Cat Among the Pigeons

  “Why did Ann Shapland also choose a sandbag to kill Mademoiselle Blanche?” asked Miss Bulstrode.

  “For one thing, she could not risk a pistol shot in the school building, and for another she is a very clever young woman. She wanted to tie up this third murder with the second one, for which she had an alibi.”

  “I don’t really understand what Eleanor Vansittart was doing herself in the Sports Pavilion,” said Miss Bulstrode.

  “I think one could make a guess. She was probably far more concerned over the disappearance of Shaista than she allowed to appear on the surface. She was as upset as Miss Chadwick was. In a way it was worse for her, because she had been left by you in charge—and the kidnapping had happened whilst she was responsible. Moreover she had pooh-poohed it as long as possible through an unwillingness to face unpleasant facts squarely.”

  “So there was weakness behind the façade,” mused Miss Bulstrode. “I sometimes suspected it.”

  “She, too, I think, was unable to sleep. And I think she went out quietly to the Sports Pavilion to make an examination of Shaista’s locker in case there might be some clue there to the girl’s disappearance.”

  “You seem to have explanations for everything, Mr. Poirot.”

  “That’s his speciality,” said Inspector Kelsey with slight malice.

  “And what was the point of getting Eileen Rich to sketch various members of my staff?”

  “I wanted to test the child Jennifer’s ability to recognize a face. I soon satisfied myself that Jennifer was so entirely preoccupied by her own affairs, that she gave outsiders at most a cursory glance, taking in only the external details of their appearance. She did not recognize a sketch of Mademoiselle Blanche with a different hairdo. Still less, then, would she have recognized Ann Shapland who, as your secretary, she seldom saw at close quarters.”

  “You think that the woman with the racquet was Ann Shapland herself.”

  “Yes. It has been a one woman job all through. You remember that day, you rang for her to take a message to Julia but in the end, as the buzzer went unanswered, sent a girl to find Julia. Ann was accustomed to quick disguise. A fair wig, differently pencilled eyebrows, a ‘fussy’ dress and hat. She need only be absent from her typewriter for about twenty minutes. I saw from Miss Rich’s clever sketches how easy it is for a woman to alter her appearance by purely external matters.”

  “Miss Rich—I wonder—” Miss Bulstrode looked thoughtful.

  Poirot gave Inspector Kelsey a look and the Inspector said he must be getting along.

  “Miss Rich?” said Miss Bulstrode again.

  “Send for her,” said Poirot. “It is the best way.”

  Eileen Rich appeared. She was white-faced and slightly defiant.

  “You want to know,” she said to Miss Bulstrode, “what I was doing in Ramat?”

  “I think I have an idea,” said Miss Bulstrode.

  “Just so,” said Poirot. “Children nowadays know all the facts of life—but their eyes often retain innocence.”

  He added that he, too, must be getting along, and slipped out.

  “That was it, wasn’t it?” said Miss Bulstrode. Her voice was brisk and businesslike. “Jennifer merely described it as fat. She didn’t realize it was a pregnant woman she had seen.”

  “Yes,” said Eileen Rich. “That was it. I was going to have a child. I didn’t want to give up my job here. I carried on all right through the autumn, but after that, it was beginning to show. I got a doctor’s certificate that I wasn’t fit to carry on, and I pleaded illness. I went abroad to a remote spot where I thought I wasn’t likely to meet anyone who knew me. I came back to this country and the child was born—dead. I came back this term and I hoped that no one would ever know … But you understand now, don’t you, why I said I should have had to refuse your offer of a partnership if you’d made it? Only now, with the school in such a disaster, I thought that, after all, I might be able to accept.”

  She paused and said in a matter-of-fact voice,

  “Would you like me to leave now? Or wait until the end of term?”

  “You’ll stay till the end of the term,” said Miss Bulstrode, “and if there is a new term here, which I still hope, you’ll come back.”

  “Come back?” said Eileen Rich. “Do you mean you still want me?”

