“Yes, yes.”
“That he’s somewhere abroad in a ticklish spot and they don’t want to queer his pitch.”
“Tchah!”
“What did you say?”
“I made, mon ami, an exclamation of annoyance!”
“Oh! that was it. I thought you’d caught cold. Annoyance is right! I could use a stronger word. Letting that dame get away with it makes me see red.”
Poirot said very softly:
“She will not get away with it.”
“Our hands are tied, I tell you!”
“Yours may be—mine are not!”
“Good old Poirot! Then you are going on with it?”
“Mais oui—to the death.”
“Well, don’t let it be your death, old boy! If this business goes on as it has begun someone will probably send you a poisoned tarantula by post!”
As he replaced the receiver, Poirot said to himself:
“Now, why did I use that melodramatic phrase—‘to the death?’ Vraiment, it is absurd!”
III
The letter came by evening post. It was typewritten except for the signature.
Dear M. Poirot (it ran),
I should be greatly obliged if you would call upon me some time tomorrow. I may have a commission for you. I suggest twelve thirty, at my house in Chelsea. If this is inconvenient to you, perhaps you would telephone my secretary? I apologize for giving you such short notice.
Yours sincerely,
Alistair Blunt.
Poirot smoothed out the letter and read it a second time. At that moment the telephone rang.
Hercule Poirot occasionally indulged in the fancy that he knew by the ring of his telephone bell what kind of message was impending.
On this occasion he was at once quite sure that the call was significant. It was not a wrong number—not one of his friends.
He got up and took down the receiver. He said in his polite, foreign voice:
“’Allo?”
An impersonal voice said: “What number are you, please?”
“This is Whitehall 7272.”
There was a pause, a click, and then a voice spoke. It was a woman’s voice.
“M. Poirot?”
“Yes.”
“M. Hercule Poirot?”
“Yes.”
“M. Poirot, you have either already received—or will shortly receive, a letter.”
“Who is speaking?”
“It is not necessary that you should know.”
“Very well. I have received, Madame, eight letters and three bills by the evening post.”
“Then you know which letter I mean. You will be wise, M. Poirot, to refuse the commission you have been offered.”
“That, Madame, is a matter I shall decide myself.”
The voice said coldly:
“I am warning you, M. Poirot. Your interference will no longer be tolerated. Keep out of this business.”
“And if I do not keep out of it?”
“Then we shall take steps to see that your interference is no longer to be feared….”
“That is a threat, Madame!”
“We are only asking you to be sensible … It is for your own good.”
“You are very magnanimous!”
“You cannot alter the course of events and what has been arranged. So keep out of what doesn’t concern you! Do you understand?”
“Oh yes, I understand. But I consider that Mr. Morley’s death is my concern.”
The woman’s voice said sharply:
“Morley’s death was only an incident. He interfered with our plans.”
“He was a human being, Madame, and he died before his time.”
“He was of no importance.”
Poirot’s voice was dangerous as he said very quietly:
“There you are wrong….”
“It was his own fault. He refused to be sensible.”
“I, too, refuse to be sensible.”
“Then you are a fool.”
There was a click the other end as the receiver was replaced.
Poirot said, “Allo?” then put down his receiver in turn. He did not trouble to ask the Exchange to trace the number. He was fairly sure that the call had been put through from a public telephone box.
What intrigued and puzzled him was the fact that he thought he had heard the voice somewhere before. He racked his brains, trying to bring the elusive memory back. Could it be the voice of Miss Sainsbury Seale?
As he remembered it, Mabelle Sainsbury Seale’s voice had been high-pitched and somewhat affected, with rather overemphasized diction. This voice was not at all like that, and yet—perhaps it might be Miss Sainsbury Seale with her voice disguised. After all, she had been an actress in her time. She could alter her voice, probably, easily enough. In actual timbre, the voice was not unlike what he remembered.
