“Might be,” said Japp. “But there’s a difficulty.”
She looked at him inquiringly.
“Major Eustace (if it was him) left here last night at ten-twenty and said goodbye to Mrs. Allen on the doorstep.”
“Oh,” the girl’s face fell. “I see.” She paused a minute or two. “But he might have come back later,” she said slowly.
“Yes, that is possible,” said Poirot.
Japp continued:
“Tell me, Miss Plenderleith, where was Mrs. Allen in the habit of receiving guests, here or in the room upstairs?”
“Both. But this room was used for more communal parties or for my own special friends. You see, the arrangement was that Barbara had the big bedroom and used it as a sitting room as well, and I had the little bedroom and used this room.”
“If Major Eustace came by appointment last night, in which room do you think Mrs. Allen would have received him?”
“I think she would probably bring him in here.” The girl sounded a little doubtful. “It would be less intimate. On the other hand, if she wanted to write a cheque or anything of that kind, she would probably take him upstairs. There are no writing materials down here.”
Japp shook his head.
“There was no question of a cheque. Mrs. Allen drew out two hundred pounds in cash yesterday. And so far we’ve not been able to find any trace of it in the house.”
“And she gave it to that brute? Oh, poor Barbara! Poor, poor Barbara!”
Poirot coughed.
“Unless, as you suggest, it was more or less an accident, it still seems a remarkable fact that he should kill an apparently regular source of income.”
“Accident? It wasn’t an accident. He lost his temper and saw red and shot her.”
“That is how you think it happened?”
“Yes.” She added vehemently, “It was murder—murder!”
Poirot said gravely:
“I will not say that you are wrong, mademoiselle.”
Japp said:
“What cigarettes did Mrs. Allen smoke?”
“Gaspers. There are some in that box.”
Japp opened the box, took out a cigarette and nodded. He slipped the cigarette into his pocket.
“And you, mademoiselle?” asked Poirot.
“The same.”
“You do not smoke Turkish?”
“Never.”
“Nor Mrs. Allen?”
“No. She didn’t like them.”
Poirot asked:
“And Mr. Laverton-West. What did he smoke?”
She stared hard at him.
“Charles? What does it matter what he smoked? You’re not going to pretend that he killed her?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“A man has killed the woman he loved before now, mademoiselle.”
Jane shook her head impatiently.
“Charles wouldn’t kill anybody. He’s a very careful man.”
“All the same, mademoiselle, it is the careful men who commit the cleverest murders.”
She stared at him.
“But not for the motive you have just advanced, M. Poirot.”
He bowed his head.
“No, that is true.”
Japp rose.
“Well, I don’t think that there’s much more I can do here. I’d like to have one more look round.”
“In case that money should be tucked away somewhere? Certainly. Look anywhere you like. And in my room too—although it isn’t likely Barbara would hide it there.”
Japp’s search was quick but efficient. The living room had given up all its secrets in a very few minutes. Then he went upstairs. Jane Plenderleith sat on the arm of a chair, smoking a cigarette and frowning at the fire. Poirot watched her.
After some minutes, he said quietly:
“Do you know if Mr. Laverton-West is in London at present?”
“I don’t know at all. I rather fancy he’s in Hampshire with his people. I suppose I ought to have wired him. How dreadful. I forgot.”
“It is not easy to remember everything, mademoiselle, when a catastrophe occurs. And after all, the bad news, it will keep. One hears it only too soon.”
“Yes, that’s true,” the girl said absently.
Japp’s footsteps were heard descending the stairs. Jane went out to meet him.
“Well?”
Japp shook his head.
“Nothing helpful, I’m afraid, Miss Plenderleith. I’ve been over the whole house now. Oh, I suppose I’d better just have a look in this cupboard under the stairs.”
He caught hold of the handle as he spoke, and pulled.
Jane Plenderleith said:
“It’s locked.”
Something in her voice made both men look at her sharply.
“Yes,” said Japp pleasantly. “I can see it’s locked. Perhaps you’ll get the key.”
The girl was standing as though carved in stone.
“I—I’m not sure where it is.”
Japp shot a quick glance at her. His voice continued resolutely pleasant and offhand.
“Dear me, that’s too bad. Don’t want to splinter the wood, opening it by force. I’ll send Jameson out to get an assortment of keys.”
She moved forward stiffly.
“Oh,” she said. “One minute. It might be—”
She went back into the living room and reappeared a moment later holding a fair-sized key in her hand.
“We keep it locked,” she explained, “because one’s umbrellas and things have a habit of getting pinched.”
“Very wise precaution,” said Japp, cheerfully accepting the key.
He turned it in the lock and threw the door open. It was dark inside the cupboard. Japp took out his pocket flashlight and let it play round the inside.
Poirot felt the girl at his side stiffen and stop breathing for a second. His eyes followed the sweep of Japp’s torch.
There was not very much in the cupboard. Three umbrellas—one broken, four walking sticks, a set of golf clubs, two tennis racquets, a neatly-folded rug and several sofa cushions in various stages of dilapidation. On the top of these last reposed a small, smart-looking attaché case.