  “Of course I want you,” said Miss Bulstrode. “You haven’t murdered anyone, have you?—not gone mad over jewels and planned to kill to get them? I’ll tell you what you’ve done. You’ve probably denied your instincts too long. There was a man, you fell in love with him, you had a child. I suppose you couldn’t marry.”

  “There was never any question of marriage,” said Eileen Rich. “I knew that. He isn’t to blame.”

  “Very well, then,” said Miss Bulstrode. “You had a love affair and a child. You wanted to have that child?”

  “Yes,” said Eileen Rich. “Yes, I wanted to have it.”

  “So that’s that,” said Miss Bulstrode. “Now I’m going to tell you something. I believe that in spite of this love affair, your real vocation in life is teaching. I think your profession means more to you than any normal woman’s life with a husband and children would mean.”

  “Oh yes,” said Eileen Rich. “I’m sure of that. I’ve known that all along. That’s what I really want to do—that’s the real passion of my life.”

  “Then don’t be a fool,” said Miss Bulstrode. “I’m making you a very good offer. If, that is, things come right. We’ll spend two or three years together putting Meadowbank back on the map. You’ll have different ideas as to how that should be done from the ideas that I have. I’ll listen to your ideas. Maybe I’ll even give in to some of them. You want things to be different, I suppose, at Meadowbank?”

  “I do in some ways, yes,” said Eileen Rich. “I won’t pretend. I want more emphasis on getting girls that really matter.”

  “Ah,” said Miss Bulstrode, “I see. It’s the snob element that you don’t like, is that it?”

  “Yes,” said Eileen, “it seems to me to spoil things.”

  “What you don’t realize,” said Miss Bulstrode, “is that to get the kind of girl you want you’ve got to have that snob element. It’s quite a small element really, you know. A few foreign royalties, a few great names and everybody, all the silly parents all over this country and other countries want their girls to come to Meadowbank. Fall over themselves to get their girl admitted to Meadowbank. What’s the result? An enormous waiting list, and I look at the girls and I see the girls and I choose! You get your pick, do you see? I choose my girls. I choose them very carefully, some for character, some for brains, some for pure academic intellect. Some because I think they haven’t had a chance but are capable of being made something of that’s worthwhile. You’re young, Eileen. You’re full of ideals—it’s the teaching that matters to you and the ethical side of it. Your vision’s quite right. It’s the girls that matter, but if you want to make a success of anything, you know, you’ve got to be a good tradesman as well. Ideas are like everything else. They’ve got to be marketed. We’ll have to do some pretty slick work in future to get Meadowbank going again. I’ll have to get my hooks into a few people, former pupils, bully them, plead with them, get them to send their daughters here. And then the others will come. You let me be up to my tricks, and then you shall have your way. Meadowbank will go on and it’ll be a fine school.”

  “It’ll be the finest school in England,” said Eileen Rich enthusiastically.

  “Good,” said Miss Bulstrode, “—and Eileen, I should go and get your hair properly cut and shaped. You don’t seem able to manage that bun. And now,” she said, her voice changing, “I must go to Chaddy.”

  She went in and came up to the bed. Miss Chadwick was lying very still and white. The blood had all gone from her face and she looked drained of life. A policeman with a notebook sat nearby and Miss Johnson sat on the other side of the bed. She looked at Miss Bulstrode and shook her head gently.

/>   “Hallo, Chaddy,” said Miss Bulstrode. She took up the limp hand in hers. Miss Chadwick’s eyes opened.

  “I want to tell you,” she said, “Eleanor—it was—it was me.”

  “Yes, dear, I know,” said Miss Bulstrode.

  “Jealous,” said Chaddy. “I wanted—”

  “I know,” said Miss Bulstrode.

  Tears rolled very slowly down Miss Chadwick’s cheeks. “It’s so awful … I didn’t mean—I don’t know how I came to do such a thing!”

  “Don’t think about it anymore,” said Miss Bulstrode.