But he was not satisfied with that explanation. No, it was some other person that the voice brought back to him. It was not a voice he knew well—but he was still quite sure that he had heard it once, if not twice, before.
Why, he wondered, bother to ring up and threaten him? Could these people actually believe that threats would deter him? Apparently they did. It was poor psychology!
IV
There was some sensational news in the morning papers. The Prime Minister had been shot at when leaving 10, Downing Street with a friend yesterday evening. Fortunately the bullet had gone wide. The man, an Indian, had been taken into custody.
After reading this, Poirot took a taxi to Scotland Yard where he was shown up to Japp’s room. The latter greeted him heartily.
“Ah, so the news has brought you along. Have any of the papers mentioned who ‘the friend’ was with the P.M.?”
“No, who was it?”
“Alistair Blunt.”
“Really?”
“And,” went on Japp, “we’ve every reason to believe that the bullet was meant for Blunt and not for the P.M. That is, unless the man was an even more thundering bad shot than he is already!”
“Who did it?”
“Some crazy Hindu student. Half-baked, as usual. But he was put up to it. It wasn’t all his own idea.”
Japp added:
“Quite a sound bit of work getting him. There’s usually a small group of people, you know, watching No. 10. When the shot was fired, a young American grabbed hold of a little man with a beard. He held on to him like grim death and yelled to the police that he’d got the man. Meanwhile the Indian was quietly hooking it—but one of our people nabbed him all right.”
“Who was the American?” asked Poirot curiously.
“Young fellow by the name of Raikes. Why—” He stopped short, staring at Poirot. “What’s the matter?”
Poirot said:
“Howard Raikes, staying at the Holborn Palace Hotel?”
“That’s right. Who—why, of course! I thought the name seemed familiar. He’s the patient who ran away that morning when Morley shot himself….”
He paused. He said slowly:
“Rum—how that old business keeps cropping up. You’ve still got your ideas about it, haven’t you, Poirot?”
Hercule Poirot replied gravely:
“Yes. I still have my ideas….”
V
At the Gothic House, Poirot was received by a secretary, a tall, limp young man with an accomplished social manner.
He was pleasantly apologetic.
“I am so sorry, M. Poirot—and so is Mr. Blunt. He has been called to Downing Street. The result of this—er—incident last night. I rang your flat, but unfortunately you had already left.”
The young man went on rapidly:
“Mr. Blunt commissioned me to ask you if it would be possible for you to spend the weekend with him at his house in Kent. Exsham, you know. If so, he would call for you in the car tomorrow evening.”
Poirot hesitated.
The young man said persuasively:
“Mr. Blunt is really most anxious
to see you.”
Hercule Poirot bowed his head.
He said: “Thank you. I accept.”
“Oh, that’s splendid. Mr. Blunt will be delighted. If he calls for you about a quarter to six, will that—Oh, good morning, Mrs. Olivera—”
Jane Olivera’s mother had just entered. She was very smartly dressed, with a hat clinging to an eyebrow in the midst of a very soignée coiffure.
“Oh! Mr. Selby, did Mr. Blunt give you any instructions about those garden chairs? I meant to talk to him about them last night, because I knew we’d be going down this weekend and—”
Mrs. Olivera took in Poirot and paused.
“Do you know Mrs. Olivera, M. Poirot?”
“I have already had the pleasure of meeting Madame.”
Poirot bowed.
Mrs. Olivera said vaguely:
“Oh? How do you do. Of course, Mr. Selby, I know that Alistair is a very busy man and that these small domestic matters mayn’t seem to him important—”
“It’s quite all right, Mrs. Olivera,” said the efficient Mr. Selby. “He told me about it and I rang up Messrs Deevers about them.”
“Well, now, that’s a real load off my mind. Now, Mr. Selby, can you tell me …”
Mrs. Olivera clacked on. She was, thought Poirot, rather like a hen. A big, fat hen! Mrs. Olivera, still clacking, moved majestically after her bust towards the door.
