XGeorge announced:

“A lady to speak to you on the telephone, sir.”

A week ago, Poirot had guessed wrongly the identity of a visitor. This time his guess was right.

He recognized her voice at once.

“M. Hercule Poirot?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Jane Olivera—Mr. Alistair Blunt’s niece.”

“Yes, Miss Olivera.”

“Could you come to the Gothic House, please? There is something I feel you ought to know.”

“Certainly. What time would be convenient?”

“At six thirty, please.”

“I will be there.”

For a moment the autocratic note wavered:

“I—I hope I am not interrupting your work?”

“Not at all. I was expecting you to call me.”

He put down the receiver quickly. He moved away from it smiling. He wondered what excuseJane Olivera had found for summoning him.

On arrival at the Gothic House he was shown straight into the big library overlooking the river.

Alistair Blunt was sitting at the writing table playing absentmindedly with a paper knife. He hadthe slightly harassed¹ look of a man whose womenfolk have been too much for him.

Jane Olivera was standing² by the mantelpiece. A plump middle-aged³ woman was speakingfretfully as Poirot entered—“and I really think my feelings should be considered in the matter,Alistair.”

“Yes, Julia, of course, of course.”

Alistair Blunt spoke⁴ soothingly⁵ as he rose to greet Poirot.

“And if you’re going to talk horrors I shall leave the room,” added the good lady.

“I should, mother,” said Jane Olivera.

Mrs. Olivera swept from the room without condescending⁶ to take any notice of Poirot.

Alistair Blunt said:

“It’s very good of you to come, M. Poirot. You’ve met Miss Olivera, I think? It was she whosent for you—”

Jane said abruptly⁷:

“It’s about this missing woman that the papers are full of. Miss Something Seale.”

“Sainsbury Seale? Yes?”

Jane turned once more to Poirot.

“It’s such a pompous⁸ name, that’s why I remember. Shall I tell him, or will you, UncleAlistair?”

“My dear, it’s your story.”

Jane turned once more to Poirot.

“It mayn’t be important in the least—but I thought you ought to know.”

“Yes?”

“It was the last time Uncle Alistair went to the dentist’s—I don’t mean the other day—I meanabout three months ago. I went with him to Queen Charlotte Street in the Rolls and it was to takeme on to some friends in Regent’s Park and come back for him. We stopped at 58, and Uncle gotout, and just as he did, a woman came out of 58—a middle-aged woman with fussy⁹ hair and ratherarty clothes. She made a beeline for Uncle and said (Jane Olivera’s voice rose to an affectedsqueak): ‘Oh, Mr. Blunt, you don’t remember me, I’m sure!’ Well, of course, I could see byUncle’s face that he didn’t remember her in the slightest—”

Alistair Blunt sighed.

“I never do. People are always saying it—”

“He put on his special face,” went on Jane. “I know it well. Kind of polite and make-believe. Itwouldn’t deceive a baby. He said in a most unconvincing voice: ‘Oh—er—of course.’ The terriblewoman went on: ‘I was a great friend of your wife’s, you know!’”

“They usually say that, too,” said Alistair Blunt in a voice of even deeper gloom.

He smiled rather ruefully.

“It always ends the same way! A subscription¹⁰ to something or other. I got off this time with fivepounds to a Zenana Mission or something. Cheap!”

“Had she really known your wife?”

“Well, her being interested in Zenana Missions made me think that, if so, it would have been inIndia. We were there about ten years ago. But, of course, she couldn’t have been a great friend orI’d have known about it. Probably met her once at a reception.”

Jane Olivera said:

“I don’t believe she’d ever met Aunt Rebecca at all. I think it was just an excuse to speak toyou.”

Alistair Blunt said tolerantly:

“Well, that’s quite possible.”

Jane said:

“I mean, I think it’s queer the way she tried to scrape an acquaintance with you, Uncle.”

Alistair Blunt said with the same tolerance¹¹:

“She just wanted a subscription.”

Poirot said:

“She did not try to follow it up in any way?”

Blunt shook his head.

“I never thought of her again. I’d even forgotten her name till Jane spotted¹² it in the paper.”

Jane said a little unconvincingly:

“Well, I thought M. Poirot ought to be told!”

Poirot said politely:

“Thank you, Mademoiselle.”

He added:

“I must not keep you, Mr. Blunt. You are a busy man.”

Jane said quickly:

“I’ll come down with you.”

Under his moustaches, Hercule Poirot smiled to himself.

On the ground floor, Jane paused abruptly. She said:

“Come in here.”

They went into a small room off the hall.

She turned to face him.

“What did you mean on the telephone when you said that you had been expecting me to callyou?”

Poirot smiled. He spread out his hands.

“Just that, Mademoiselle. I was expecting a call from you—and the call came.”

“You mean that you knew I’d ring up about this Sainsbury Seale woman.”

Poirot shook his head.

“That was only the pretext¹³. You could have found something else if necessary.”

Jane said:

“Why the hell should I call you up?”

