Mrs. McGinty's Dead

  looks straight into the gasworks, we talk about amenities

  and facilities and don't mention the view. Hustle your

  client into it—that's what you're here to do. All sorts

  of little tricks there are. 'We advise you, Madam, to

  make an immediate offer. There's a member of Par­-

  liament who's very keen on it—very keen indeed. Going

  out to see it again this afternoon.' They fall for that

  every time—a member of Parliament is always a good

  touch. Can't think why! No member ever lives away

  from his constituency. It's just the good solid sound of

  it." He laughed suddenly, displayed gleaming dentures.

  "Psychology—that's what it is—just psychology."}

  }Poirot leaped at the word.}

  }"Psychology. How right you are. I see that you are a judge of men."}

  }"Not too bad. Not too bad," said Mr Scuttle mod­estly.}

  }"So I ask you again what was your impression of James Bentley? Between ourselves—strictly between ourselves—you think he killed the old woman?"}

  }Scuttle stared.}

  }"Of course."}

  }"And you think, too, that it was a likely thing for him to do—psychologically speaking?"}

  }"Well—if you put it like that—no, not really. Shouldn't have thought he had the guts. Tell you what, if you ask me, he was barmy. Put it that way, and it works. Always a bit soft in the head, and what with being out of a job and worrying and all that, he just went right over the edge."}

  }50 MRS. McGINTY'S DEAD}

  }"You had no special reason for discharging him?"}

  }Scuttle shook his head.}

  }"Bad time of year. Staff hadn't enough to do. We sacked the one who was least competent. That was Bentley. Always would be, I expect. Gave him a good reference and all that. He didn't get another job, though. No pep. Made a bad impression on people."}

  }It always came back to that, Poirot thought, as he left the office. James Bentley made a bad impression on people. He took comfort in considering various mur­derers he had known whom most people had found full of charm.}

  }2}

  "Excuse me, do you mind if I sit down here and talk to you for a moment?"}

  }Poirot, ensconced at a small table in the Blue Cat, looked up from the menu he was studying with a start. It was rather dark in the Blue Cat which specialised in an old world effect of oak and leaded panes, but the young woman who had just sat down opposite to him stood out brightly from her dark background.}

  }She had determinedly golden hair, and was wearing an electric blue jumper suit. Moreover Hercule Poirot was conscious of having noticed her somewhere only a short time previously.}

  }She went on:}

  }"I couldn't help, you see, hearing something of what you were saying to Mr Scuttle."}

  }Poirot nodded. He had realised that the partitions in the offices of Breather & Scuttle were made for con­venience rather than privacy. That had not worried him, since it was chiefly publicity that he desired.}

  }"You were typing," he said, "to the right of the back window."}

  }MRS. }McGINTY'S }DEAD 51}

  She nodded. Her teeth shone white in an acquiescing smile. A very healthy young woman, with a full buxom figure that Poirot approved. About thirty three or four, he judged, and by nature dark haired, but not one to be dictated to by nature.

  "About Mr Bentley," she said.

  "What about Mr Bentley?"

  "Is he going to appeal? Does it mean that there's new evidence? Oh I'm' so glad. I couldn't—I just couldn't believe he did it."

  Poirot's eyebrows rose.

  "So you never thought he did it," he said slowly.

  "Well, not at first. I thought it must be a mistake. But then the evidence—" she stopped.

  "Yes, the evidence," said Poirot.

  "There just didn't seem anyone else who could have done it. I thought perhaps he'd gone a little mad."

  }"Did he ever seem to you a little—what shall I say— queer?"}

  "Oh no. Not queer in that way. He was just shy and awkward as anyone might be. The truth was, he didn't make the best of himself. He hadn't confidence in himself." .

  Poirot looked at her. She certainly had confidence in herself. Possibly she had enough confidence for two.

  "You liked him?" he asked.

  }She flushed.}

  "Yes, I did. Amy—that's the other girl in the office— used to laugh at him and call him a drip, but I liked him very much. He was gentle and polite—and he knew a lot really. Things out of books, I mean."

  "Ah yes, things out of books."

  "He missed his mother. She'd been ill for years, you know. At least, not really ill, but not strong, and he'd done everything for her."

  }Poirot nodded. He knew those mothers.}

  52

  }MRS. McGinty's DEAD}

  }"And of course she'd looked after him, too. I mean taken care of his health and his chest in winter and what he ate and all that."}

  }Again he nodded. He asked:}

  "You and he were friends?"

  }''I don't know—not exactly. We used to talk some­times. But after he left here, he—I—I didn't see much of him. I wrote to him once in a friendly way, but he didn't answer."}

  }Poirot said gently:}

  "But you like him?"

