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VI
The Rolls called punctually for Poirot at a little before six.
Alistair Blunt and his secretary were the only occupants. Mrs. Olivera and Jane had gone downin another car earlier, it seemed.
The drive was uneventful. Blunt talked a little, mostly of his garden and of a recent horticulturalshow.
“Oh, that! Don’t think the fellow was shooting at me particularly. Anyway, the poor chaphadn’t the first idea of how to aim! Just one of these half-crazed students. There’s no harm in themreally. They just get worked up and fancy a pot shot at the P.M. will alter the course of history. It’spathetic, really.”
“There have been other attempts on your life, have there not?”
“Sounds quite melodramatic,” said Blunt, with a slight twinkle. “Someone sent me a bomb bypost not long ago. It wasn’t a very efficient bomb. You know, these fellows who want to take onthe management of the world—what sort of an efficient business do they think they could make ofit, when they can’t even devise an effectual bomb?”
He shook his head.
“It’s always the same thing — long- haired woolly idealists — without one practical bit ofknowledge in their heads. I’m not a clever chap—never have been—but I can just read and writeand do arithmetic. D’you understand what I mean by that?”
“I think so, but explain to me further.”
“Well, if I read something that is written down in English I can understand what it means—Iam not talking of abstruse2 stuff, formulae or philosophy—just plain businesslike English—mostpeople can’t! If I want to write down something I can write down what I mean—I’ve discoveredthat quite a lot of people can’t do that either! And, as I say, I can do plain arithmetic. If Jones haseight bananas and Brown takes ten away from him, how many will Jones have left? That’s thekind of sum people like to pretend has a simple answer. They won’t admit, first that Brown can’tdo it—and second that there won’t be an answer in plus bananas!”
“Exactly. Politicians are just as bad. But I’ve always held out for plain common sense. Youcan’t beat it, you know, in the end.”
He added with a slightly self-conscious laugh:
“But I mustn’t talk shop. Bad habit. Besides, I like to leave business matters behind when I getaway from London. I’ve been looking forward, M. Poirot, to hearing a few of your adventures. Iread a lot of thrillers5 and detective stories, you know. Do you think any of them are true to life?”
The conversation dwelt for the rest of the journey on the more spectacular cases of HerculePoirot. Alistair Blunt displayed himself as vivid as any schoolboy for details.
This pleasant atmosphere sustained a chill on arrival at Exsham, where behind her massive bustMrs. Olivera radiated a freezing disapproval6. She ignored Poirot as far as possible, addressingherself exclusively to her host and to Mr. Selby.
The latter showed Poirot to his room.
The house was a charming one, not very big, and furnished with the same quiet good taste thatPoirot had noticed in London. Everything was costly7 but simple. The vast wealth that owned itwas only indicated by the smoothness with which this apparent simplicity8 was produced. Theservice was admirable—the cooking English, not Continental—the wines at dinner stirred Poirotto a passion of appreciation9. They had a perfect clear soup, a grilled10 sole, saddle of lamb with tinyyoung garden peas and strawberries and cream.
Olivera and the brusque rudeness of her daughter hardly attracted his attention. Jane, for somereason, was regarding him with definite hostility12. Hazily13, towards the end of the dinner, Poirotwondered why!
Looking down the table with mild curiosity, Blunt asked:
“Helen not dining with us tonight?”
“Dear Helen has been overtiring herself, I think, in the garden. I suggested it would be far betterfor her to go to bed and rest than to bother to dress herself up and come here. She quite saw mypoint.”
“Oh, I see.” Blunt looked vague and a little puzzled. “I thought it made a bit of a change for herat weekends.”
“Helen is such a simple soul. She likes turning in early,” said Mrs. Olivera firmly.
When Poirot joined the ladies in the drawing room, Blunt having remained behind for a fewminutes’ conversation with his secretary, he heard Jane Olivera say to her mother:
“Uncle Alistair didn’t like the cool way you’d shelved Helen Montressor, Mother.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Olivera robustly15. “Alistair is too good-natured. Poor relations are all verywell—very kind of him to let her have the cottage rent free, but to think he has to have her up tothe house every weekend for dinner is absurd! She’s only a second cousin or something. I don’tthink Alistair ought to be imposed upon!”