“Why should you deliver this titbit of information about Miss Sainsbury Seale to me instead ofgiving it to Scotland Yard? That would have been the natural thing to do.”

“All right, Mr. Know All, how much exactly do you know?”

“I know that you are interested in me since you heard that I paid a visit to the Holborn PalaceHotel the other day.”

She went so white that it startled him. He had not believed that that deep tan could change tosuch a greenish hue¹⁴.

He went on, quietly and steadily¹⁵:

“You got me to come here today because you wanted to pump me—that is the expression, is itnot?—yes, to pump me on the subject of Mr. Howard Raikes.”

Jane Olivera said:

“Who’s he, anyway?”

It was not a very successful parry.

Poirot said:

“You do not need to pump me, Mademoiselle. I will tell you what I know—or rather what Iguessed. That first day that we came here, Inspector¹⁶ Japp and I, you were startled to see us—alarmed. You thought something had happened to your uncle. Why?”

“Well, he’s the kind of man things might happen to. He had a bomb by post one day—after theHerjoslovakian Loan. And he gets lots of threatening letters.”

Poirot went on:

“Chief Inspector Japp told you that a certain dentist, Mr. Morley, had been shot. You mayrecollect your answer. You said: ‘But that’s absurd.’”

Jane bit her lip. She said:

“Did I? That was rather absurd of me, wasn’t it?”

“It was a curious remark, Mademoiselle. It revealed that you knew of the existence of Mr.

Morley, that you had rather expected something to happen—not to happen to him—but possibly tohappen in his house.”

“You do like telling yourself stories, don’t you?”

Poirot paid no attention.

“You had expected—or rather you had feared—that something might happen at Mr. Morley’shouse. You had feared that that something would have happened to your uncle. But if so, you mustknow something that we did not know. I reflected on the people who had been in Mr. Morley’shouse that day, and I seized at once on the one person who might possibly have a connection withyou—which was that young American, Mr. Howard Raikes.”

“It’s just like a serial¹⁷, isn’t it? What’s the next thrilling instalment?”

“I went to see Mr. Howard Raikes. He is a dangerous and attractive young man—”

Poirot paused expressively¹⁸.

Jane said meditatively¹⁹:

“He is, isn’t he?” She smiled. “All right! You win! I was scared stiff.”

She leaned forward.

“I’m going to tell you things, M. Poirot. You’re not the kind one can just string along. I’d rathertell you than have you snooping around finding out. I love that man, Howard Raikes. I’m justcrazy about him. My mother brought me over here just to get me away from him. Partly that andpartly because she hopes Uncle Alistair might get fond enough of me to leave me his money whenhe dies.”

She went on:

“Mother is his niece by marriage. Her mother was Rebecca Arnholt’s sister. He’s my great-uncle-in-law. Only he hasn’t got any near relatives of his own, so mother doesn’t see why weshouldn’t be his residuary legatees. She cadges²⁰ off him pretty freely too.

“You see, I’m being frank with you, M. Poirot. That’s the kind of people we are. Actuallywe’ve got plenty of money ourselves—an indecent amount according to Howard’s ideas—butwe’re not in Uncle Alistair’s class.”

She paused. She struck with one hand fiercely on the arm of her chair.

“How can I make you understand? Everything I’ve been brought up to believe in, Howardabominates and wants to do away with. And sometimes, you know, I feel like he does. I’m fond ofUncle Alistair, but he gets on my nerves sometimes. He’s so stodgy—so British—so cautious andconservative. I feel sometimes that he and his kind ought to be swept away, that they are blockingprogress—that without them we’d get things done!”

“You are a convert to Mr. Raikes’ ideas?”

“I am—and I’m not. Howard is—is wilder than most of his crowd. There are people, you know,who—who agree with Howard up to a point. They would be willing to—to try things—if UncleAlistair and his crowd would agree. But they never will! They just sit back and shake their headsand say: ‘We could never risk that.’ And ‘It wouldn’t be sound economically.’ And ‘We’ve got toconsider our responsibility.’ And ‘Look at history.’ But I think that one mustn’t look at history.

That’s looking back. One must look forward all the time.”

Poirot said gently:

“It is an attractive vision.”

Jane looked at him scornfully.

“You say that too!”

“Perhaps because I am old. Their old men have dreams—only dreams, you see.”

He paused and then asked in a matter-of-fact voice:

“Why did Mr. Howard Raikes make that appointment in Queen Charlotte Street?”

“Because I wanted him to meet Uncle Alistair and I couldn’t see otherwise how to manage it.

He’d been so bitter about Uncle Alistair—so full of—well, hate really, that I felt if he could onlysee him—see what a nice kindly²¹ unassuming person he was—that—that he would feel differently… I couldn’t arrange a meeting here because of mother—she would have spoilt everything.”

Poirot said:

“But after having made that arrangement, you were—afraid.”

Her eyes grew wide and dark. She said:

“Yes. Because—because—sometimes Howard gets carried away. He—he—”

Hercule Poirot said:

“He wants to take a short cut. To exterminate—”

Jane Olivera cried: “Don’t!”

 

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