The telephone rang. Poirot let it ring for some moments, until he realized that Miss Lemon after bringing him his letters to sign, had gone home some time ago, and that George had probably gone out.
He picked up the receiver.
‘M. Poirot?’
‘Speaking!’
‘Oh how splendid.’ Poirot blinked slightly at the fervour of the charming female voice. ‘It’s Abbie Chatterton.’
‘Ah, Lady Chatterton. How can I serve you?’
‘By coming over as quickly as you can right away to a simply frightful cocktail party I am giving. Not just for the cocktail party – it’s for something quite different really. I need you. It’s absolutely vital. Please, please, please don’t let me down! Don’t say you can’t manage it.’
Poirot had not been going to say anything of the kind. Lord Chatterton, apart from being a peer of the realm and occasionally making a very dull speech in the House of Lords, was nobody in particular. But Lady Chatterton was one of the brightest jewels in what Poirot called le haut monde. Everything she did or said was news. She had brains, beauty, originality and enough vitality to activate a rocket to the moon.
She said again:
‘I need you. Just give that wonderful moustache of yours a lovely twirl, and come!’
It was not quite so quick as that. Poirot had first to make a meticulous toilet. The twirl to the moustaches was added and he then set off.
The door of Lady Chatterton’s delightful house in Cheriton Street was ajar and a noise as of animals mutinying at the zoo sounded from within. Lady Chatterton who was holding two ambassadors, an international rugger player and an American evangelist in play, neatly jettisoned them with the rapidity of sleight of hand and was at Poirot’s side.
‘M. Poirot, how wonderful to see you! No, don’t have that nasty Martini. I’ve got something special for you – a kind of sirop that the sheikhs drink in Morocco. It’s in my own little room upstairs.’
She led the way upstairs and Poirot followed her. She paused to say over her shoulder:
‘I didn’t put these people off, because it’s absolutely essential that no one should know there’s anything special going on here, and I’ve promised the servants enormous bonuses if not a word leaks out. After all, one doesn’t want one’s house besieged by reporters. And, poor darling, she’s been through so much already.’
Lady Chatterton did not stop at the first-floor landing, instead she swept on up to the floor above.
Gasping for breath and somewhat bewildered, Hercule Poirot followed.
Lady Chatterton paused, gave a rapid glance downwards over the banisters, and then flung open a door, exclaiming as she did so:
‘I’ve got him, Margharita! I’ve got him! Here he is!’
She stood aside in triumph to let Poirot enter, then performed a rapid introduction.
‘This is Margharita Clayton. She’s a very, very dear friend of mine. You’ll help her, won’t you? Margharita, this is that wonderful Hercule Poirot. He’ll do just everything you want – you will, won’t you, dear M. Poirot?’
And without waiting for the answer which she obviously took for granted (Lady Chatterton had not been a spoilt beauty all her life for nothing), she dashed out of the door and down the stairs, calling back rather indiscreetly, ‘I’ve got to go back to all these awful people . . .’
The woman who had been sitting in a chair by the window rose and came towards him. He would have recognized her even if Lady Chatterton had not mentioned her name. Here was that wide, that very wide brow, the dark hair that sprang away from it like wings, the grey eyes set far apart. She wore a close-fitting, high-necked gown of dull black that showed up the beauty of her body and the magnolia-whiteness of her skin. It was an unusual face, rather than a beautiful one – one of those oddly proportioned faces that one sometimes sees in an Italian primitive. There was about her a kind of medieval simplicity – a strange innocence that could be, Poirot thought, more devastating than any voluptuous sophistication. When she spoke it was with a kind of childlike candour.
‘Abbie says you will help me . . .’
She looked at him gravely and inquiringly.
For a moment he stood quite still, scrutinizing her closely. There was nothing ill-bred in his manner of doing it. It was more the kind but searching look that a famous consultant gives a new patient.
‘Are you sure, Madame,’ he said at last, ‘that I can help you?’
A little flush rose to her cheeks.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘What is it, Madame, that you want me to do?’
‘Oh,’ she seemed surprised. ‘I thought – you knew who I was?’
‘I know who you are. Your husband was killed – stabbed, and a Major Rich has been arrested and charged with his murder.’
The flush heightened.
‘Major Rich did not kill my husband.’
Quick as a flash Poirot said:
‘Why not?’
She stared, puzzled. ‘I – I beg your pardon?’
‘I have confused you – because I have not asked the question that everybody asks – the police – the lawyers . . . “Why should Major Rich kill Arnold Clayton?” But I ask the opposite. I ask you, Madame, why you are sure that Major Rich did not kill him?’
‘Because,’ she paused a moment – ‘because I know Major Rich so well.’
‘You know Major Rich so well,’ repeated Poirot tonelessly.
He paused and then said sharply:
‘How well?’
Whether she understood his meaning, he could not guess. He thought to himself: Here is either a woman of great simplicity or of great subtlety . . . Many people, he thought, must have wondered that about Margharita Clayton . . .