  }She said rather defiantly:}

  }"Yes, I do...."}

  }"That is excellent," said Poirot.}

  }His mind switched back to the day of his interview with the condemned prisoner ... He saw James Bentley clearly. The mouse-coloured hair, the thin awkward body, the hands with their big knuckles and wrists, the Adam's apple in the lean neck. He saw the furtive em­barrassed—almost sly glance. Not straightforward, not a man whose word could be trusted—a secretive sly deceitful fellow with an ungracious muttering way of talking. . . . That was the impression James Bentley would give to most superficial observers. It was the im­pression he had given in the dock. The sort of fellow who would tell lies, and steal money, and hit an old woman over the head......}

  }But on Superintendent Spence, who knew men, he had not made that impression. Nor on Hercule Poirot ... And now here was this girl.}

  }"What is your name, Mademoiselle?" he asked.}

  }"Maude Williams. Is there anything I could do—to help?"}

  }"I think there is. There are people who believe, Miss Williams, that James Bentley is innocent. They are working to prove that fact. I am the person charged}

  }MRS. McGrNTVS DEAD S3}

  }with that investigation, and I may tell you that I have already made considerable progress—yes, considerable}

  progress."

  }He uttered that lie without a blush. To his mind it was a very necessary lie. Someone, somewhere, had got to be made uneasy. Maude Williams would talk, and talk was like a stone in a pond, it made a ripple that went on spreading outwards . . .}

  }He said: "You tell me that you and James Bentley talked together. He told you about his mother and his home life. Did he ever mention anyone with whom he, or perhaps his mother, was on bad terms?"

  Maude Williams reflected.}

  }"No—not what you'd call bad terms. His mother didn't like young women much, I gather."}

  "Mothers of devoted sons never like young women. No, I mean more than that. Some family feud, some enmity. Someone with a grudge?" She shook her head.

  }"He never mentioned anything of that kind."

  "Did he ever speak of his landlady, Mrs McGinty?" She shivered slightly.}

  }"Not by name. He said once that she gave him kip­pers much too often—and once he said his landlady was upset because she had lost her cat."}

  }"Did he ever—you must be honest, please—mention that he knew where she kept her money?"}

  }Some of the colour went out of the girl's face, but she threw up her chin defiantly.}

  }"Actually, he did. We were talking about people being distrustful of banks?
??and he said his old landlady kept her spare money under a floorboard. He said: 'I could help myself any day to it when she's out.' Not quite as a joke, he didn't joke, more as though he were really worried by her carelessness."}

  "Ah," said Poirot. "That is good. From my point of

  }54 MRS. McGINTY'S DEAD

  view, I mean. When James Bentley thinks of stealing, it presents itself to him as an action that is done behind

  someone's back. He might have said, you see, "Someday someone will knock her on the head for it. "

  "But either way, he wouldn't be meaning it."

  "Oh no. But talk, however light, however idle, gives

  away, inevitably, the sort of person you are. The wise

  criminal would never open his mouth, but criminals are seldom wise and usually vain and they talk a good deal—and so most criminals are caught."

  Maude Williams said abruptly:

  "Naturally."}

  }"But }someone }must have killed the old woman." "Who did? Do you know? Have you any idea?" 'Yes," said Hercule Poirot mendaciously. "I think I have a very good idea. But we are only at the begin­ning of the road."}

  }The girl glanced at her watch.}

  }"I must get back. We're only supposed to take half an hour. One horse place, Kilchester—I've always had jobs in London before. You'll let me know if there's anything I can do—really }do, }I mean?"}

  }Poirot took out one of his cards. On it he wrote Long Meadows and the telephone number.}

  }"That is where I am staying."}

  }His name, he noted with chagrin made no particular impression on her. The younger generation, he could not but feel, were singularly lacking in knowledge of notable celebrities.}

  }3}

  Hercule Poirot caught a bus back to Broadhinny} }feeling slightly more cheerful. At any rate there was one person who shared his belief in James Bentley's in-

  }MRS. McGINTY'S DEAD 55

  nocence. Bentley was not so friendless as he had made himself out to be.

  His mind went back again to Bentley in prison. What a dispiriting interview it had been. There had been no hope aroused, hardly a stirring of interest.

  "Thank you," Bentley had said dully, "but I don't suppose there is anything anyone can do."

  No, he was sure he had not got any enemies.

  "When people barely notice you're alive, you're not likely to have any enemies."

  "Your mother? Did she have an enemy?"

  "Certainly not. Everyone liked and respected her."

  There was a faint indignation in his tone.

  "What about your friends?"

  And James Bentley had said, or rather muttered, "I haven't any friends . . ."

  }But that had not been quite true. For Maude Wil­liams was a friend.}

  }"What a wonderful dispensation it is of Nature's," thought Hercule Poirot, "that every man, however superficially unattractive, should be some woman's choice."}

  }For all Miss William's sexy appearance, he had a shrewd suspicion that she was really the maternal type.}

  She had the qualities that James Bentley lacked, the energy, the drive, the refusal to be beaten, the deter­mination to succeed.

  He sighed.

