Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  ‘And then he drove off again?’

  ‘Yes. Why do you think it so interesting?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I thought perhaps she might have seen something interesting.’

  Ingrid flung the door open. She was wheeling a trolley.

  ‘We eat dinner now,’ she said, nodding brightly.

  ‘Goody,’ said Geraldine, ‘I’m starving.’

  I got up.

  ‘I must be going now,’ I said. ‘Goodbye, Geraldine.’

  ‘Goodbye. What about this thing?’ She picked up the fruit knife. ‘It’s not mine.’ Her voice became wistful. ‘I wish it were.’

  ‘It looks as though it’s nobody’s in particular, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Would that make it treasure trove, or whatever it is?’

  ‘Something of the kind,’ I said. ‘I think you’d better hang on to it. That is, hang on to it until someone else claims it. But I don’t think,’ I said truthfully, ‘that anybody will.’

  ‘Get me an apple, Ingrid,’ said Geraldine.

  ‘Apple?’

  ‘Pomme! Appel!’

  She did her linguistic best. I left them to it.

  Chapter 26

  Mrs Rival pushed open the door of the Peacock’s Arms and made a slightly unsteady progress towards the bar. She was murmuring under her breath. She was no stranger to this particular hostelry and was greeted quite affectionately by the barman.

  ‘How do, Flo,’ he said, ‘how’s tricks?’

  ‘It’s not right,’ said Mrs Rival. ‘It’s not fair. No, it’s not right. I know what I’m talking about, Fred, and I say it’s not right.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t right,’ said Fred, soothingly. ‘What is, I’d like to know? Want the usual, dear?’

  Mrs Rival nodded assent. She paid and began to sip from her glass. Fred moved away to attend to another customer. Her drink cheered Mrs Rival slightly. She still muttered under her breath but with a more good-humoured expression. When Fred was near her once more she addressed him again with a slightly softened manner.

  ‘All the same, I’m not going to put up with it,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not. If there’s one thing I can’t bear, it’s deceit. I don’t stand for deceit, I never did.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t,’ said Fred.

  He surveyed her with a practised eye. ‘Had a good few already,’ he thought to himself. ‘Still, she can stand a couple more, I expect. Something’s upset her.’

  ‘Deceit,’ said Mrs Rival. ‘Prevari—prevari—well, you know the word I mean.’

  ‘Sure I know,’ said Fred.

  He turned to greet another acquaintance. The unsatisfactory performance of certain dogs came under review. Mrs Rival continued to murmur.

  ‘I don’t like it and I won’t stand for it. I shall say so. People can’t think they can go around treating me like that. No, indeed they can’t. I mean, it’s not right and if you don’t stick up for yourself, who’ll stick up for you? Give me another, dearie,’ she added in a louder voice.

  Fred obliged. ‘I should go home after that one, if I were you,’ he advised. He wondered what had upset the old girl so much. She was usually fairly even-tempered. A friendly soul, always good for a laugh.

  ‘It’ll get me in bad, Fred, you see,’ she said. ‘When people ask you to do a thing, they should tell you all about it. They should tell you what it means and what they’re doing. Liars. Dirty liars, that’s what I say. And I won’t stand for it.’

  ‘I should cut along home, if I were you,’ said Fred, as he observed a tear about to trickle down the mascaraed splendour. ‘Going to come on to rain soon, it is, and rain hard, too. Spoil that pretty hat of yours.’ Mrs Rival gave one faint appreciative smile.

  ‘I always was fond of cornflowers,’ she said. ‘Oh, dear me, I don’t know what to do, I’m sure.’

  ‘I should go home and have a nice kip,’ said the barman, kindly. ‘Well, perhaps, but—’

  ‘Come on, now, you don’t want to spoil that hat.’

  ‘That’s very true,’ said Mrs Rival. ‘Yes, that’s very true. That’s a very prof—profumed—no I don’t mean that—what do I mean?’

  ‘Profound remark of yours, Fred.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Fred.

  Mrs Rival slipped down from her high seat and went not too steadily towards the door.

  ‘Something seems to have upset old Flo tonight,’ said one of the customers.

