Chapter 15

 Sir Montagu Corner

It was about ten o’clock when we reached Sir Montagu Corner’s house on the river at Chiswick. It was a big house standing back in its own grounds. We were admitted into a beautifully-panelled hall. On our right, through an open door, we saw the dining-room with its long polished table lit with candles.

‘Will you come this way, please?’

The butler led the way up a broad staircase and into a long room on the first floor overlooking the river.

‘M. Hercule Poirot,’ announced the butler.

It was a beautifully-proportioned room, and had an old-world air with its carefully-shaded dim lamps. In one corner of the room was a bridge table, set near the open window, and round it sat four people. As we entered the room one of the four rose and came towards us.

‘It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, M. Poirot.’

I looked with some interest at Sir Montagu Corner. He had a distinctly Jewish cast of countenance, very small intelligent black eyes and a carefully-arranged toupee. He was a short man – five foot eight at most, I should say. His manner was affected to the last degree.

‘Let me introduce you. Mr and Mrs Widburn.’

‘We’ve met before,’ said Mrs Widburn brightly. ‘And Mr Ross.’

Ross was a young fellow of about twenty-two with a pleasant face and fair hair.

‘I disturb your game. A million apologies,’ said Poirot.

‘Not at all. We have not started. We were commencing to deal the cards only. Some coffee, M. Poirot?’

Poirot declined but accepted an offer of old brandy. It was brought us in immense goblets.

As we sipped it, Sir Montagu discoursed.

He spoke of Japanese prints, of Chinese lacquer, of Persian carpets, of the French Impressionists, of modern music and of the theories of Einstein.

Then he sat back and smiled at us beneficently. He had evidently thoroughly enjoyed his performance. In the dim light he looked like some genie of the mediaeval age. All around the room were exquisite examples of art and culture.

‘And now, Sir Montagu,’ said Poirot, ‘I will trespass on your kindness no longer but will come to the object of my visit.’

Sir Montagu waved a curious claw-like hand.

‘There is no hurry. Time is infinite.’

‘One always feels that in this house,’ sighed Mrs Widburn. ‘So wonderful.’

‘I would not live in London for a million pounds,’ said Sir Montagu. ‘Here one is in the old-world atmosphere of peace that – alas! – we have put behind us in these jarring days.’

A sudden impish fancy flashed over me that if someone were really to offer Sir Montagu a million pounds, old-world peace might go to the wall, but I trod down such heretical sentiments.

‘What is money, after all?’ murmured Mrs Widburn.

‘Ah!’ said Mr Widburn thoughtfully, and rattled some coins absent-mindedly in his trouser pocket.

‘Charles,’ said Mrs Widburn reproachfully.

‘Sorry,’ said Mr Widburn and stopped.

‘To speak of crime in such an atmosphere, is, I feel, unpardonable,’ began Poirot apologetically.

‘Not at all.’ Sir Montagu waved a gracious hand. ‘A crime can be a work of art. A detective can be an artist. I do not refer, of course, to the police. An inspector has been here today. A curious person. He had never heard of Benvenuto Cellini, for instance.’

‘He came about Jane Wilkinson, I suppose,’ said Mrs Widburn with instant curiosity.

‘It was fortunate for the lady that she was at your house last night,’ said Poirot.

‘So it seems,’ said Sir Montagu. ‘I asked her here knowing that she was beautiful and talented and hoping that I might be able to be of use to her. She was thinking of going into management. But it seems that I was fated to be of use to her in a very different way.’

‘Jane’s got luck,’ said Mrs Widburn. ‘She’s been dying to get rid of Edgware and here’s somebody gone and saved her the trouble. She’ll marry the young Duke of Merton now. Everyone says so. His mother’s wild about it.’

‘I was favourably impressed by her,’ said Sir Montagu graciously. ‘She made several most intelligent remarks about Greek art.’

I smiled to myself picturing Jane saying ‘Yes’ and ‘No’, ‘Really, how wonderful’, in her magical husky voice. Sir Montagu was the type of man to whom intelligence consisted of the faculty of listening to his own remarks with suitable attention.

‘Edgware was a queer fish, by all accounts,’ said Widburn. ‘I daresay he’s got a good few enemies.’

‘Is it true, M. Poirot,’ asked Mrs Widburn, ‘that somebody ran a penknife into the back of his brain?’

‘Perfectly true, Madame. It was very neatly and efficiently done – scientific, in fact.’

‘I note your artistic pleasure, M. Poirot,’ said Sir Montagu.

‘And now,’ said Poirot, ‘let me come to the object of my visit. Lady Edgware was called to the telephone when she was here at dinner. It is about that telephone call that I seek information. Perhaps you will allow me to question your domestics on the subject?’

