“You may keep him in,” said Hercule Poirot.
Mr. Goby licked his finger and turned another page of his notebook.
“Mr. Michael Shane. He’s thought quite a lot of in the profession. Has an even better idea of himself than other people have. Wants to star and wants to star quickly. Fond of money and doing himself well. Very attractive to women. They fall for him right and left. He’s partial to them himself—but business comes first, as you might say. He’s been running around with Sorrel Dainton who was playing the lead in the last show he was in. He only had a minor part but made quite a hit in it, and Miss Dainton’s husband doesn’t like him. His wife doesn’t know about him and Miss Dainton. Doesn’t know much about anything, it seems. Not much of an actress I gather, but easy on the eye. Crazy about her husband. Some rumour of a bust-up likely between them not long ago, but that seems out now. Out since Mr. Richard Abernethie’s death.”
Mr. Goby emphasised the last point by nodding his head at a cushion on the sofa.
“On the day in question, Mr. Shane says he was meeting a Mr. Rosenheim and a Mr. Oscar Lewis to fix up some stage business. He didn’t meet them. Sent them a wire to say he was terribly sorry he couldn’t make it. What he did do was to go to the Emeraldo Car people, who hire out ‘drive yourself ’ cars. He hired a car about twelve o’clock and drove away in it. He returned it about six in the evening. According to the speedometer it had been driven just about the right number of miles for what we’re after. No confirmation from Lytchett St. Mary. No strange car seems to have been observed there that day. Lots of places it could be left unnoticed a mile or so away. And there’s even a disused quarry a few hundred yards down the lane from the cottage. Three market towns within walking distance where you can park in side streets, without the police bothering about you. All right, we keep Mr. Shane in?”
“Most certainly.”
“Now Mrs. Shane.” Mr. Goby rubbed his nose and told his left cuff about Mrs. Shane. “She says she was shopping. Just shopping…” Mr. Goby raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Women who are shopping—just scatty, that’s what they are. And she’d heard she’d come into money the day before. Naturally there’d be no holding her. She has one or two charge accounts but they’re overdrawn and they’ve been pressing her for payment and she didn’t put any more on the sheet. It’s quite on the cards that she went in here and there and everywhere, trying on clothes, looking at jewellery, pricing this, that, and the other—and as likely as not, not buying anything! She’s easy to approach—I’ll say that. I had one of my young ladies who’s knowledgeable on the theatrical line to do a hook up. Stopped by her table in a restaurant and exclaimed the way they do: ‘Darling, I haven’t seen you since Way Down Under. You were wonderful in that! Have you seen Hubert lately?’ That was the producer and Mrs. Shane was a bit of a flop in the play—but that makes it go all the better. They’re chatting theatrical stuff at once, and my girl throws the right names about, and then she says, ‘I believe I caught a glimpse of you at so and so, on so and so,’ giving the day—and most ladies fall for it and say, ‘Oh no, I was—’ whatever it may be. But not Mrs. Shane. Just looks vacant and says, ‘Oh, I dare say.’ What can you do with a lady like that?” Mr. Goby shook his head severely at the radiator.
“Nothing,” said Hercule Poirot with feeling. “Do I not have cause to know it? Never shall I forget the killing of Lord Edgware. I was nearly defeated—yes, I, Hercule Poirot—by the extremely simple cunning of a vacant brain. The very simple-minded have often the genius to commit an uncomplicated crime and then leave it alone. Let us hope that our murderer—if there is a murderer in this affair—is intelligent and superior and thoroughly pleased with himself and unable to resist painting the lily. Enfin—but continue.”
Once more Mr. Goby applied himself to his little book.
“Mr. and Mrs. Banks—who said they were at home all day. She wasn’t, anyway! Went round to the garage, got out her car, and drove off in it about 1 o’clock. Destination unknown. Back about five. Can’t tell about mileage because she’s had it out every day since and it’s been nobody’s business to check.
“As to Mr. Banks, we’ve dug up something curious. To begin with, I’ll mention that on the day in question we don’t know what he did. He didn’t go to work. Seems he’d already asked for a couple of days off on account of the funeral. And since then he’s chucked his job—with no consideration for the firm. Nice, well-established pharmacy it is. They’re not too keen on Master Banks. Seems he used to get into rather queer excitable states.
