Chapter 17

In Wandsworth

Mr Henry Mitchell was just sitting down to a supper of sausage and mash¹ when a visitor called tosee him.

Somewhat to the steward²’s astonishment³ the visitor in question was the full- moustachedgentleman who had been one of the passengers on the fatal plane.

M. Poirot was very affable, very agreeable in his manner. He insisted on Mr Mitchell’s gettingon with his supper, paid a graceful⁴ compliment to Mrs Mitchell, who was standing⁵ staring at himopen-mouthed.

He accepted a chair, remarked that it was very warm for the time of year and then gently cameround to the purpose of his call.

‘Scotland Yard, I fear, is not making much progress with the case,’ he said.

Mitchell shook his head.

‘It was an amazing business, sir—amazing. I don’t see what they’ve got to go on. Why, if noneof the people on the plane saw anything, it’s going to be difficult for anyone afterwards.’

‘Truly, as you say.’

‘Terribly worried, Henry’s been, over it,’ put in his wife. ‘Not able to sleep of nights.’

The steward explained:

‘It’s lain on my mind, sir, something terrible. The company have been very fair about it. I mustsay I was afraid at first I might lose my job—’

‘Henry, they couldn’t. It would have been cruelly unfair.’

His wife sounded highly indignant. She was a buxom⁶, highly- complexioned⁷ woman withsnapping dark eyes.

‘Things don’t always happen fairly, Ruth. Still it turned out better than I thought. They absolveme from blame. But I felt it, if you understand me. I was in charge, as it were.’

‘I understand your feelings,’ said Poirot sympathetically. ‘But I assure you that you are over-conscientious. Nothing that happened was your fault.’

‘That’s what I say, sir,’ put in Mrs Mitchell.

Mitchell shook his head.

‘I ought to have noticed that the lady was dead sooner. If I’d tried to wake her up when I firsttook round the bills—’

‘It would have made little difference. Death, they think, was very nearly instantaneous.’

‘He worries so,’ said Mrs Mitchell. ‘I tell him not to bother his head so. Who’s to know whatreason foreigners have for murdering each other; and if you ask me, I think it’s a dirty trick tohave done it in a British aeroplane.’

She finished her sentence with an indignant and patriotic⁸ snort.

Mitchell shook his head in a puzzled way.

‘It weighs on me, so to speak. Every time I go on duty I’m in a state. And then the gentlemanfrom Scotland Yard asking me again and again if nothing unusual or sudden occurred on the wayover. Makes me feel as though I must have forgotten something—and yet I know I haven’t. It wasa most uneventful voyage in every way until—until it happened.’

‘Blowpipes and darts—heathen, I call it,’ said Mrs Mitchell.

‘You are right,’ said Poirot, addressing her with a flattering air of being struck by her remarks.

‘Not so is an English murder committed.’

‘You’re right, sir.’

‘You know, Mrs Mitchell, I can almost guess what part of England you come from.’

‘Dorset, sir. Not far from Bridport. That’s my home.’

‘Exactly,’ said Poirot. ‘A lovely part of the world.’

‘It is that. London isn’t a patch on Dorset. My folk have been settled in Dorset for over twohundred years—and I’ve got Dorset in the blood, as you might say.’

‘Yes, indeed.’ He turned to the steward again. ‘There’s one thing I’d like to ask you, Mitchell.’

The man’s brow contracted.

‘I’ve told you all that I know—indeed I have, sir.’

‘Yes, yes—this is a very trifling⁹ matter. I only wondered if anything on the table—MadameGiselle’s table, I mean—was disarranged?’

‘You mean when—when I found her?’

‘Yes. The spoons and forks—the salt cellar—anything like that.’

The man shook his head.

‘There wasn’t anything of that kind on the tables. Everything was cleared away bar the coffeecups. I didn’t notice anything myself. I shouldn’t, though. I was much too flustered¹⁰. But the policewould know that, sir, they searched the plane through and through.’

‘Ah, well,’ said Poirot. ‘It is no matter. Sometime I must have a word with your colleague—Davis.’

‘He’s on the early 8.45 am service now, sir.’

‘Has this business upset him much?’

‘Oh, well, sir, you see he’s only a young fellow. If you ask me, he’s almost enjoyed it all. Theexcitement, and everyone standing him drinks and wanting to hear about it.’

‘Has he perhaps a young lady?’ asked Poirot. ‘Doubtless his connexion with the crime would bevery thrilling to her.’

‘He’s courting old Johnson’s daughter at the Crown and Feathers,’ said Mrs Mitchell. ‘But she’sa sensible girl—got her head screwed on the right way. She doesn’t approve of being mixed upwith a murder.’

‘A very sound point of view,’ said Poirot, rising. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Mitchell—and you, MrsMitchell—and I beg of you, my friend, do not let this weigh upon your mind.’

When he had departed Mitchell said, ‘The thick heads in the jury at the inquest thought he’ddone it. But if you ask me, he’s secret service.’

‘If you ask me,’ said Mrs Mitchell, ‘there’s Bolshies at the back of it.’

Poirot had said that he must have a word with the other steward, Davis, sometime. As a matterof fact he had it not many hours later, in the bar of the Crown and Feathers.

He asked Davis the same question he had asked Mitchell.

‘Nothing disarranged—no, sir. You mean upset? That kind of thing?’

‘I mean—well, shall we say something missing from the table—or something that would notusually be there—’

Davis said slowly:

‘There was something—I noticed it when I was clearing up, after the police had done with theplace—but I don’t suppose that it’s the sort of thing you mean. It’s only that the dead lady had twocoffee spoons in her saucer. It does sometimes happen when we’re serving in a hurry. I noticed itbecause there’s a superstition¹¹ about that; they say two spoons in a saucer means a wedding.’

‘Was there a spoon missing from anyone else’s saucer?’

‘No, sir, not that I noticed. Mitchell or I must have taken the cup and saucer along that way—asI say one does sometimes what with the hurry and all. I laid two sets of fish knives and forks onlya week ago. On the whole it’s better than laying the table short, for then you have to interruptyourself and go and fetch the extra knife, or whatever it is you’ve forgotten.’

Poirot asked one more question—a somewhat jocular one:

‘What do you think of French girls, Davis?’

‘English are good enough for me, sir.’

And he grinned at a plump, fair-haired girl behind the bar.

 

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