As Japp stretched out a hand towards it, Jane Plenderleith said quickly:
“That’s mine. I—it came back with me this morning. So there can’t be anything there.”
“Just as well to make quite sure,” said Japp, his cheery friendliness increasing slightly.
The case was unlocked. Inside it was fitted with shagreen brushes and toilet bottles. There were two magazines in it but nothing else.
Japp examined the whole outfit with meticulous attention. When at last he shut the lid and began a cursory examination of the cushions, the girl gave an audible sigh of relief.
There was nothing else in the cupboard beyond what was plainly to be seen. Japp’s examination was soon finished.
He relocked the door and handed the key to Jane Plenderleith.
“Well,” he said, “that concludes matters. Can you give me Mr. Laverton-West’s address?”
“Farlescombe Hall, Little Ledbury, Hampshire.”
“Thank you, Miss Plenderleith. That’s all for the present. I may be round again later. By the way, mum’s the word. Leave it at suicide as far as the general public’s concerned.”
“Of course, I quite understand.”
She shook hands with them both.
As they walked away down the mews, Japp exploded:
“What the—the hell was there in that cupboard? There was something.”
“Yes, there was something.”
“And I’ll bet ten to one it was something to do with the attaché case! But like the double-dyed mutt I must be, I couldn’t find anything. Looked in all the bottles—felt the lining—what the devil could it be?”
Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.
“That girl’s in it somehow,” Japp went on. “Brought that case back this morning? Not on your life, she didn
’t! Notice that there were two magazines in it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, one of them was for last July!”
Seven
I
It was the following day when Japp walked into Poirot’s flat, flung his hat on the table in deep disgust and dropped into a chair.
“Well,” he growled. “She’s out of it!”
“Who is out of it?”
“Plenderleith. Was playing bridge up to midnight. Host, hostess, naval commander guest and two servants can all swear to that. No doubt about it, we’ve got to give up any idea of her being concerned in the business. All the same, I’d like to know why she went all hot and bothered about that little attaché case under the stairs. That’s something in your line, Poirot. You like solving the kind of triviality that leads nowhere. The Mystery of the Small Attaché Case. Sounds quite promising!”
“I will give you yet another suggestion for a title. The Mystery of the Smell of Cigarette Smoke.”
“A bit clumsy for a title. Smell—eh? Was that why you were sniffing so when we first examined the body? I saw you—and heard you! Sniff—sniff—sniff. Thought you had a cold in your head.”
“You were entirely in error.”
Japp sighed.
“I always thought it was the little grey cells of the brain. Don’t tell me the cells of your nose are equally superior to anyone else’s.”
“No, no, calm yourself.”
“I didn’t smell any cigarette smoke,” went on Japp suspiciously.
“No more did I, my friend.”
Japp looked at him doubtfully. Then he extracted a cigarette from his pocket.
“That’s the kind Mrs. Allen smoked—gaspers. Six of those stubs were hers. The other three were Turkish.”
“Exactly.”
“Your wonderful nose knew that without looking at them, I suppose!”
“I assure you my nose does not enter into the matter. My nose registered nothing.”
“But the brain cells registered a lot?”
“Well—there were certain indications—do you not think so?”
Japp looked at him sideways.
“Such as?”
“Eh bien, there was very definitely something missing from the room. Also something added, I think . . . And then, on the writing bureau . . .”
“I knew it! We’re coming to that damned quill pen!”
“Du tout. The quill pen plays a purely negative rôle.”
Japp retreated to safer ground.
“I’ve got Charles Laverton-West coming to see me at Scotland Yard in half an hour. I thought you might like to be there.”
“I should very much.”
“And you’ll be glad to hear we’ve tracked down Major Eustace. Got a service flat in the Cromwell Road.”
“Excellent.”
“And we’ve got a little to go on there. Not at all a nice person, Major Eustace. After I’ve seen Laverton-West, we’ll go and see him. That suit you?”
“Perfectly.”
“Well, come along then.”
II
At half past eleven, Charles Laverton-West was ushered into Chief Inspector Japp’s room. Japp rose and shook hands.
The M.P. was a man of medium height with a very definite personality. He was clean-shaven, with the mobile mouth of an actor, and the slightly prominent eyes that so often go with the gift of oratory. He was good-looking in a quiet, well-bred way.
Though looking pale and somewhat distressed, his manner was perfectly formal and composed.
He took a seat, laid his gloves and hat on the table and looked towards Japp.
“I’d like to say, first of all, Mr. Laverton-West, that I fully appreciate how distressing this must be to you.”
Laverton-West waved this aside.
“Do not let us discuss my feelings. Tell me, Chief Inspector, have you any idea what caused my—Mrs. Allen to take her own life?”
“You yourself cannot help us in any way?”
“No, indeed.”
“There was no quarrel? No estrangement of any kind between you?”
“Nothing of the kind. It has been the greatest shock to me.”
“Perhaps it will be more understandable, sir, if I tell you that it was not suicide—but murder!”
“Murder?” Charles Laverton-West’s eyes popped nearly out of his head. “You say murder?”