“Well, as I say, we don’t know what he was doing on the day of Mrs. L.’s death. He didn’t go with his wife. It could be that he stopped in their little flat all day. There’s no porter there, and nobody knows whether tenants are in or out. But his back history is interesting. Up till about four months ago—just before he met his wife, he was in a Mental Home. Not certified—just what they call a mental breakdown. Seems he made some slip up in dispensing a medicine. (He was working with a Mayfair firm then.) The woman recovered, and the firm were all over themselves apologizing, and there was no prosecution. After all, these accidental slips do occur, and most decent people are sorry for a poor young chap who’s done it—so long as there’s no permanent harm done, that is. The firm didn’t sack him, but he resigned—said it had shaken his nerve. But afterwards, it seems, he got into a very low state and told the doctor he was obsessed by guilt—that it had all been deliberate—the woman had been overbearing and rude to him when she came into the shop, had complained that her last prescription had been badly made up—and that he had resented this and had deliberately added a near lethal dose of some drug or other. He said, ‘She had to be punished for daring to speak to me like that!’ And then wept and said he was too wicked to live and a lot of things like that. The medicos have a long word for that sort of thing—guilt complex or something—and don’t believe it was deliberate at all, just carelessness, but that he wanted to make it important and serious.”
“Ça se peut,” said Hercule Poirot.
“Pardon? Anyway, he went into this Sanatorium and they treated him and discharged him as cured, and he met Miss Abernethie as she was then. And he got a job in this respectable but rather obscure little chemist’s shop. Told them he’d been out of England for a year and a half, and gave them his former reference from some shop in Eastbourne. Nothing against him in that shop, but a fellow dispenser said he had a very queer temper and was odd in his manner sometimes. There’s a story about a customer saying once as a joke, ‘Wish you’d sell me something to poison my wife, ha ha!’ And Banks says to him, very soft and quiet: ‘I could… It would cost you two hundred pounds.’ The man felt uneasy and laughed it off. May have been all a joke, but it doesn’t seem to me that Banks is the joking kind.”
“Mon ami,” said Hercule Poirot. “It really amazes me how you get your information! Medical and highly confidential most of it!”
Mr. Goby’s eyes swivelled right round the room and he murmured, looking expectantly at the door, that there were ways….
“Now we come to the country department. Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Abernethie. Very nice place they’ve got, but sadly needing money spent on it. Very straitened they seem to be, very straitened. Taxation and unfortunate investments. Mr. Abernethie enjoys ill health and the emphasis is on the enjoyment. Complains a lot and has everyone running and fetching and carrying. Eats hearty meals, and seems quite strong physically if he likes to make the effort. There’s no one in the house after the daily woman goes and no one’s allowed into Mr. Abernethie’s room unless he rings the bell. He was in a very bad temper the morning of the day after the funeral. Swore at Mrs. Jones. Ate only a little of his breakfast and said he wouldn’t have any lunch—he’d had a bad night. He said the supper she had left out for him was unfit to eat and a good deal more. He was alone in the house and unseen by anybody from 9:30 that morning until the following morning.”
“And Mrs. Abernethie?”
“Sh
e started off from Enderby by car at the time you mentioned. Arrived on foot at a small local garage in a place called Cathstone and explained her car had broken down a couple of miles away.
“A mechanic drove her out to it, made an investigation and said they’d have to tow it in and it would be a long job—couldn’t promise to finish it that day. The lady was very put out, but went to a small inn, arranged to stay the night, and asked for some sandwiches as she said she’d like to see something of the countryside—it’s on the edge of the moorland country. She didn’t come back to the inn till quite late that evening. My informant said he didn’t wonder. It’s a sordid little place!”
“And the times?”
“She got the sandwiches at eleven. If she’d walked to the main road, a mile, she could have hitchhiked into Wallcaster and caught a special South Coast express which stops at Reading West. I won’t go into details of buses etcetera. It could just have been done if you could make the—er—attack fairly late in the afternoon.”