  “But I can’t—you’ll never—I’ll never forgive myself—”

  “Listen, dear,” she said. “You saved my life, you know. My life and the life of that nice woman, Mrs. Upjohn. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

  “I only wish,” said Miss Chadwick, “I could have given my life for you both. That would have made it all right….”

  Miss Bulstrode looked at her with great pity. Miss Chadwick took a great breath, smiled, then, moving her head very slightly to one side, she died….

  “You did give your life, my dear,” said Miss Bulstrode softly. “I hope you realize that—now.”

  Twenty-five

  LEGACY

  I

  “A Mr. Robinson has called to see you, sir.”

  “Ah!” said Hercule Poirot. He stretched out his hand and picked up a letter from the desk in front of him. He looked down on it thoughtfully.

  He said: “Show him in, Georges.”

  The letter was only a few lines,

  Dear Poirot,

  A Mr. Robinson may call upon you in the near future. You may already know something about him. Quite a prominent figure in certain circles. There is a demand for such men in our modern world … I believe, if I may so put it, that he is, in this particular matter, on the side of the angels. This is just a recommendation, if you should be in doubt. Of course, and I underline this, we have no idea as to the matter on which he wishes to consult you …

  Ha ha! and likewise ho ho!

  Yours ever,

  Ephraim Pikeaway

  Poirot laid down the letter and rose as Mr. Robinson came into the room. He bowed, shook hands, indicated a chair.

  Mr. Robinson sat, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his large yellow face. He observed that it was a warm day.

  “You have not, I hope, walked here in this heat?”

  Poirot looked horrified at the idea. By a natural association of ideas, his fingers went to his moustache. He was reassured. There was no limpness.

  Mr. Robinson looked equally horrified.

  “No, no, indeed. I came in my Rolls. But these traffic blocks … One sits for half an hour sometimes.”

  Poirot nodded sympathetically.

  There was a pause—the pause that ensues on part one of conversation before entering upon part two.

  “I was interested to hear—of course one hears so many things—most of them quite untrue—that you had been concerning yourself with the affairs of a girls’ school.”

  “Ah,” said Poirot. “That!”

  He leaned back in his chair.

  “Meadowbank,” said Mr. Robinson thoughtfully. “Quite one of the premier schools of England.”

  “It is a fine school.”

  “Is? Or was?”

  “I hope the former.”

  “I hope so, too,” said Mr. Robinson. “I fear it may be touch and go. Ah well, one must do what one can. A little financial backing to tide over a certain inevitable period of depression. A few carefully chosen new pupils. I am not without influence in European circles.”

  “I, too, have applied persuasion in certain quarters. If, as you say, we can tide things over. Mercifully, memories are short.”

  “That is what one hopes. But one must admit that events have taken place there that might well shake the nerves of fond mammas—and papas also. The Games Mistress, the French Mistress, and yet another mistress—all murdered.”

  “As you say.”

  “I hear,” said Mr. Robinson, “(one hears so many things), that the unfortunate young woman responsible has suffered from a phobia about schoolmistresses since her youth. An unhappy childhood at school. Psychiatrists will make a good deal of this. They will try at least for a verdict of diminished responsibility, as they call it nowadays.”

  “That line would seem to be the best choice,” said Poirot. “You will pardon me for saying that I hope it will not succeed.”

  “I agree with you entirely. A most cold-blooded killer. But they will make much of her excellent character, her work as secretary to various well-known people, her war record—quite distinguished, I believe—counterespionage—”

  He let the last words out with a certain significance—a hint of a question in his voice.

  “She was very good, I believe,” he said more briskly. “So young—but quite brilliant, of great use—to both sides. That was her métier—she should have stuck to it. But I can understand the temptation—to play a lone hand, and gain a big prize.” He added softly, “A very big prize.”

  Poirot nodded.

  Mr. Robinson leaned forward.

  “Where are they, M. Poirot?”

  “I think you know where they are.”

  “Well, frankly, yes. Banks are such useful institutions are they not?”

  Poirot smiled.