“ … And if you’re quite sure that there will only be ourselves this weekend—”
Mr. Selby coughed.
“Er—M. Poirot is also coming down for the weekend.”
Mrs. Olivera stopped. She turned round and surveyed Poirot with visible distaste.
“Is that really so?”
“Mr. Blunt has been kind enough to invite me,” said Poirot.
“Well, I wonder—why, if that isn’t queer of Alistair. You’ll excuse me, M. Poirot, but Mr. Blunt particularly told me that he wanted a quiet, family weekend!”
Selby said firmly:
“Mr. Blunt is particularly anxious that M. Poirot should come.”
“Oh really? He didn’t mention it to me.”
The door opened. Jane stood there. She said impatiently:
“Mother, aren’t you coming? Our lunch appointment is at one fifteen!”
“I’m coming, Jane. Don’t be impatient.”
“Well, get a move on, for goodness sake—Hallo, M. Poirot.”
She was suddenly very still—her petulance frozen. Her eyes more wary.
Mrs. Olivera said in a cold voice:
“M. Poirot is coming down to Exsham for the weekend.”
“Oh—I see.”
Jane Olivera stood back to let her mother pass her. On the point of following her, she whirled back again.
“M. Poirot!”
Her voice was imperious.
Poirot crossed the room to her.
She said in a low voice: “You’re coming down to Exsham? Why?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:
“It is a kind thought of your uncle’s.”
Jane said:
“But he can’t know … He can’t … When did he ask you? Oh, there’s no need—”
“Jane!”
Her mother was calling from the hall.
Jane said in a low, urgent tone:
“Stay away. Please don’t come.”
She went out. Poirot heard the sounds of altercation. Heard Mrs. Olivera’s high, complaining, clucking voice. “I really will not tolerate your rudeness, Jane … I shall take steps to see that you do not interfere—”
The secretary said:
“Then at a little before six tomorrow, M. Poirot?”
Poirot nodded assent mechanically. He was standing like a man who has seen a ghost. But it was his ears, not his eyes, that had given him the shock.
Two of the sentences that had drifted in through the open door were almost identical with those he had heard last night through the telephone, and he knew why the voice had been faintly familiar.
As he walked out into the sunshine he shook his head blankly.
Mrs. Olivera?
But it was impossible! It could not have been Mrs. Olivera who had spoken over the ’phone!
That empty-headed society woman—selfish, brainless, grasping, self-centred? What had he called her to himself just now?
“That good fat hen? C’est ridicule!” said Hercule Poirot.
His ears, he decided, must have deceived him. And yet—
VI
The Rolls called punctually for Poirot at a little before six.
Alistair Blunt and his secretary were the only occupants. Mrs. Olivera and Jane had gone down in another car earlier, it seemed.
The drive was uneventful. Blunt talked a little, mostly of his garden and of a recent horticultural show.
Poirot congratulated him on his escape from death, at which Blunt demurred. He said:
“Oh, that! Don’t think the fellow was shooting at me particularly. Anyway, the poor chap hadn’t the first idea of how to aim! Just one of these half-crazed students. There’s no harm in them really. They just get worked up and fancy a pot shot at the P.M. will alter the course of history. It’s pathetic, really.”
“There have been other attempts on your life, have there not?”
“Sounds quite melodramatic,” said Blunt, with a slight twinkle. “Someone sent me a bomb by post not long ago. It wasn’t a very efficient bomb. You know, these fellows who want to take on the management of the world—what sort of an efficient business do they think they could make of it, when they can’t even devise an effectual bomb?”
He shook his head.
“It’s always the same thing—long-haired woolly idealists—without one practical bit of knowledge in their heads. I’m not a clever chap—never have been—but I can just read and write and do arithmetic. D’you understand what I mean by that?”
“I think so, but explain to me further.”