“I think she’s proud in her way,” said Jane. “She does an awful lot in the garden.”
“That shows a proper spirit,” said Mrs. Olivera comfortably. “The Scotch16 are very independentand one respects them for it.”
She settled herself comfortably on the sofa and, still not taking any notice of Poirot, added:
“Just bring me the Low Down Review, dear. There’s something about Lois Van Schuyler in itand that Moroccan guide of hers.”
“Now M. Poirot, come into my room.”
Alistair Blunt’s own sanctum was a low, long room at the back of the house, with windowsopening upon the garden. It was comfortable, with deep armchairs and settees and just enoughpleasant untidiness to make it livable.
(Needless to say, Hercule Poirot would have preferred a greater symmetry!)After offering his guest a cigarette and lighting18 his own pipe, Alistair Blunt came to the pointquite simply and directly.
He said:
“There’s a good deal that I’m not satisfied about. I’m referring, of course, to this SainsburySeale woman. For reasons of their own—reasons no doubt which are perfectly19 justified—theauthorities have called off the hunt. I don’t know exactly who Albert Chapman is or what he’sdoing—but whatever it is, it’s something pretty vital and it’s the sort of business that might landhim in a tight spot. I don’t know the ins and outs of it, but the P.M. did just mention that they can’tafford any publicity20 whatever about this case and that the sooner it fades out of the public’smemory the better.
“That’s quite O.K. That’s the official view, and they know what’s necessary. So the police havegot their hands tied.”
He leaned forward in his chair.
“But I want to know the truth, M. Poirot. And you’re the man to find it out for me. You aren’thampered by officialdom.”
“What do you want me to do, M. Blunt?”
“I want you to find this woman—Sainsbury Seale.”
“Alive or dead?”
“You think it’s possible that she is dead?”
Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said, speaking slowly and with weight:
“If you want my opinion—but it is only an opinion, remember—then, yes, I think she isdead….”
“Why do you think so?”
Hercule Poirot smiled slightly.
He said:
“It would not make sense to you if I said it was because of a pair of unworn stockings in adrawer.”
“You’re an odd man, M. Poirot.”
“I am very odd. That is to say, I am methodical, orderly and logical—and I do not like distortingfacts to support a theory—that, I find—is unusual!”
Alistair Blunt said:
“I’ve been turning the whole thing over in my mind—it takes me a little time always to think athing out. And the whole business is deuced odd! I mean—that dentist chap shooting himself, andthen this Chapman woman packed away in her own fur chest with her face smashed in. It’s nasty!
It’s damned nasty! I can’t help feeling that there’s something behind it all.”
Poirot nodded.
Blunt said:
“And you know—the more I think of it—I’m quite sure that woman never knew my wife. Itwas just a pretext23 to speak to me. But why? What good did it do her? I mean—bar a smallsubscription—and even that was made out to the society, not to her personally. And yet I do feel—that—that it was engineered—just meeting me on the steps of the house. It was all so pat. Sosuspiciously well-timed! But why? That’s what I keep asking myself—why?”
“It is indeed the word—why? I too ask myself—and I cannot see it—no, I cannot see it.”
“You’ve no ideas at all on the subject?”
Poirot waved an exasperated24 hand.
“My ideas are childish in the extreme. I tell myself, it was perhaps a ruse3 to indicate you tosomeone—to point you out. But that again is absurd—you are quite a well-known man—andanyway how much more simple to say ‘See, that is he—the man who entered now by that door.’”
“And anyway,” said Blunt, “why should anyone want to point me out?”
“Mr. Blunt, think back once more on your time that morning in the dentist’s chair. Did nothingthat Morley said strike an unusual note? Is there nothing at all that you can remember which mighthelp as a clue?”
Alistair Blunt frowned in an effort of memory. Then he shook his head.
“I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything.”
“You’re quite sure he didn’t mention this woman—this Miss Sainsbury Seale?”
“No.”
“Or the other woman—Mrs. Chapman?”
