‘What is the truth of it all?’ demanded Miss Ellie Henderson waylaying Poirot. Her face was pale and troubled.
‘My dear lady, how should I know?’
‘Of course you know,’ said Miss Henderson.
It was late in the evening. Most people had retired to their cabins. Miss Henderson led Poirot to a couple of deck chairs on the sheltered side of the ship. ‘Now tell me,’ she commanded.
Poirot surveyed her thoughtfully. ‘It’s an interesting case,’ he said.
‘Is it true that she had some very valuable jewellery stolen?’
Poirot shook his head. ‘No. No jewellery was taken. A small amount of loose cash that was in a drawer has disappeared, though.’
‘I’ll never feel safe on a ship again,’ said Miss Henderson with a shiver. ‘Any clue as to which of those coffee-coloured brutes did it?’
‘No,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘The whole thing is rather—strange.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Ellie sharply.
Poirot spread out his hands. ‘Eh bien—take the facts. Mrs Clapperton had been dead at least five hours when she was found. Some money had disappeared. A string of beads was on the floor by her bed. The door was locked and the key was missing. The window—window, not port-hole—gives on the deck and was open.’
‘Well?’ asked the woman impatiently.
‘Do you not think it is curious for a murder to be committed under those particular circumstances? Remember that the postcard sellers, money changers and bead sellers who are allowed on board are all well known to the police.’
‘The stewards usually lock your cabin, all the same,’ Ellie pointed out.
‘Yes, to prevent any chance of petty pilfering. But this—was murder.’
‘What exactly are you thinking of, M. Poirot?’ Her voice sounded a little breathless.
‘I am thinking of the locked door.’
Miss Henderson considered this. ‘I don’t see anything in that. The man left by the door, locked it and took the key with him so as to avoid having the murder discovered too soon. Quite intelligent of him, for it wasn’t discovered until four o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘No, no, mademoiselle, you don’t appreciate the point I’m trying to make. I’m not worried as to how he got out, but as to how he got in.’
‘The window of course.’
‘C’est possible. But it would be a very narrow fit—and there were people passing up and down the deck all the time, remember.’
‘Then through the door,’ said Miss Henderson impatiently.
‘But you forget, mademoiselle. Mrs Clapperton had locked the door on the inside. She had done so before Colonel Clapperton left the boat this morning. He actually tried it—so we know that is so.’
‘Nonsense. It probably stuck—or he didn’t turn the handle properly.’
‘But it does not rest on his word. We actually heard Mrs Clapperton herself say so.’
‘We?’
‘Miss Mooney, Miss Cregan, Colonel Clapperton and myself.’
Ellie Henderson tapped a neatly shod foot. She did not speak for a moment or two. Then she said in a slightly irritable tone: ‘Well—what exactly do you deduce from that? If Mrs Clapperton could lock the door she could unlock it too, I suppose.’
‘Precisely, precisely.’ Poirot turned a beaming face upon her. ‘And you see where that leaves us. Mrs Clapperton unlocked the door and let the murderer in. Now would she be likely to do that for a bead seller?’
Ellie objected: ‘She might not have known who it was. He may have knocked—she got up and opened the door—and he forced his way in and killed her.’
Poirot shook his head. ‘Au contraire. She was lying peacefully in bed when she was stabbed.’
Miss Henderson stared at him. ‘What’s your idea?’ she asked abruptly.
Poirot smiled. ‘Well, it looks, does it not, as though she knew the person she admitted…’
‘You mean,’ said Miss Henderson and her voice sounded a little harsh, ‘that the murderer is a passenger on the ship?’
Poirot nodded. ‘It seems indicated.’
‘And the string of beads left on the floor was a blind?’
‘Precisely.’
‘The theft of the money also?’
‘Exactly.’
There was a pause, then Miss Henderson said slowly: ‘I thought Mrs Clapperton a very unpleasant woman and I don’t think anyone on board really liked her—but there wasn’t anyone who had any reason to kill her.’