  ‘She’s usually a cheerful bird—but we all have our ups and downs,’ said another man, a gloomy-looking individual.

  ‘If anyone had told me,’ said the first man, ‘that Jerry Grainger would come in fifth, way behind Queen Caroline, I wouldn’t have believed it. If you ask me, there’s been hanky-panky. Racing’s not straight nowadays. Dope the horses, they do. All of ’em.’

  Mrs Rival had come out of the Peacock’s Arms. She looked up uncertainly at the sky. Yes, perhaps it was going to rain. She walked along the street, hurrying slightly, took a turn to the left, a turn to the right and stopped before a rather dingy-looking house. As she took out a key and went up the front steps a voice spoke from the area below, and a head poked round a corner of the door and looked up at her.

  ‘Gentleman waiting for you upstairs.’

  ‘For me?’

  Mrs Rival sounded faintly surprised.

  ‘Well, if you call him a gentleman. Well dressed and all that, but not quite Lord Algernon Vere de Vere, I would say.’

  Mrs Rival succeeded in finding the keyhole, turned the key in it and entered. The house smelled of cabbage and fish and eucalyptus. The latter smell was almost permanent in this particular hall. Mrs Rival’s landlady was a great believer in taking care of her chest in winter weather and began the good work in mid-September. Mrs Rival climbed the stairs, aiding herself with the banisters. She pushed open the door on the first floor and went in, then she stopped dead and took a step backwards. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it’s you.’

  Detective Inspector Hardcastle rose from the chair where he was sitting. ‘Good evening, Mrs Rival.’

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Mrs Rival with less finesse than she would normally have shown.

  ‘Well, I had to come up to London on duty,’ said Inspector Hardcastle, ‘and there were just one or two things I thought I’d like to take up with you, so I came along on the chance of finding you. The—er—the woman downstairs seemed to think you might be in before long.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Rival. ‘Well, I don’t see—well—’

  Inspector Hardcastle pushed forward a chair.

  ‘Do sit down,’ he said politely.

  Their positions might have been reversed, he the host and she the guest. Mrs Rival sat down. She stared at him very hard.

  ‘What did you mean by one or two things?’ she said.

  ‘Little points,’ said Inspector Hardcastle, ‘little points that come up.’

  ‘You mean—about Harry?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Now look here,’ said Mrs Rival, a slight belligerence coming into her voice; at the same time as an aroma of spirits came clearly to Inspector Hardcastle’s nostrils. ‘I’ve had Harry. I don’t want to think of him anymore. I came forward, didn’t I, when I saw his picture in the paper? I came and told you about him. It’s all a long time ago and I don’t want to be reminded of it. There’s nothing more I can tell you. I’ve told you everything I could remember and now I don’t want to hear any more about it.’

  ‘It’s quite a small point,’ said Inspector Hardcastle. He spoke gently and apologetically.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Mrs Rival, rather ungraciously. ‘What is it? Let’s have it.’

  ‘You recognized the man as your husband or the man you’d gone through a form of marriage with about fifteen years ago. That is right, is it not?’

  ‘I should have thought that by this time you would have known exactly how many years ago it was.’

  �
��Sharper than I thought,’ Inspector Hardcastle said to himself. He went on.

  ‘Yes, you’re quite right there. We looked it up. You were married on May 15th, 1948.’

  ‘It’s always unlucky to be a May bride, so they say,’ said Mrs Rival gloomily. ‘It didn’t bring me any luck.’

  ‘In spite of the years that have elapsed, you were able to identify your husband quite easily.’

  Mrs Rival moved with some slight uneasiness.

  ‘He hadn’t aged much,’ she said, ‘always took care of himself, Harry did.’

  ‘And you were able to give us some additional identification. You wrote to me, I think, about a scar.’

  ‘That’s right. Behind his left ear it was. Here,’ Mrs Rival raised a hand and pointed to the place.

  ‘Behind his left ear?’ Hardcastle stressed the word.

  ‘Well—’ she looked momentarily doubtful, ‘yes. Well, I think so. Yes I’m sure it was. Of course one never does know one’s left from one’s right in a hurry, does one? But, yes, it was the left side of his neck. Here.’ She placed her hand on the same spot again.

