Twenty-three

THE EVIDENCE OF A PAIR OF SILK STOCKINGS

As Superintendent¹ Battle’s train rushed eastwards² through England, Anne Meredith and RhodaDawes were in Hercule Poirot’s sitting room.

Anne had been unwilling³ to accept the invitation that had reached her by the morning’s post, butRhoda’s counsel had prevailed.

“Anne—you’re a coward—yes, a coward. It’s no good going on being an ostrich⁴, burying yourhead in the sand. There’s been a murder and you’re one of the suspects—the least likely oneperhaps—”

“That would be the worst,” said Anne with a touch of humour. “It’s always the least likelyperson who did it.”

“But you are one,” continued Rhoda, undisturbed by the interruption. “And it’s no use puttingyour nose in the air as though murder was a nasty smell and nothing to do with you.”

“It is nothing to do with me,” Anne persisted. “I mean, I’m quite willing to answer anyquestions the police want to ask me, but this man, this Hercule Poirot, he’s an outsider.”

“And what will he think if you hedge and try to get out of it? He’ll think you’re bursting withguilt.”

“I’m certainly not bursting with guilt,” said Anne coldly.

“Darling, I know that. You couldn’t murder anybody if you tried. But horrible suspiciousforeigners don’t know that. I think we ought to go nicely to his house. Otherwise he’ll come downhere and try to worm things out of the servants.”

“We haven’t got any servants.”

“We’ve got Mother Astwell. She can wag a tongue with anybody! Come on, Anne, let’s go. Itwill be rather fun really.”

“I don’t see why he wants to see me.” Anne was obstinate⁵.

“To put one over on the official police, of course,” said Rhoda impatiently. “They always do—the amateurs, I mean. They make out that Scotland Yard are all boots and brainlessness.”

“Do you think this man Poirot is clever?”

“He doesn’t look a Sherlock,” said Rhoda. “I expect he has been quite good in his day. He’sgaga now, of course. He must be at least sixty. Oh, come on, Anne, let’s go and see the old boy.

He may tell us dreadful things about the others.”

“All right,” said Anne, and added, “You do enjoy all this so, Rhoda.”

“I suppose because it isn’t my funeral,” said Rhoda. “You were a noddle, Anne, not just to havelooked up at the right minute. If only you had, you could live like a duchess for the rest of yourlife on blackmail⁶.”

So it came about that at three o’clock of that same afternoon, Rhoda Dawes and Anne Meredithsat primly⁷ on their chairs in Poirot’s neat room and sipped⁸ blackberry sirop (which they dislikedvery much but were too polite to refuse) from old-fashioned glasses.

“It was most amiable⁹ of you to accede¹⁰ to my request, mademoiselle,” Poirot was saying.

“I’m sure I shall be glad to help in any way I can,” murmured Anne vaguely¹¹.

“It is a little matter of memory.”

“Memory?”

“Yes, I have already put these questions to Mrs. Lorrimer, to Dr. Roberts and to Major Despard.

None of them, alas¹², have given me the response that I hoped for.”

Anne continued to look at him inquiringly.

“I want you, mademoiselle, to cast your mind back to that evening in the drawing room of Mr.

Shaitana.”

A weary shadow passed over Anne’s face. Was she never to be free of that nightmare?”

Poirot noticed the expression.

“C’est pénible, n’est ce pas? That is very natural. You, so young as you are, to be brought incontact with horror for the first time. Probably you have never known or seen a violent death.”

Rhoda’s feet shifted a little uncomfortably on the floor.

“Well?” said Anne.

“Cast your mind back. I want you to tell me what you remember of that room?”

Anne stared at him suspiciously.

“I don’t understand?”

“But yes. The chairs, the tables, the ornaments¹⁴, the wallpaper, the curtains, the fire irons. Yousaw them all. Can you not then describe them?”

“Oh, I see.” Anne hesitated, frowning. “It’s difficult. I don’t really think I remember. I couldn’tsay what the wallpaper was like. I think the walls were painted—some inconspicuous colour.

There were rugs on the floor. There was a piano.” She shook her head. “I really couldn’t tell youany more.”

“But you are not trying, mademoiselle. You must remember some object, some ornament¹³, somepiece of bric-à-brac?”

“There was a case of Egyptian jewellery, I remember,” said Anne slowly. “Over by thewindow.”