‘Except her husband, perhaps,’ said Poirot.
‘You don’t really think—’ She stopped.
‘It is the opinion of every person on this ship that Colonel Clapperton would have been quite justified in “taking a hatchet to her”. That was, I think, the expression used.’
Ellie Henderson looked at him—waiting.
‘But I am bound to say,’ went on Poirot, ‘that I myself have not noted any signs of exasperation on the good Colonel’s part. Also what is more important, he had an alibi. He was with those two girls all day and did not return to the ship till four o’clock. By then, Mrs Clapperton had been dead many hours.’
There was another minute of silence. Ellie Henderson said softly: ‘But you still think—a passenger on the ship?’
Poirot bowed his head.
Ellie Henderson laughed suddenly—a reckless defiant laugh. ‘Your theory may be difficult to prove, M. Poirot. There are a good many passengers on this ship.’
Poirot bowed to her. ‘I will use a phrase from one of your detective stories. “I have my methods, Watson.”’
V
The following evening, at dinner, every passenger found a typewritten slip by his plate requesting him to be in the main lounge at 8.30. When the company were assembled, the Captain stepped on to the raised platform where the orchestra usually played and addressed them.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, you all know of the tragedy which took place yesterday. I am sure you all wish to co-operate in bringing the perpetrator of that foul crime to justice.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘We have on board with us M. Hercule Poirot who is probably known to you all as a man who has had wide experience in—er—such matters. I hope you will listen carefully to what he has to say.’
It was at this moment that Colonel Clapperton, who had not been at dinner, came in and sat down next to General Forbes. He looked like a man bewildered by sorrow—not at all like a man conscious of great relief. Either he was a very good actor or else he had been genuinely fond of his disagreeable wife.
‘M. Hercule Poirot,’ said the Captain and stepped down. Poirot took his place. He looked comically self-important as he beamed on his audience.
‘Messieurs, mesdames,’ he began. ‘It is most kind of you to be so indulgent as to listen to me. M. le Capitaine has told you that I have had a certain experience in these matters. I have, it is true, a little idea of my own about how to get to the bottom of this particular case.’ He made a sign and a steward pushed forward and passed on to him a bulky, shapeless object wrapped in a sheet.
‘What I am about to do may surprise you a little,’ Poirot warned them. ‘It may occur to you that I am eccentric, perhaps mad. Nevertheless I assure you that behind my madness there is—as you English say—a method.’
His eyes met those of Miss Henderson for just a minute. He began unwrapping the bulky object.
‘I have here, messieurs and mesdames, an important witness to the truth of who killed Mrs Clapperton.’ With a deft hand he whisked away the last enveloping cloth, and the object it concealed was revealed—an almost life-sized wooden doll, dressed in a velvet suit and lace collar.
‘Now, Arthur,’ said Poirot and his voice changed subtly—it was no longer foreign—it had instead a confident English, a slightly Cockney inflection. ‘Can you tell me—I repeat—can you tell me—anything at all about the death of Mrs Clapperton?’
The doll’s neck oscillated a little, its wooden lower jaw dropped and wavered an
d a shrill high-pitched woman’s voice spoke:
‘What is it, John? The door’s locked. I don’t want to be disturbed by the stewards…’
There was a cry—an overturned chair—a man stood swaying, his hand to his throat—trying to speak—trying…Then suddenly, his figure seemed to crumple up. He pitched headlong.
It was Colonel Clapperton.
VI
Poirot and the ship’s doctor rose from their knees by the prostrate figure.
‘All over, I’m afraid. Heart,’ said the doctor briefly.
Poirot nodded. ‘The shock of having his trick seen through,’ he said.
He turned to General Forbes. ‘It was you, General, who gave me a valuable hint with your mention of the music hall stage. I puzzle—I think—and then it comes to me. Supposing that before the war Clapperton was a ventriloquist. In that case, it would be perfectly possible for three people to hear Mrs Clapperton speak from inside her cabin when she was already dead…’
Ellie Henderson was beside him. Her eyes were dark and full of pain. ‘Did you know his heart was weak?’ she asked.