‘How well?’ She was looking at him doubtfully. ‘Five years – no, nearly six.’
‘That was not precisely what I meant . . . You must understand, Madame, that I shall have to ask you the impertinent questions. Perhaps you will speak the truth, perhaps you will lie. It is very necessary for a woman to lie sometimes. Women must defend themselves, and the lie, it can be a good weapon. But there are three people, Madame, to whom a woman should speak the truth. To her Father confessor, to her hairdresser, and to her private detective – if she trusts him. Do you trust me, Madame?’
Margharita Clayton drew a deep breath.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’ And added: ‘I must.’
‘Very well, then. What is it you want me to do – find out who killed your husband?’
‘I suppose so – yes.’
‘But it is not essential? You want me, then, to clear Major Rich from suspicion?’
She nodded quickly – gratefully.
‘That – and that only?’
It was, he saw, an unnecessary question. Margharita Clayton was a woman who saw only one thing at a time.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘for the impertinence. You and Major Rich, you are lovers, yes?’
‘Do you mean, were we having an affair together? No.’
‘But he was in love with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you – were in love with him?’
‘I think so.’
‘You do not seem quite sure?’
‘I am sure – now.’
‘Ah! You did not, then, love your husband?’
‘No.’
‘You reply with an admirable simplicity. Most women would wish to explain at great length just exactly what their feelings were. How long had you been married?’
‘Eleven years.’
‘Can you tell me a little about your husband – what kind of a man he was?’
She frowned.
‘It’s difficult. I don’t really know what kind of a man Arnold was. He was very quiet – very reserved. One didn’t know what he was thinking. He was clever, of course – everyone said he was brilliant – in his work, I mean . . . He didn’t – how can I put it – he never explained himself at all . . .’
&nbs
p; ‘Was he in love with you?’
‘Oh, yes. He must have been. Or he wouldn’t have minded so much –’ She came to a sudden stop.
‘About other men? That is what you were going to say? He was jealous?’
Again she said:
‘He must have been.’ And then, as though feeling that the phrase needed explanation, she went on. ‘Sometimes, for days, he wouldn’t speak . . .’
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. ‘This violence – that has come into your life. Is it the first that you have known?’
‘Violence?’ She frowned, then flushed. ‘Is it – do you mean – that poor boy who shot himself ?’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘I expect that is what I mean.’
‘I’d no idea he felt like that . . . I was sorry for him – he seemed so shy – so lonely. He must have been very neurotic, I think. And there were two Italians – a duel – It was ridiculous! Anyway, nobody was killed, thank goodness . . . And honestly, I didn’t care about either of them! I never even pretended to care.’
‘No. You were just – there! And where you are – things happen! I have seen that before in my life. It is because you do not care that men are driven mad. But for Major Rich you do care. So – we must do what we can . . .’
He was silent for a moment or two.
She sat there gravely, watching him.
‘We turn from personalities, which are often the really important things, to plain facts. I know only what has been in the papers. On the facts as given there, only two persons had the opportunity of killing your husband, only two persons could have killed him – Major Rich and Major Rich’s manservant.’
She said, stubbornly:
‘I know Charles didn’t kill him.’
‘So, then, it must have been the valet. You agree?’
She said doubtfully:
‘I see what you mean . . .’
‘But you are dubious about it?’
‘It just seems – fantastic!’
‘Yet the possibility is there. Your husband undoubtedly came to the flat, since his body was found there. If the valet’s story is true, Major Rich killed him. But if the valet’s story is false? Then, the valet killed him and hid the body in the chest before his master returned. An excellent way of disposing of the body from his point of view. He has only got to “notice the bloodstain” the next morning and “discover” it. Suspicion will immediately fall on Rich.’
‘But why should he want to kill Arnold?’
‘Ah why? The motive cannot be an obvious one – or the police would have investigated it. It is possible that your husband knew something to the valet’s discredit, and was about to acquaint Major Rich with the facts. Did your husband ever say anything to you about this man Burgess?’
She shook her head.
‘Do you think he would have done so – if that had indeed been the case?’
She frowned.
‘It’s difficult to say. Possibly not. Arnold never talked much about people. I told you he was reserved. He wasn’t – he was never – a chatty man.’
‘He was a man who kept his own counsel . . . Yes, now what is your opinion of Burgess?’
‘He’s not the kind of man you notice very much. A fairly good servant. Adequate but not polished.’
‘What age?’
‘About thirty-seven or -eight, I should think. He’d been a batman in the army during the war, but he wasn’t a regular soldier.’
‘How long had he been with Major Rich?’
‘Not very long. About a year and a half, I think.’
‘You never noticed anything odd about his manner towards your husband?’
‘We weren’t there so very often. No, I noticed nothing at all.’
‘Tell me now about the events of that evening. What time were you invited?’
‘Eight-fifteen for half past.’
‘And just what kind of a party was it to be?’
