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Nine
Armed with the necessary credentials from Jeremy Cloade, Poirot had got the answers to his
questions. They were very definite. The house was a total wreck. The site had been cleared only
quite recently in preparation for rebuilding. There had been no survivors except for David Hunter
and Mrs. Cloade. There had been three servants in the house: Frederick Game, Elizabeth Game
and Eileen Corrigan. All three had been killed instantly. Gordon Cloade had been brought out
alive, but had died on the way to hospital without recovering consciousness. Poirot took the names
and addresses of the three servants’ next of kin. “It is possible,” he said, “that they may have
spoken to their friends something in the way of gossip or comment that might give me a pointer to
some information I badly need.”
The official to whom he was speaking looked sceptical. The Games had come from Dorset,
Eileen Corrigan from County Cork.
Poirot next bent his steps towards Major Porter’s rooms. He remembered Porter’s statement
that he himself was a Warden and he wondered whether he had happened to be on duty on that
particular night and whether he had seen anything of the incident in Sheffield Terrace.
He had, besides, other reasons for wanting a word with Major Porter.
As he turned the corner of Edgeway Street he was startled to see a policeman in uniform
standing outside the particular house for which he was making. There was a ring of small boys and
other people standing staring at the house. Poirot’s heart sank as he interpreted the signs.
The constable intercepted Poirot’s advance.
“Can’t go in here, sir,” he said.
“What has happened?”
“You don’t live in the house, do you, sir?” Poirot shook his head. “Who was it you were
wishing to see?”
“I wished to see a Major Porter.”
“You a friend of his, sir?”
“No, I should not describe myself as a friend. What has happened?”
“Gentleman has shot himself, I understand. Ah, here’s the Inspector.”
The door had opened and two figures came out. One was the local Inspector, the other Poirot
recognized as Sergeant Graves from Warmsley Vale. The latter recognized him and promptly
made himself known to the Inspector.
“Better come inside,” said the latter.
The three men reentered the house.
“They telephoned through to Warmsley Vale,” Graves explained. “And Superintendent
Spence sent me up.”
“Suicide?”
The Inspector answered:
“Yes. Seems a clear case. Don’t know whether having to give evidence at the inquest preyed
upon his mind. People are funny that way sometimes, but I gather he’s been depressed lately.
Financial difficulties and one thing and another. Shot himself with his own revolver.”
Poirot asked: “Is it permitted that I go up?”
“If you like, M. Poirot. Take M. Poirot up, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Graves led the way up to the first-floor room. It was much as Poirot remembered it: the dim
colours of the old rugs, the books. Major Porter was in the big armchair. His attitude was almost
natural, just the head slumped forward. His right arm hung down at his side—below it, on the rug,
lay the revolver. There was still a very faint smell of acrid gunpowder in the air.
“About a couple of hours ago, they think,” said Graves. “Nobody heard the shot. The
woman of the house was out shopping.”
Poirot was frowning, looking down on the quiet figure with the small scorched wound in the
right temple.
“Any idea why he should do it, M. Poirot?” asked Graves.
He was respectful to Poirot because he had seen the Superintendent being respectful—though
his private opinion was that Poirot was one of these frightful old dugouts.
Poirot replied absently:
“Yes—yes, there was a very good reason. That is not the difficulty.”
His glance shifted to a small table at Major Porter’s left hand. There was a big solid glass
ashtray on it, with a pipe and a box of matches. Nothing there. His eye roamed round the room.
Then he crossed to an open rolltop desk.
It was very tidy. Papers neatly pigeon-holed. A small leather blotter in the centre, a pen tray
with a pen and two pencils, a box of paper clips and a book of stamps. All very neat and orderly.
An ordinary life and an orderly death—of course—that was it—that was what was missing!
He said to Graves:
“Didn’t he leave any note—any letter for the coroner?”
Graves shook his head.
“No, he didn’t—sort of thing one would have expected an ex-Army man to do.”
“Yes, that is very curious.”
Punctilious in life, Major Porter had not been punctilious in death. It was all wrong, Poirot
thought, that Porter had left no note.
“Bit of a blow for the Cloades this,” said Graves. “It will set them back. They’ll have to
hunt about for someone else who knew Underhay intimately.”
He fidgeted slightly. “Anything more you want to see, M. Poirot?”
Poirot shook his head and followed Graves from the room.
On the stairs they met the landlady. She was clearly enjoying her own state of agitation and
started a voluble discourse at once. Graves adroitly detached himself and left Poirot to receive the
full spate.
“Can’t seem to catch my breath properly. ’Eart, that’s what it is. Angina Pectoria, my
mother died of—fell down dead as she was crossing the Caledonian Market. Nearly dropped down
myself when I found him—oh, it did give me a turn! Never suspected anything of the kind, though
’e ’ad been low in ’is spirits for a long time. Worried over money, I think, and didn’t eat
enough to keep himself alive. Not that he’d ever accept a bite from us. And then yesterday he
’ad to go down to a place in Oastshire—Warmsley Vale—to give evidence in an inquest. Preyed
on his mind, that did. He come back looking awful. Tramped about all last night. Up and down—
up and down. A murdered gentleman it was and a friend of his, by all accounts. Poor dear, it did
upset him. Up and down—up and down. And when I was out doing my bit of shopping—and
’aving to queue ever so long for the fish, I went up to see if he’d like a nice cuppa tea—and
there he was, poor gentleman, the revolver dropped out of his hand, leaning back in his chair.
Gave me an awful turn it did. ’Ad to ’ave the police in and everything. What’s the world
coming to, that’s what I say?”
Poirot said slowly:
“The world is becoming a difficult place to live in—except for the strong.”
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