  }What monstrous lies he had told that day! Never mind—they were necessary.}

  }"For somewhere," said Poirot to himself, indulging in an absolute riot of mixed metaphors, "there is in the hay a needle, and among the sleeping dogs there is one on whom I shall put my foot, and by shooting the ar­rows into the air, one will come down and hit a glass house!"}

  }CHAPTER 7 } The cottage where Mrs McGinty had lived was only a few steps from the bus stop. Two children were play­ing on the doorstep. One was eating a rather wormy looking apple and the other was shouting and beating on the door with a tin tray. They appeared quite happy. Poirot added to the noise by beating hard on the door himself.}

  }A woman looked round the corner of the house. She had on a coloured overall and her hair was untidy.}

  }"Stop it, Ernie," she said.}

  }"Shan't," said Ernie and continued.}

  }Poirot deserted the doorstep and made for the corner of the house.}

  }"Can't do anything with children, can you?" the woman said.}

  }Poirot thought you could, but forbore to say so.

  He was beckoned round to the back door.

  "I keep the front bolted up, sir. Come in, won't you?"

  Poirot passed through a very dirty scullery into an almost more dirty kitchen.}

  }"She wasn't killed here," said the woman. "In the parlour."}

  }Poirot blinked slightly.}

  }"That's what you're down about, isn't it? You're the foreign gentleman from up at Summerhayes?"}

  56

  }MRS. McGinty's DEAD 57

  "So you know all about me?" said Poirot. He

  beamed. "Yes, indeed, Mrs—"}

  }

  "Kiddle. My husband's a plasterer. Moved in four months ago, we did. Been living with Bert's mother be­fore . . . Some folks said: 'You'd never go into a house where there's been a murder, surely?'—but what I said was, a house is a house, and better than a back sitting room and sleeping on two chairs. Awful, this 'ousing shortage, isn't it? And anyway we've never been troubled 'ere. Always say they }walk }if they've been murdered, but she doesn't! Like to see where it hap­pened?"

  Feeling like a tourist being taken on a conducted}

  tour, Poirot assented.

  }Mrs Kiddle led him into a small room overburdened with a heavy Jacobean suite. Unlike the rest of the house it showed no signs of ever having been occupied.}

  }"Down on the floor she was and the back of her head split open. Didn't half give Mrs Elliot a turn. She's the one what found her—she and Larkin who comes from the Co-op with the bread. But the money was took from upstairs. Come along up and I'll show}

  }you where."}

  }Mrs Kiddle led the way up the staircase and into a bedroom which contained a large chest of drawers, a big brass bed, some chairs, and a fine assembly of baby clothes, wet and dry.}

  }"Right here it was," said Mrs Kiddle proudly.}

  }Poirot looked round him. Hard to visualise that this rampant stronghold of haphazard fecundity was once the well scrubbed domain of an elderly woman who was houseproud. Here Mrs McGinty had lived and slept.}

  "I suppose this isn't her furniture?"

  }"Oh no. Her niece over to Cullavon took away all that."}

  58 MRS. McGinty's }DEAD}

  }There was nothing left here of Mrs McGinty. The Kiddles had come and conquered. Life was stronger than death.}

  }From downstairs the loud fierce wail of a baby arose.

  "That's the baby woken up," said Mrs Kiddle un­necessarily.}

  }She plunged down the stairs and Poirot followed her.}

  }There was nothing here for him. He went next door.}

  }2}

  "Yes, sir, it was me found her."}

  }Mrs Elliot was dramatic. A neat house, this, neat and prim. The only drama in it was Mrs Elliot, a tall gaunt dark-haired woman, recounting her one moment of glorious living.}

  }"Larkin, the baker, he came and knocked at the door. 'It's Mrs McGinty,' he says, 'we can't make her hear. Seems she might have been taken bad.' And in­deed I thought she might. She wasn't a young woman, not by any means. And palpitations she'd had, to my certain knowledge. I thought she might have had a stroke. So I hurried over, seeing as there were only the two men, and naturally they wouldn't like to go into the bedroom."}

  }Poirot accepted this piece of propriety with an assent­ing murmur.}

  }"Hurried up the stairs, I did. }He }was on the landing, pale as death he was. Not that I ever thought at the time— Well of course then I didn't know what had happened. I knocked on the door loud and there wasn't any answer so I turned the handle and I went in. The whole place messed about—and the board in the floor up. 'It's robbery,' I said. 'But where's the poor soul her-}

  }MRS. McGinty's DEAD 59}

  }s
elf?' And then we thought to look in the sitting room. }And there she was . . . }Down on the floor with her poor head stove in. Murder! I saw at once what it was— murder! Couldn't be anything else! Robbery and mur­der! Here in Broadhinny. I screamed and I screamed! Quite a job they had with me. Came over all faint, I did. They had to go and get me brandy from the Three Ducks. And even then I was all of a shiver for hours and hours. 'Don't you take on, so, mother,' that's what the Sergeant said to me when he came. 'Don't you take on so. You go home and make yourself a nice cup of tea.' And so I did. And when Elliot came home, 'Why, whatever's happened?' he says, staring at me. Still all of a tremble I was. Always was sensitive from a child."