“I understand the doctor stretched the time limit to possibly 4:30.”
“Mind you,” said Mr. Goby, “I shouldn’t say it was likely. She seems to be a nice lady, liked by everybody. She’s devoted to her husband, treats him like a child.”
“Yes, yes, the maternal complex.”
“She’s strong and hefty, chops the wood and often hauls in great baskets of logs. Pretty good with the inside of a car, too.”
“I was coming to that. What exactly was wrong with the car?”
“Do you want the exact details, M. Poirot?”
“Heaven forbid. I have no mechanical knowledge.”
“It was a difficult thing to spot. And also to put right. And it could have been done maliciously by someone without very much trouble. By someone who was familiar with the insides of a car.”
“C’est magnifique!” said Poirot with bitter enthusiasm. “All so convenient, all so possible. Bon dieu, can we eliminate nobody? And Mrs. Leo Abernethie?”
“She’s a very nice lady, too. Mr. Abernethie deceased was very fond of her. She came there to stay about a fortnight before he died.”
“After he had been to Lytchett St. Mary to see his sister?”
“No, just before. Her income is a good deal reduced since the war. She gave up her house in England and took a small flat in London. She has a villa in Cyprus and spends part of the year there. She has a young nephew whom she is helping to educate, and there seems to be one or two young artists whom she helps financially from time to time.”
“St. Helen of the blameless life,” said Poirot, shutting his eyes. “And it was quite impossible for her to have left Enderby that day without the servants knowing? Say that is so, I implore you!”
Mr. Goby brought his glance across to rest apologetically on Poirot’s polished patent leather shoe, the nearest he had come to a direct encounter, and murmured:
“I’m afraid I can’t say that, M. Poirot. Mrs. Abernethie went to London to fetch some extra clothes and belongings as she had agreed with Mr. Entwhistle to stay on and see to things.”
“Il ne manquait ça!” said Poirot with strong feeling.
Thirteen
When the card of Inspector Morton of the Berkshire County Police was brought to Hercule Poirot, his eyebrows went up.
“Show him in, Georges, show him in. And bring—what is it that the police prefer?”
“I would suggest beer, sir.”
“How horrible! But how British. Bring beer, then.”
Inspector Morton came straight to the point.
“I had to come to London,” he said. “And I got hold of your address, M. Poirot. I was interested to see you at the inquest on Thursday.”
“So you saw me there?”
“Yes. I was surprised—and, as I say, interested. You won’t remember me but I remember you very well. In that Pangbourne Case.”
“Ah, you were connected with that?”
“Only in a very junior capacity. It’s a long time ago but I’ve never forgotten you.”
“And you recognized me at once the other day?”
“That wasn’t difficult, sir.” Inspector Morton repressed a slight smile. “Your appearance is—rather unusual.”
His gaze took in Poirot’s sartorial perfection and rested finally on the curving moustaches.
“You stick out in a country place,” he said.
“It is possible, it is possible,” said Poirot with complacency.
“It interested me why you should be there. That sort of crime—robbery—assault—doesn’t usually interest you.”
“Was it the usual ordinary brutal type of crime?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering.”
“You have wondered from the beginning, have you not?”
“Yes, M. Poirot. There were some unusual features. Since then we’ve worked along the routine lines. Pulled in one or two people for questioning, but everyone has been able to account quite satisfactorily for his time that afternoon. It wasn’t what you’d call an ‘ordinary’ crime, M. Poirot—we’re quite sure of that. The Chief Constable agrees. It was done by someone who wished to make it appear that way. It could have been the Gilchrist woman, but there doesn’t seem to be any motive—and there wasn’t any emotional background, Mrs. Lansquenet was perhaps a bit mental—or ‘simple,’ if you like to put it that way, but it was a household of mistress and dogsbody with no feverish feminine friendship about it. There are dozens of Miss Gilchrists about, and they’re not usually the murdering type.”
He paused.
“So it looks as though we’d have to look farther afield. I came to ask if you could help us at all. Something must have brought you down there, M. Poirot.”
