thoughtfully. He asked, casually, when Miss Sainsbury Seale had enunciated this particular statement, and learned that it had been about three months ago. He left the house and walked away lost in thought. He was considering the character of Mabelle Sainsbury Seale. A nice woman—an earnest and kindly woman—a respectable, decent type of woman. It was amongst that type of person that Mr Barnes had suggested a potential criminal could be found. She had travelled back on the same boat from India as Mr Amberiotis. There seemed reason to believe that she had lunched with him at the Savoy. She had accosted and claimed acquaintance with Alistair Blunt and laid claim to an intimacy with his wife. She had twice visited King Leopold Mansions where, later, a dead body had been found dressed in her clothes and with her handbag conveniently identifying it. A little too convenient, that! She had left the Glengowrie Court Hotel suddenly after an interview with the police. Could the theory that Hercule Poirot believed to be true account for and explain all those facts? He thought it could.
III
These meditations had occupied Hercule Poirot on his homeward way until reaching Regent’s Park. He decided to traverse a part of the Park before taking a taxi on. By experience, he knew to a nicety the moment when his smart patent leather shoes began to press painfully on his feet. It was a lovely summer’s day and Poirot looked indulgently on courting nursemaids and their swains, laughing and giggling while their chubby charges profited by nurse’s inattention. Dogs barked and romped. Little boys sailed boats. And under nearly every tree was a couple sitting close together…