  ‘And he did it shaving, you say?’

  ‘That’s right. The dog jumped up on him. A very bouncy dog we had at the time. He kept rushing in—affectionate dog. He jumped up on Harry and he’d got the razor in his hand, and it went in deep. It bled a lot. It healed up but he never lost the mark.’ She was speaking now with more assurance.

  ‘That’s a very valuable point, Mrs Rival. After all, one man sometimes looks very like another man, especially when a good many years have passed. But to find a man closely resembling your husband who has a scar in the identical place—well that makes the identification very nice and safe, doesn’t it? It seems that we really have something to go on.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re pleased,’ said Mrs Rival.

  ‘And this accident with the razor happened—when?’

  Mrs Rival considered a moment.

  ‘It must have been about—oh, about six months after we were married. Yes, that was it. We got the dog that summer, I remember.’

  ‘So it took place about October or November, 1948. Is that right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And after your husband left you in 1951…’

  ‘He didn’t so much leave me as I turned him out,’ said Mrs Rival with dignity.

  ‘Quite so. Whichever way you like to put it. Anyway, after you turned your husband out in 1951 you never saw him again until you saw his picture in the paper?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I told you.’

  ‘And you’re quite sure about that, Mrs Rival?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I never set eyes on Harry Castleton since that day until I saw him dead.’

  ‘That’s odd, you know,’ said Inspector Hardcastle, ‘that’s very odd.’

  ‘Why—what do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s a very curious thing, scar tissue. Of course, it wouldn’t mean much to you or me. A scar’s a scar. But doctors can tell a lot from it. They can tell roughly, you know, how long a man has had a scar.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Well, simply this, Mrs Rival. According to our police surgeon and to another doctor whom we consulted, that scar tissue behind your husband’s ear shows very clearly that the wound in question could not be older than about five to six years ago.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Rival. ‘I don’t believe it. I—nobody can tell. Anyway that wasn’t when…’

  ‘So you see,’ proceeded Hardcastle in a smooth voice, ‘if that wound made a scar only five or six years ago, it means that if the man was your husband he had no scar at the time when he left you in 1951.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t. But anyway it was Harry.’

  ‘But you’ve never seen him since, Mrs Rival. So if you’ve never seen him since, how would you know that he had acquired a scar five or six years ago?’

  ‘You mix me up,’ said Mrs Rival, ‘you mix me up badly. Perhaps it wasn’t as long ago as 1948—You can’t remember all these things. Anyway, Harry had that scar and I know it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Inspector Hardcastle and he rose to his feet. ‘I think you’d better think over that statement of yours very carefully, Mrs Rival. You don’t want to get into trouble, you know.’

  ‘How do you mean, get into trouble?’

  ‘Well,’ Inspector Hardcastle spoke almost apologetically, ‘perjury.’

  ‘Perjury. Me!’

  ‘Yes. It’s quite a serious offence in law, you know. You could get into trouble, even go to prison. Of course, you’ve not been on oath in a coroner’s court, but you may have to swear to this evidence of yours in a proper court sometime. Then—well, I’d like you to think it over very carefully, Mrs Rival. It may be that somebody—suggested to you that you should tell us this story about the scar?’

  Mrs Rival got up. She drew herself to her full height, her eyes flashed. She was at that moment almost magnificent.

  ‘I never heard such nonsense in my life,’ she said. ‘Absolute nonsense. I try and do my duty. I come and help you, I tell you all I can remember. If I’ve made a mistake I’m sure it’s natural enough. After all I meet a good many—well, gentlemen friends, and one may get things a little wrong sometimes. But I don’t think I did make a mistake. That man was Harry and Harry had a scar behind his left ear, I’m quite sure of it. And now, perhaps, Inspector Hardcastle, you’ll go away instead of coming here and insinuating that I’ve been telling lies.’ Inspector Hardcastle got up promptly. ‘Good night, Mrs Rival,’ he said. ‘Just think it over. That’s all.’

  Mrs Rival tossed her head. Hardcastle went out of the door. With his departure, Mrs Rival’s attitude altered immediately. The fine defiance of her attitude collapsed. She looked frightened and worried.