“No — no — we didn’t speak of people at all. We mentioned roses, gardens needing rain,holidays—nothing else.”
“And no one came into the room while you were there?”
“Let me see—no, I don’t think so. On other occasions I seem to remember a young womanbeing there—fair-haired girl. But she wasn’t there this time. Oh, another dentist fellow came in, Iremember—the fellow with an Irish accent.”
“What did he say or do?”
“Just asked Morley some question and went out again. Morley was a bit short with him, I fancy.
He was only there a minute or so.”
“And there is nothing else you can remember? Nothing at all?”
“No. He was absolutely normal.”
Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully:
“I, too, found him absolutely normal.”
There was a long pause. Then Poirot said:
“Do you happen to remember, Monsieur, a young man who was in the waiting room downstairswith you that morning?”
Alistair Blunt frowned.
“Let me see—yes, there was a young man—rather restless he was. I don’t remember himparticularly, though. Why?”
“Would you know him again if you saw him?”
Blunt shook his head.
“I hardly glanced at him.”
“He didn’t try to enter into conversation with you at all?”
“No.”
Blunt looked with frank curiosity at the other.
“What’s the point? Who is this young man?”
“His name is Howard Raikes.”
Poirot watched keenly for any reaction, but he saw none.
“Ought I to know his name? Have I met him elsewhere?”
“I do not think you have met him. He is a friend of your niece, Miss Olivera’s.”
“Oh, one of Jane’s friends.”
“Her mother, I gather, does not approve of the friendship.”
Alistair Blunt said absently:
“I don’t suppose that will cut any ice with Jane.”
“So seriously does her mother regard the friendship that I gather she brought her daughter overfrom the States on purpose to get her away from this young man.”
“Oh!” Blunt’s face registered comprehension. “It’s that fellow, is it?”
“Aha, you become more interested now.”
“He’s a most undesirable25 young fellow in every way, I believe. Mixed up in a lot of subversiveactivities.”
“I understand from Miss Olivera that he made an appointment that morning in Queen CharlotteStreet, solely26 in order to get a look at you.”
“To try and get me to approve of him?”
“Well—no—I understand the idea was that he should be induced to approve of you.”
“Well, of all the damned cheek!”
“It appears you are everything that he most disapproves29 of.”
“He’s certainly the kind of young man I disapprove28 of! Spends his time tub-thumping andtalking hot air, instead of doing a decent job of work!”
Poirot was silent for a minute, then he said:
“Will you forgive me if I ask you an impertinent and very personal question?”
“Fire ahead.”
“In the event of your death, what are your testamentary dispositions30?”
Blunt stared. He said sharply:
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Because, it is just possible,” he shrugged31 his shoulders—“that it might be relevant to thiscase.”
“Nonsense!”
“Perhaps. But perhaps not.”
Alistair Blunt said coldly:
“I think you are being unduly32 melodramatic, M. Poirot. Nobody has been trying to murder me—or anything like that!”
“A bomb on your breakfast table—a shot in the street—”
“Oh those! Any man who deals in the world’s finance in a big way is liable to that kind ofattention from some crazy fanatic33!”
“It might possibly be a case of someone who is not a fanatic and not crazy.”
Blunt stared.
“What are you driving at?”
“In plain language, I want to know who benefits by your death.”
Blunt grinned.
“Chiefly the St. Edward’s Hospital, the Cancer Hospital, and the Royal Institute for the Blind.”
“Ah!”
“In addition, I have left a sum of money to my niece by marriage, Mrs. Julia Olivera; anequivalent sum, but in trust, to her daughter, Jane Olivera, and also a substantial provision for myonly surviving relative, a second cousin, Helen Montressor, who was left very badly off and whooccupies a small cottage on the estate here.”
He paused and then said:
“Naturally, Monsieur, naturally.”
Alistair Blunt added sarcastically35:
“I suppose you do not suggest, M. Poirot, that either Julia or Jane Olivera or my cousin HelenMontressor, are planning to murder me for my money?”
“I suggest nothing—nothing at all.”
“And you’ll take on that other commission for me?”
“The finding of Miss Sainsbury Seale? Yes, I will.”
“Good man.”
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