“Quite correct. Now, Mr. Laverton-West, have you any idea who might be likely to make away with Mrs. Allen?”
Laverton-West fairly spluttered out his answer.
“No—no, indeed—nothing of the sort! The mere idea is—is unimaginable!”
“She never mentioned any enemies? Anyone who might have a grudge against her?”
“Never.”
“Did you know that she had a pistol?”
“I was not aware of the fact.”
He looked a little startled.
“Miss Plenderleith says that Mrs. Allen brought this pistol back from abroad with her some years ago.”
“Really?”
“Of course, we have only Miss Plenderleith’s word for that. It is quite possible that Mrs. Allen felt herself to be in danger from some source and kept the pistol handy for reasons of her own.”
Charles Laverton-West shook his head doubtfully. He seemed quite bewildered and dazed.
“What is your opinion of Miss Plenderleith, Mr. Laverton-West? I mean, does she strike you as a reliable, truthful person?”
The other pondered a minute.
“I think so—yes, I should say so.”
“You don’t like her?” suggested Japp, who had been watching him closely.
“I wouldn’t say that. She is not the type of young woman I admire. That sarcastic, independent type is not attractive to me, but I should say she was quite truthful.”
“H’m,” said Japp. “Do you know a Major Eustace?”
“Eustace? Eustace? Ah, yes, I remember the name. I met him once at Barbara’s—Mrs. Allen’s. Rather a doubtful customer in my opinion. I said as much to my—to Mrs. Allen. He wasn’t the type of man I should have encouraged to come to the house after we were married.”
“And what did Mrs. Allen say?”
“Oh! she quite agreed. She trusted my judgment implicitly. A man knows other men better than a woman can do. She explained that she couldn’t very well be rude to a man whom she had not seen for some time—I think she felt especially a horror of being snobbish! Naturally, as my wife, she would find a good many of her old associates well—unsuitable, shall we say?”
“Meaning that in marrying you she was bettering her position?” Japp asked bluntly.
Laverton-West held up a well-manicured hand.
“No, no, not quite that. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Allen’s mother was a distant relation of my own family. She was fully my equal in birth. But of course, in my position, I have to be especially careful in choosing my friends—and my wife in choosing hers. One is to a certain extent in the limelight.”
“Oh, quite,” said Japp dryly. He went on, “So you can’t help us in any way?”
“No indeed. I am utterly at sea. Barbara! Murdered! It seems incredible.”
“Now, Mr. Laverton-West, can you tell me what your own movements were on the night of November fifth?”
“My movements? My movements?”
Laverton-West’s voice rose in shrill protest.
“Purely a matter of routine,” explained Japp. “We—er—have to ask everybody.”
Charles Laverton-West looked at him with dignity.
“I should hope that a man in my position might be exempt.”
Japp merely waited.
“I was—now let me see . . . Ah, yes. I was at the House. Left at half past ten. Went for a walk along the Embankment. Watched some of the fireworks.”
“Nice to think there aren’t any plots of that kind nowadays,” said Japp cheerily.
Laverton-West gave him a fish-like stare.
“Then I—
er—walked home.”
“Reaching home—your London address is Onslow Square, I think—at what time?”
“I hardly know exactly.”
“Eleven? Half past?”
“Somewhere about then.”
“Perhaps someone let you in.”
“No, I have my key.”
“Meet anybody whilst you were walking?”
“No—er—really, Chief Inspector, I resent these questions very much!”
“I assure you, it’s just a matter of routine, Mr. Laverton-West. They aren’t personal, you know.”
The reply seemed to soothe the irate M.P.
“If that is all—”
“That is all for the present, Mr. Laverton-West.”
“You will keep me informed—”
“Naturally, sir. By the way, let me introduce M. Hercule Poirot. You may have heard of him.”
Mr. Laverton-West’s eye fastened itself interestedly on the little Belgian.
“Yes—yes—I have heard the name.”
“Monsieur,” said Poirot, his manner suddenly very foreign. “Believe me, my heart bleeds for you. Such a loss! Such agony as you must be enduring! Ah, but I will say no more. How magnificently the English hide their emotions.” He whipped out his cigarette case. “Permit me—Ah, it is empty. Japp?”
Japp slapped his pockets and shook his head.
Laverton-West produced his own cigarette case, murmured, “Er—have one of mine, M. Poirot.”
“Thank you—thank you.” The little man helped himself.
“As you say, M. Poirot,” resumed the other, “we English do not parade our emotions. A stiff upper lip—that is our motto.”
He bowed to the two men and went out.
“Bit of a stuffed fish,” said Japp disgustedly. “And a boiled owl! The Plenderleith girl was quite right about him. Yet he’s a good-looking sort of chap—might go down well with some woman who had no sense of humour. What about that cigarette?”
Poirot handed it over, shaking his head.
“Egyptian. An expensive variety.”
“No, that’s no good. A pity, for I’ve never heard a weaker alibi! In fact, it wasn’t an alibi at all . . . You know, Poirot, it’s a pity the boot wasn’t on the other leg. If she’d been blackmailing him . . . He’s a lovely type for blackmail—would pay out like a lamb! Anything to avoid a scandal.”