‘I guessed it…Mrs Clapperton talked of her own heart being affected, but she struck me as the type of woman who likes to be thought ill. Then I picked up a torn prescription with a very strong dose of digitalin in it. Digitalin is a heart medicine but it couldn’t be Mrs Clapperton’s because digitalin dilates the pupils of the eyes. I have never noticed such a phenomenon with her—but when I looked at his eyes I saw the signs at once.’
Ellie murmured: ‘So you thought—it might end—this way?’
‘The best way, don’t you think, mademoiselle?’ he said gently.
He saw the tears rise in her eyes. She said: ‘You’ve known. You’ve known all along…That I cared…But he didn’t do it for me…It was those girls—youth—it made him feel his slavery. He wanted to be free before it was too late…Yes, I’m sure that’s how it was…When did you guess—that it was he?’
‘His self-control was too perfect,’ said Poirot simply. ‘No matter how galling his wife’s conduct, it never seemed to touch him. That meant either that he was so used to it that it no longer stung him, or else—eh bien—I decided on the latter alternative…And I was right…
‘And then there was his insistence on his conjuring ability—the evening before the crime he pretended to give himself away. But a man like Clapperton doesn’t give himself away. There must be a reason. So long as people thought he had been a conjuror they weren’t likely to think of his having been a ventriloquist.’
‘And the voice we heard—Mrs Clapperton’s voice?’
‘One of the stewardesses had a voice not unlike hers. I induced her to hide behind the stage and taught her the words to say.’
‘It was a trick—a cruel trick,’ cried out Ellie.
‘I do not approve of murder,’ said Hercule Poirot.
How Does Your Garden Grow?
I
Hercule Poirot arranged his letters in a neat pile in front of him. He picked up the topmost letter, studied the address for a moment, then neatly slit the back of the envelope with a little paper-knife that he kept on the breakfast table for that express purpose and extracted the contents. Inside was yet another envelope, carefully sealed with purple wax and marked ‘Private and Confidential’.
Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows rose a little on his egg-shaped head. He murmured, ‘Patience! Nous allons arriver!’ and once more brought the little paper-knife into play. This time the envelope yielded a letter—written in a rather shaky and spiky handwriting. Several words were heavily underlined.
Hercule Poirot unfolded it and read. The letter was headed once again ‘Private and Confidential’. On the right-hand side was the address—Rosebank, Charman’s Green, Bucks—and the date—March twenty-first.
Dear M. Poirot,
I have been recommended to you by an old and valued friend of mine who knows the worry and distress I have been in lately. Not that this friend knows the actual circumstances—those I have kept entirely to myself—the matter being strictly private. My friend assures me that you are discretion itself—and that there will be no fear of my being involved in a police matter which, if my suspicions should prove correct, I should very much dislike. But it is of course possible that I am entirely mistaken. I do not feel myself clear-headed enough nowadays—suffering as I do from insomnia and the result of a severe illness last winter—to investigate things for myself. I have neither the means nor the ability. On the other hand, I must reiterate once more that this is a very delicate family matter and that for many reasons I may want the whole thing hushed up. If I am once assured of the facts, I can deal with the matter myself and should prefer to do so. I hope that I have made myself clear on this point. If you will undertake this investigation perhaps you will let me know to the above address?
Yours very truly,
Amelia Barrowby
Poirot read the letter through twice. Again his eyebrows rose slightly. Then he placed it on one side and proceeded to the next envelope in the pile.
At ten o’clock precisely he entered the room where Miss Lemon, his confidential secretary, sat awaiting her instructions for the day. Miss Lemon was forty-eight and of unprepossessing appearance. Her general effect was that of a lot of bones flung together at random. She had a passion for order almost equalling that of Poirot himself; and though capable of thinking, she never thought unless told to do so.