“Oh, yes, at the extreme other end of the room from the table on which lay the little dagger¹⁵.”

Anne looked at him.

“I never heard which table that was on.”

“Pas si bête,” commented Poirot to himself. “But then, no more is Hercule Poirot! If she knewme better she would realize I would never lay a piège as gross as that!”

Aloud he said:

“A case of Egyptian jewellery, you say?”

Anne answered with some enthusiasm.

“Yes—some of it was lovely. Blues¹⁶ and red. Enamel¹⁷. One or two lovely rings. And scarabs—but I don’t like them so much.”

“He was a great collector, Mr. Shaitana,” murmured Poirot.

“Yes, he must have been,” Anne agreed. “The room was full of stuff. One couldn’t begin tolook at it all.”

“So that you cannot mention anything else that particularly struck your notice?”

Anne smiled a little as she said:

“Only a vase of chrysanthemums¹⁸ that badly wanted their water changed.”

“Ah, yes, servants are not always too particular about that.”

Poirot was silent for a moment or two.

Anne asked timidly:

“I’m afraid I didn’t notice—whatever it is you wanted me to notice.”

Poirot smiled kindly¹⁹.

“It does not matter, mon enfant. It was, indeed, an outside chance. Tell me, have you seen thegood Major Despard lately?”

He saw the delicate pink colour come up in the girl’s face. She replied:

“He said he would come and see us again quite soon.”

Rhoda said impetuously:

“He didn’t do it, anyway! Anne and I are quite sure of that.”

Poirot twinkled at them.

“How fortunate—to have convinced two such charming young ladies of one’s innocence²⁰.”

“Oh, dear,” thought Rhoda. “He’s going to be French, and it does embarrass me so.”

She got up and began examining some etchings on the wall.

“These are awfully²¹ good,” she said.

“They are not bad,” said Poirot.

He hesitated, looking at Anne.

“Mademoiselle,” he said at last. “I wonder if I might ask you to do me a great favour—oh,nothing to do with the murder. This is an entirely²² private and personal matter.”

Anne looked a little surprised. Poirot went on speaking in a slightly embarrassed manner.

“It is, you understand, that Christmas is coming on. I have to buy presents for many nieces andgrandnieces. And it is a little difficult to choose what young ladies like in this present time. Mytastes, alas, are rather old-fashioned.”

“Yes?” said Anne kindly.

“Silk stockings, now—are silk stockings a welcome present to receive?”

“Yes, indeed. It’s always nice to be given stockings.”

“You relieve my mind. I will ask my favour. I have obtained some different colours. There are, Ithink, about fifteen or sixteen pairs. Would you be so amiable as to look through them and setaside half a dozen pairs that seem to you the most desirable?”

“Certainly I will,” said Anne, rising, with a laugh.

Poirot directed her towards a table in an alcove—a table whose contents were strangely atvariance, had she but known it, with the well-known order and neatness of Hercule Poirot. Therewere stockings piled up in untidy heaps—some fur-lined gloves—calendars and boxes of bonbons²³.

“I send off my parcels very much à l’avance,” Poirot explained. “See, mademoiselle, here arethe stockings. Select me, I pray of you, six pairs.”

He turned, intercepting²⁴ Rhoda, who was following him.

“As for mademoiselle here, I have a little treat for her—a treat that would be no treat to you, Ifancy, Mademoiselle Meredith.”

“What is it?” cried Rhoda.

He lowered his voice.

“A knife, mademoiselle, with which twelve people once stabbed a man. It was given to me as asouvenir by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons²⁵ Lits.”

“Horrible,” cried Anne.

“Ooh! Let me see,” said Rhoda.

Poirot led her through into the other room, talking as he went.

“It was given me by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits because—”

They passed out of the room.

They returned three minutes later. Anne came towards them.

“I think these six are the nicest, M. Poirot. Both these are very good evening shades, and thislighter colour would be nice when summer comes and it’s daylight in the evening.”

“Mille remerc?ments, mademoiselle.”

He offered them more sirop, which they refused, and finally accompanied them to the door, stilltalking genially²⁶.

When they had finally departed he returned to the room and went straight to the littered table.

The pile of stockings still lay in a confused heap. Poirot counted the six selected pairs and thenwent on to count the others.

He had bought nineteen pairs. There were now only seventeen.

He nodded his head slowly.

 

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