  ‘Getting me into this,’ she murmured, ‘getting me into this. I’ll—I’ll not go on with it. I’ll—I’ll—I’m not going to get into trouble for anybody. Telling me things, lying to me, deceiving me. It’s monstrous. Quite monstrous. I shall say so.’ She walked up and down unsteadily, then finally making up her mind, she took an umbrella from the corner and went out again. She walked along to the end of the street, hesitated at a call-box, then went on to a post office. She went in there, asked for change and went into one of the call-boxes. She dialled Directory and asked for a number. She stood there waiting till the call came through. ‘Go ahead please. Your party is on the line.’

  She spoke. ‘Hallo…oh, it’s you. Flo here. No, I know you told me not to but I’ve had to. You’ve not been straight with me. You never told me what I was getting into. You just said it would be awkward for you if this man was identified. I didn’t dream for a moment that I would get mixed up in a murder…Well, of course you’d say that, but at any rate it wasn’t what you told me…Yes, I do. I think you are mixed up in it in some way…Well, I’m not going to stand for it, I tell you…There’s something about being an—ac—well, you know the word I mean—accessory, something like that. Though I always thought that was costume jewellery. Anyway, it’s something like being a something after the fact, and I’m frightened, I tell you…telling me to write and tell them that bit about a scar. Now it seems he’d only got that scar a year or two ago and here’s me swearing he had it when he left me years ago…And that’s perjury and I might go to prison for it. Well, it’s no good your trying to talk me round…No…Obliging someone is one thing…Well I know…I know you paid me for it. And not very much either…Well, all right, I’ll listen to you, but I’m not going to…All right, all right, I’ll keep quiet…What did you say?…How much?…That’s a lot of money. How do I know that you’ve got it even…Well, yes, of course it would make a difference.

  You swear you didn’t have anything to do with it?—I mean with killing anyone…No, well I’m sure you wouldn’t. Of course, I see that…Sometimes you get mixed up with a crowd of people—and they go further than you would and it’s not your fault…You always make thing
s sound so plausible…You always did…Well, all right, I’ll think it over but it’s got to be soon…Tomorrow? What time?…Yes…yes, I’ll come but no cheque. It might bounce…I don’t know really that I ought to go on getting myself mixed up in things even…all right. Well, if you say so…Well, I didn’t mean to be nasty about it…All right then.’ She came out of the post office weaving from side to side of the pavement and smiling to herself. It was worth risking a little trouble with the police for that amount of money. It would set her up nicely. And it wasn’t very much risk really. She’d only got to say she’d forgotten or couldn’t remember. Lots of women couldn’t remember things that had only happened a year ago. She’d say she got mixed up between Harry and another man. Oh, she could think up lots of things to say. Mrs Rival was a naturally mercurial type. Her spirits rose as much now as they had been depressed before. She began to think seriously and intently of the first things she would spend the money on…

  Chapter 27

  Colin Lamb’s Narrative

  I

  ‘You don’t seem to have got much out of that Ramsay woman?’ complained Colonel Beck.

  ‘There wasn’t much to get.’

  ‘Sure of that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s not an active party?’

  ‘No.’

  Beck gave me a searching glance.

  ‘Satisfied?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You hoped for more?’

  ‘It doesn’t fill the gap.’

  ‘Well—we’ll have to look elsewhere…give up crescents—eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re very monosyllabic. Got a hangover?’

  ‘I’m no good at this job,’ I said slowly.

  ‘Want me to pat you on the head and say “There, there”?’

  In spite of myself I laughed.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Beck. ‘Now then, what’s it all about? Girl trouble, I suppose.’ I shook my head. ‘It’s been coming on for some time.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I’ve noticed it,’ said Beck unexpectedly. ‘The world’s in a confusing state nowadays. The issues aren’t clear as they used to be. When discouragement sets in, it’s like dry rot. Whacking great mushrooms bursting through the walls! If that’s so, your usefulness to us is over. You’ve done some first-class work, boy. Be content with that. Go back to those damned seaweeds of yours.’ He paused and said: ‘You really like the beastly things, don’t you?’