  “We needn’t beat about the bush really, need we, my dear fellow? What are you going to do about them?”

  “I have been waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “Shall we say—for suggestions?”

  “Yes—I see.”

  “You understand they do not belong to me. I would like to hand them over to the person they do belong to. But that, if I appraise the position correctly, is not so simple.”

  “Governments are in such a difficult position,” said Mr. Robinson. “Vulnerable, so to speak. What with oil, and steel, and uranium, and cobalt and all the rest of it, foreign relations are a matter of the utmost delicacy. The great thing is to be able to say that Her Majesty’s Government, etc., etc., has absolutely no information on the subject.”

  “But I cannot keep this important deposit at my bank indefinitely.”

  “Exactly. That is why I have come to propose that you should hand it over to me.”

  “Ah,” said Poirot. “Why?”

  “I can give you some excellent reasons. These jewels—mercifully we are not official, we can call things by their right names—were unquestionably the personal property of the late Prince Ali Yusuf.”

  “I understand that is so.”

  “His Highness handed them over to Squadron Leader Robert Rawlinson with certain instructions. They were to be got out of Ramat, and they were to be delivered to me.”

  “Have you proof of that?”

  “Certainly.”

  Mr. Robinson drew a long envelope from his pocket. Out of it he took several papers. He laid them before Poirot on the desk.

  Poirot bent over them and studied them carefully.

  “It seems to be as you say.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Do you mind if I ask a question?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What do you, personally, get out of this?”

  Mr. Robinson looked surprised.

  “My dear fellow. Money, of course. Quite a lot of money.”

  Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.

  “It is a very old trade,” said Mr. Robinson. “And a lucrative one. There are quite a lot of us, a network all over the globe. We are, how shall I put it, the Arrangers behind the scenes. For kings, for presidents, for politicians, for all those, in fact, upon whom the fierce light beats, as a poet has put it. We work in with one another and remember this: we keep faith. Our profits are large but we are honest. Our services are costly—but we do render service.”

  “I see,” said Poirot. “Eh bien! I agree to what you ask.”

  “I can assure you that that
decision will please everyone.” Mr. Robinson’s eyes just rested for a moment on Colonel Pikeaway’s letter where it lay at Poirot’s right hand.

  “But just one little moment. I am human. I have curiosity. What are you going to do with these jewels?”

  Mr. Robinson looked at him. Then his large yellow face creased into a smile. He leaned forward.

  “I shall tell you.”

  He told him.

  II

  Children were playing up and down the street. Their raucous cries filled the air. Mr. Robinson, alighting ponderously from his Rolls, was cannoned into by one of them.

  Mr. Robinson put the child aside with a not unkindly hand and peered up at the number on the house.

  No. 15. This was right. He pushed open the gate and went up the three steps to the front door. Neat white curtains at the windows, he noted, and a well-polished brass knocker. An insignificant little house in an insignificant street in an insignificant part of London, but it was well kept. It had self-respect.

  The door opened. A girl of about twenty-five, pleasant looking, with a kind of fair, chocolate box prettiness, welcomed him with a smile.

  “Mr. Robinson? Come in.”

  She took him into the small sitting room. A television set, cretonnes of a Jacobean pattern, a cottage piano against the wall. She had on a dark skirt and a grey pullover.

  “You’ll have some tea? I’ve got the kettle on.”

  “Thank you, but no. I never drink tea. And I can only stay a short time. I have only come to bring you what I wrote to you about.”

  “From Ali?”

  “Yes.”

  “There isn’t—there couldn’t be—any hope? I mean—it’s really true—that he was killed? There couldn’t be any mistake?”

  “I’m afraid there was no mistake,” said Mr. Robinson gently.

  “No—no, I suppose not. Anyway, I never expected—When he went back there I didn’t think really I’d ever see him again. I don’t mean I thought he was going to be killed or that there would be a Revolution. I just mean—well, you know—he’d have to carry on, do his stuff—what was expected of him. Marry one of his own people—all that.”