‘Certainly. Certainly. Just press that bell, will you, Ross.’

The butler answered the bell. He was a tall middle-aged man of ecclesiastical appearance.

Sir Montagu explained what was wanted. The butler turned to Poirot with polite attention.

‘Who answered the telephone when it rang?’ began Poirot.

‘I answered it myself, sir. The telephone is in a recess leading out of the hall.’

‘Did the person calling ask to speak to Lady Edgware or to Miss Jane Wilkinson?’

‘To Lady Edgware, sir.’

‘What did they say exactly?’

The butler reflected for a moment.

‘As far as I remember, sir, I said “Hello”. A voice then asked if I was Chiswick 43434. I replied that that was so. It then asked me to hold the line. Another voice then asked if that was Chiswick 43434 and on my replying “Yes” it said, “Is Lady Edgware dining there?” I said her ladyship was dining here. The voice said, “I would like to speak to her, please.” I went and informed her ladyship who was at the dinner table. Her ladyship rose, and I showed her where the ’phone was.’

‘And then?’

‘Her ladyship picked up the receiver and said: “Hello – who’s speaking?” Then she said: “Yes – that’s all right. Lady Edgware speaking.” I was just about to leave her ladyship when she called to me and said they had been cut off. She said someone had laughed and evidently hung up the receiver. She asked me if the person ringing up had given any name. They had not done so. That was all that occurred, sir.’

Poirot frowned to himself.

‘Do you really think the telephone call has something to do with the murder, M. Poirot?’ asked Mrs Widburn.

‘Impossible to say, Madame. It is just a curious circumstance.’

‘People do ring up for a joke sometimes. It’s been done to me.’

‘C’est toujours possible, Madame.’

He spoke to the butler again.

‘Was it a man’s voice or a woman’s who rang up?’

‘A lady’s, I think, sir.’

‘What kind of a voice, high or low?’

‘Low, sir. Careful and rather distinct.’ He paused. ‘It may be my fancy, sir, but it sounded like a foreign voice. The R’s were very noticeable.’

‘As far as that goes it might have been a Scotch voice, Donald,’ said Mrs Widburn, smiling at Ross.

Ross laughed.

‘Not guilty,’ he said. ‘I was at the dinner table.’

Poirot spoke once again to the butler.

‘Do you think,’ he asked, ‘that you could recognize that voice if you were to hear it any time?’

The butler hesitated.

‘I couldn’t quite say, sir. I might do so. I think it is possible that I should do so.’

‘I thank you, my friend.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The butler inclined his head and withdrew, pontificial to the last.

Sir Montagu Corner continued to be very friendly and to play his role of old-world charm. He persuaded us to remain and play bridge. I excused myself – the stakes were bigger than I cared about. Young Ross seemed relieved also at the prospect of someone taking his hand. He and I sat looking on while the other four played. The evening ended in a heavy financial gain to Poirot and Sir Montagu.

Then we thanked our host and took our departure. Ross came with us.

‘A strange little man,’ said Poirot as we stepped out into the night.

The night was fine and we had decided to walk until we picked up a taxi instead of having one telephoned for.

‘Yes, a strange little man,’ said Poirot again.

‘A very rich little man,’ said Ross with feeling.

‘I suppose so.’

‘He seems to have taken a fancy to me,’ said Ross. ‘Hope it will last. A man like that behind you means a lot.’

‘You are an actor, Mr Ross?’

Ross said that he was. He seemed sad that his name had not brought instant recognition. Apparently he had recently won marvellous notices in some gloomy play translated from the Russian.

When Poirot and I between us had soothed him down again, Poirot asked casually:

‘You knew Carlotta Adams, did you not?’

‘No. I saw her death announced in the paper tonight. Overdose of some drug or other. Idiotic the way all these girls dope.’

‘It is sad, yes. She was clever, too.’

‘I suppose so.’

He displayed a characteristic lack of interest in any - one else’s performance but his own.

‘Did you see her show at all?’ I asked.

‘No. That sort of thing’s not much in my line. Kind of craze for it at present, but I don’t think it will last.’

‘Ah!’ said Poirot.

‘Here is a taxi.’

He waved a stick.

‘Think I’ll walk,’ said Ross. ‘I get a tube straight home from Hammersmith.’

Suddenly he gave a nervous laugh.

‘Odd thing,’ he said. ‘That dinner last night.’

‘Yes?’

‘We were thirteen. Some fellow failed at the last minute. We never noticed till just the end of dinner.’

‘And who got up first?’ I asked.

He gave a queer little nervous cackle of laughter.

‘I did,’ he said.