“Well, if I read something that is written down in English I can understand what it means—I am not talking of abstruse stuff, formulae or philosophy—just plain businesslike English—most people can’t! If I want to write down something I can write down what I mean—I’ve discovered that quite a lot of people can’t do that either! And, as I say, I can do plain arithmetic. If Jones has eight bananas and Brown takes ten away from him, how many will Jones have left? That’s the kind of sum people like to pretend has a simple answer. They won’t admit, first that Brown can’t do it—and second that there won’t be an answer in plus bananas!”
“They prefer the answer to be a conjuring trick?”
“Exactly. Politicians are just as bad. But I’ve always held out for plain common sense. You can’t beat it, you know, in the end.”
He added with a slightly self-conscious laugh:
“But I mustn’t talk shop. Bad habit. Besides, I like to leave business matters behind when I get away from London. I’ve been looking forward, M. Poirot, to hearing a few of your adventures. I read a lot of thrillers and detective stories, you know. Do you think any of them are true to life?”
The conversation dwelt for the rest of the journey on the more spectacular cases of Hercule Poirot. Alistair Blunt displayed himself as vivid as any schoolboy for details.
This pleasant atmosphere sustained a chill on arrival at Exsham, where behind her massive bust Mrs. Olivera radiated a freezing disapproval. She ignored Poirot as far as possible, addressing herself exclusively to her host and to Mr. Selby.
The latter showed Poirot to his room.
The house was a charming one, not very big, and furnished with the same quiet good taste that Poirot had noticed in London. Everything was costly but simple. The vast wealth that owned it was only indicated by the smoothness with which this apparent simplicity was produced. The service was admirable—the cooking English, not Continental—the wines at dinner stirred Poirot to a passion of appreciation. They had a perfect clear soup, a grilled sole, saddle of lamb
with tiny young garden peas and strawberries and cream.
Poirot was so enjoying these creature comforts that the continued frigid demeanour of Mrs. Olivera and the brusque rudeness of her daughter hardly attracted his attention. Jane, for some reason, was regarding him with definite hostility. Hazily, towards the end of the dinner, Poirot wondered why!
Looking down the table with mild curiosity, Blunt asked:
“Helen not dining with us tonight?”
Julia Olivera’s lips drew themselves in with a taut line. She said:
“Dear Helen has been overtiring herself, I think, in the garden. I suggested it would be far better for her to go to bed and rest than to bother to dress herself up and come here. She quite saw my point.”
“Oh, I see.” Blunt looked vague and a little puzzled. “I thought it made a bit of a change for her at weekends.”
“Helen is such a simple soul. She likes turning in early,” said Mrs. Olivera firmly.
When Poirot joined the ladies in the drawing room, Blunt having remained behind for a few minutes’ conversation with his secretary, he heard Jane Olivera say to her mother:
“Uncle Alistair didn’t like the cool way you’d shelved Helen Montressor, Mother.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Olivera robustly. “Alistair is too good-natured. Poor relations are all very well—very kind of him to let her have the cottage rent free, but to think he has to have her up to the house every weekend for dinner is absurd! She’s only a second cousin or something. I don’t think Alistair ought to be imposed upon!”
“I think she’s proud in her way,” said Jane. “She does an awful lot in the garden.”
“That shows a proper spirit,” said Mrs. Olivera comfortably. “The Scotch are very independent and one respects them for it.”
She settled herself comfortably on the sofa and, still not taking any notice of Poirot, added:
“Just bring me the Low Down Review, dear. There’s something about Lois Van Schuyler in it and that Moroccan guide of hers.”
Alistair Blunt appeared in the doorway. He said:
“Now M. Poirot, come into my room.”
Alistair Blunt’s own sanctum was a low, long room at the back of the house, with windows opening upon the garden. It was comfortable, with deep armchairs and settees and just enough pleasant untidiness to make it livable.
(Needless to say, Hercule Poirot would have preferred a greater symmetry!)