Poirot handed her the morning correspondence. ‘Have the goodness, mademoiselle, to write refusals couched in correct terms to all of these.’
Miss Lemon ran an eye over the various letters, scribbling in turn a hieroglyphic on each of them. These marks were legible to her alone and were in a code of her own: ‘Soft soap’; ‘slap in the face’; ‘purr purr’; ‘curt’; and so on. Having done this, she nodded and looked up for further instructions.
Poirot handed her Amelia Barrowby’s letter. She extracted it from its double envelope, read it through and looked up inquiringly.
‘Yes, M. Poirot?’ Her pencil hovered—ready—over her shorthand pad.
‘What is your opinion of that letter, Miss Lemon?’
With a slight frown Miss Lemon put down the pencil and read through the letter again.
The contents of a letter meant nothing to Miss Lemon except from the point of view of composing an adequate reply. Very occasionally her employer appealed to her human, as opposed to her official, capacities. It slightly annoyed Miss Lemon when he did so—she was very nearly the perfect machine, completely and gloriously uninterested in all human affairs. Her real passion in life was the perfection of a filing system beside which all other filing systems should sink into oblivion. She dreamed of such a system at night. Nevertheless, Miss Lemon was perfectly capable of intelligence on purely human matters, as Hercule Poirot well knew.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘Old lady,’ said Miss Lemon. ‘Got the wind up pretty badly.’
‘Ah! The wind rises in her, you think?’
Miss Lemon, who considered that Poirot had been long enough in Great Britain to understand its slang terms, did not reply. She took a brief look at the double envelope.
‘Very hush-hush,’ she said. ‘And tells you nothing at all.’
‘Yes,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘I observed that.’
Miss Lemon’s hand hung once more hopefully over the shorthand pad. This time Hercule Poirot responded.
‘Tell her I will do myself the honour to call upon her at any time she suggests, unless she prefers to consult me here. Do not type the letter—write it by hand.’
‘Yes, M. Poirot.’
Poirot produced more correspondence. ‘These are bills.’
Miss Lemon’s efficient hands sorted them quickly. ‘I’ll pay all but these two.’
‘Why those two? There is no error in them.’
‘They are firms you’ve only just begun to deal with. It looks bad to pay too promptly when you’ve just opened an account??
?looks as though you were working up to get some credit later on.’
‘Ah!’ murmured Poirot. ‘I bow to your superior knowledge of the British tradesman.’
‘There’s nothing much I don’t know about them,’ said Miss Lemon grimly.
II
The letter to Miss Amelia Barrowby was duly written and sent, but no reply was forthcoming. Perhaps, thought Hercule Poirot, the old lady had unravelled her mystery herself. Yet he felt a shade of surprise that in that case she should not have written a courteous word to say that his services were no longer required.
It was five days later when Miss Lemon, after receiving her morning’s instructions, said, ‘That Miss Barrowby we wrote to—no wonder there’s been no answer. She’s dead.’
Hercule Poirot said very softly, ‘Ah—dead.’ It sounded not so much like a question as an answer.
Opening her handbag, Miss Lemon produced a newspaper cutting. ‘I saw it in the tube and tore it out.’
Just registering in his mind approval of the fact that, though Miss Lemon used the word ‘tore’, she had neatly cut the entry with scissors, Poirot read the announcement taken from the Births, Deaths and Marriages in the Morning Post: ‘On March 26th—suddenly—at Rosebank, Charman’s Green, Amelia Jan Barrowby, in her seventy-third year. No flowers, by request.’
Poirot read it over. He murmured under his breath, ‘Suddenly.’ Then he said briskly, ‘If you will be so obliging as to take a letter, Miss Lemon?’
The pencil hovered. Miss Lemon, her mind dwelling on the intricacies of the filing system, took down in rapid and correct shorthand:
Dear Miss Barrowby,
I have received no reply from you, but as I shall be in the neighbourhood of Charman’s Green on Friday, I will call upon you on that day and discuss more fully the matter mentioned to me in your letter.