‘Well, there would be drinks, and a kind of buffet supper – usually a very good one. Foie gras and hot toast. Smoked salmon. Sometimes there was a hot rice dish – Charles had a special recipe he’d got in the Near East – but that was more for winter. Then we used to have music – Charles had got a very good stereophonic gramophone. Both my husband and Jock McLaren were very fond of classical records. And we had dance music – the Spences were very keen dancers. It was that sort of thing – a quiet informal evening. Charles was a very good host.’
‘And this particular evening – it was like other evenings there? You noticed nothing unusual – nothing out of place?’
‘Out of place?’ She frowned for a moment. ‘When you said that I – no, it’s gone. There was something . . .’ She shook her head again. ‘No. To answer your question, there was nothing unusual at all about that evening. We enjoyed ourselves. Everybody seemed relaxed and happy.’ She shivered. ‘And to think that all the time –’
Poirot held up a quick hand.
‘Do not think. This business that took your husband to Scotland, how much do you know about that?’
‘Not very much. There was some dispute over the restrictions on selling a piece of land which belonged to my husband. The sale had apparently gone through and then some sudden snag turned up.’
‘What did your husband tell you exactly?’
‘He came in with a telegram in his hand. As far as I remember, he said: “This is most annoying. I shall have to take the night mail to Edinburgh and see Johnston first thing tomorrow morning . . . Too bad when one thought the thing was going through smoothly at last.” Then he said: “Shall I ring up Jock and get him to call for you,” and I said “Nonsense, I’ll just take a taxi,” and he said that Jock or the Spences would see me home. I said did he want anything packed and he said he’d just throw a few things into a bag, and have a quick snack at the club, before catching the train. Then he went off and – and that’s the last time I saw him.’
Her voice broke a little on the last words.
Poirot looked at her very hard.
‘Did he show you the telegram?’
‘No.’
‘A pity.’
‘Why do you say that?’
He did not answer that question. Instead he said briskly:
‘Now to business. Who are the solicitors acting for Major Rich?’
She told him and he made a note of the address.
‘Will you write a few words to them and give it to me? I shall want to make arrangements to see Major Rich.’
‘He – it’s been remanded for a week.’
‘Naturally. That is the procedure. Will you also write a note to Commander McLaren and to your friends the Spences? I shall want to see all of them, and it is essential that they do not at once show me the door.’
When she rose from the writing-desk, he said:
‘One thing more. I shall register my own impressions, but I also want yours – of Commander McLaren and of Mr and Mrs Spence.’
‘Jock is one of our oldest friends. I’ve known him ever since I was a child. He appears to be quite a dour person, but he’s really a dear – always the same – always to be relied upon. He’s not gay and amusing but he’s a tower of strength – both Arnold and I relied on his judgement a lot.’
‘And he, also, is doubtless in love with you?’ Poirot’s eyes twinkled slightly.
‘Oh yes,’ said Margharita happily. ‘He’s always been in love with me – but by now it’s become a kind of habit.’
‘And the Spences?’
‘They’re amusing – and very good company. Linda Spence is really rather a clever girl. Arnold enjoyed talking with her. She’s attractive, too.’
‘You are friends?’
‘She and I? In a way. I don’t know that I really like her. She’s too malicious.’
‘And her husband?’
‘Oh, Jeremy is delightful. Very musical. Knows a good deal about pictures, too. He and I go to picture shows a good deal together . . .’
‘Ah, well, I shall see for
myself.’ He took her hand in his, ‘I hope, Madame, you will not regret asking for my help.’
‘Why should I regret it?’ Her eyes opened wide.
‘One never knows,’ said Poirot cryptically.
‘And I – I do not know,’ he said to himself, as he went down the stairs. The cocktail party was still in full spate, but he avoided being captured and reached the street.
‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I do not know.’
It was of Margharita Clayton he was thinking.
That apparently childlike candour, that frank innocence – Was it just that? Or did it mask something else? There had been women like that in medieval days – women on whom history had not been able to agree. He thought of Mary Stuart, the Scottish Queen. Had she known, that night in Kirk o’ Fields, of the deed that was to be done? Or was she completely innocent? Had the conspirators told her nothing? Was she one of those childlike simple women who can say to themselves ‘I do not know’ and believe it? He felt the spell of Margharita Clayton. But he was not entirely sure about her . . .
Such women could be, though innocent themselves, the cause of crimes.
Such women could be, in intent and design, criminals themselves, though not in action.
Theirs was never the hand that held the knife –
As to Margharita Clayton – no – he did not know!
III
Hercule Poirot did not find Major Rich’s solicitors very helpful. He had not expected to do so.
They managed to indicate, though without saying so, that it would be in their client’s best interest if Mrs Clayton showed no sign of activity on his behalf.
His visit to them was in the interests of ‘correctness’. He had enough pull with the Home Office and the CID to arrange his interview with the prisoner.
Inspector Miller, who was in charge of the Clayton case, was not one of Poirot’s favourites. He was not, however, hostile on this occasion, merely contemptuous.
‘Can’t waste much time over the old dodderer,’ he had said to his assisting sergeant before Poirot was shown in. ‘Still, I’ll have to be polite.’