“Yes, yes, something did. An excellent Daimler car. But not only that.”
“You had—information?”
“Hardly in your sense of the word. Nothing that could be used as evidence.”
“But something that could be—a pointer?”
“Yes.”
“You see, M. Poirot, there have been developments.”
Meticulously, in detail, he told of the poisoned wedge of wedding cake.
Poirot took a deep, hissing breath.
“Ingenious—yes, ingenious… I warned Mr. Entwhistle to look after Miss Gilchrist. An attack on her was always a possibility. But I must confess that I did not expect poison. I anticipated a repetition of the hatchet motif. I merely thought that it would be inadvisable for her to walk alone in unfrequented lanes after dark.”
“But why did you anticipate an attack on her? I think, M. Poirot, you ought to tell me that.”
Poirot nodded his head slowly.
“Yes, I will tell you. Mr. Entwhistle will not tell you, because he is a lawyer and lawyers do not like to speak of suppositions, or inferences made from the character of a dead woman, or from a few irresponsible words. But he will not be averse to my telling you—no, he will be relieved. He does not wish to appear foolish or fanciful, but he wants you to know what may—only may—be the facts.”
Poirot paused as Georges entered with a tall glass of beer.
“Some refreshment, Inspector. No, no, I insist.”
“Won’t you join me?”
“I do not drink the beer. But I will myself have a glass of sirop de cassis—the English they do not care for it, I have noticed.”
Inspector Morton looked gratefully at his beer.
Poirot, sipping delicately from his glass of dark purple fluid, said:
“It begins, all this, at a funeral. Or rather, to be exact, after the funeral.”
Graphically, with many gestures, he set forth the story as Mr. Entwhistle had told it to him, but with such embellishments as his exuberant nature suggested. One almost felt that Hercule Poirot himself had been an eyewitness of the scene.
Inspector Morton had an excellent clear-cut brain. He seized at once on what were, for his purposes, the salient points.
“This Mr. Abernethie may have been poiso
ned?”
“It is a possibility.”
“And the body has been cremated and there is no evidence?”
“Exactly.”
Inspector Morton ruminated.
“Interesting. There’s nothing in it for us. Nothing, that is, to make Richard Abernethie’s death worth investigating. It would be a waste of time.”
“Yes.”
“But there are the people—the people who were there—the people who heard Cora Lansquenet say what she did, and one of whom may have thought that she might say it again and with more detail.”
“As she undoubtedly would have. There are, Inspector, as you say, the people. And now you see why I was at the inquest, why I interested myself in the case—because it is, always, people in whom I interest myself.”
“Then the attack on Miss Gilchrist—”
“Was always indicated. Richard Abernethie had been down to the cottage. He had talked to Cora. He had, perhaps, actually mentioned a name. The only person who might possibly have known or overheard something was Miss Gilchrist. After Cora is silenced, the murderer might continue to be anxious. Does the other woman know something—anything? Of course, if the murderer is wise he will let well alone, but murderers, Inspector, are seldom wise. Fortunately for us. They brood, they feel uncertain, they desire to make sure—quite sure. They are pleased with their own cleverness. And so, in the end, they protrude their necks, as you say.”
Inspector Morton smiled faintly.
Poirot went on:
“This attempt to silence Miss Gilchrist, already it is a mistake. For now there are two occasions about which you make inquiry. There is the handwriting on the wedding label also. It is a pity the wrapping paper was burnt.”
“Yes, I could have been certain, then, whether it came by post or whether it didn’t.”
“You have reason for thinking the latter, you say?”
“It’s only what the postman thinks—he’s not sure. If the parcel had gone through a village post office, it’s ten to one the postmistress would have noticed it, but nowadays the mail is delivered by van from Market Keynes and of course the young chap does quite a round and delivers a lot of things. He thinks it was letters only and no parcel at the cottage—but he isn’t sure. As a matter of fact he’s having a bit of girl trouble and he can’t think about anything else. I’ve tested his memory and he isn’t reliable in any way. If he did deliver it, it seems to me odd that the parcel shouldn’t have been noticed until after this Mr.—whatshisname—Guthrie—”