Four

With great distaste, Hercule Poirot looked round the room in which he stood. It was a room ofgracious proportions but there its attraction ended. Poirot made an eloquent grimace as he drew asuspicious finger along the top of a book case. As he had suspected—dust! He sat down gingerlyon a sofa and its broken springs sagged depressingly under him. The two faded armchairs were, ashe knew, little better. A large fierce-looking dog whom Poirot suspected of having mange growledfrom his position on a moderately comfortable fourth chair.

The room was large, and had a faded Morris wallpaper. Steel engravings of unpleasantsubjects hung crookedly on the walls with one or two good oil paintings. The chair covers wereboth faded and dirty, the carpet had holes in it and had never been of a pleasant design. A gooddeal of miscellaneous bric- à- brac was scattered haphazard here and there. Tables rockeddangerously owing to absence of castors. One window was open, and no power on earth could,apparently, shut it again. The door, temporarily shut, was not likely to remain so. The latch did nothold, and with every gust of wind it burst open and whirling gusts of cold wind eddied round theroom.

“I suffer,” said Hercule Poirot to himself in acute self-pity. “Yes, I suffer.”

The door burst open and the wind and Mrs. Summerhayes came in together. She lookedround the room, shouted “What?” to someone in the distance and went out again.

Mrs. Summerhayes had red hair and an attractively freckled face and was usually in adistracted state of putting things down, or else looking for them.

Hercule Poirot sprang to his feet and shut the door.

A moment or two later it opened again and Mrs. Summerhayes reappeared. This time she wascarrying a large enamel basin and a knife.

A man’s voice from some way away called out:

“Maureen, that cat’s been sick again. What shall I do?”

Mrs. Summerhayes called: “I’m coming, darling. Hold everything.”

She dropped the basin and the knife and went out again.

Poirot got up again and shut the door. He said:

“Decidedly, I suffer.”

A car drove up, the large dog leaped from the chair and raised its voice in a crescendo ofbarking. He jumped on a small table by the window and the table collapsed with a crash.

“Enfin,” said Hercule Poirot. “C’est insupportable!”

The door burst open, the wind surged round the room, the dog rushed out, still barking.

Maureen’s voice came, upraised loud and clear.

“Johnnie, why the hell did you leave the back door open! Those bloody hens are in thelarder.”

“And for this,” said Hercule Poirot with feeling, “I pay seven guineas a week!”

The door banged to with a crash. Through the window came the loud squawking of iratehens.

Then the door opened again and Maureen Summerhayes came in and fell upon the basin witha cry of joy.

“Couldn’t think where I’d left it. Would you mind frightfully, Mr. Er—hum—I mean, wouldit bother you if I sliced the beans in here? The smell in the kitchen is too frightful.”

“Madame, I should be enchanted.”

It was not, perhaps, the exact phrase, but it was near enough. It was the first time in twenty-four hours that Poirot had seen any chance of a conversation of more than six seconds’ duration.

Mrs. Summerhayes flung herself down in a chair and began slicing beans with frenziedenergy and considerable awkwardness.

“I do hope,” she said, “that you’re not too frightfully uncomfortable? If there’s anything youwant altered, do say so.”

Poirot had already come to the opinion that the only thing in Long Meadows he could eventolerate was his hostess.

“You are too kind, madame,” he replied politely. “I only wish it were within my powers toprovide you with suitable domestics.”

“Domestics!” Mrs. Summerhayes gave a squeal. “What a hope! Can’t even get hold of adaily. Our really good one was murdered. Just my luck.”

“That would be Mrs. McGinty,” said Poirot quickly.

“Mrs. McGinty it was. God, how I miss that woman! Of course it was all a big thrill at thetime. First murder we’ve ever had right in the family, so to speak, but as I told Johnnie, it was adownright bit of bad luck for us. Without McGinty I just can’t cope.”

“You were attached to her?”

“My dear man, she was reliable. She came. Monday afternoons and Thursday mornings—just like a clock. Now I have that Burp woman from up by the station. Five children and ahusband. Naturally she’s never here. Either the husband’s taken queer, or the old mother, or thechildren have some foul disease or other. With old McGinty, at least it was only she herself whocame over queer, and I must say she hardly ever did.”

“And you found her always reliable and honest? You had trust in her?”

“Oh, she’d never pinch anything—not even food. Of course she snooped a bit. Had a look atone’s letters and all that. But one expects that sort of thing. I mean they must live such awfullydrab lives, mustn’t they?”

“Had Mrs. McGinty had a drab life?”

“Ghastly, I expect,” said Mrs. Summerhayes vaguely. “Always on your knees scrubbing. Andthen piles of other people’s washing- up waiting for you on the sink when you arrive in themorning. If I had to face that every day, I’d be positively relieved to be murdered. I really would.”

The face of Major Summerhayes appeared at the window. Mrs. Summerhayes sprang up,upsetting the beans, and rushed across to the window, which she opened to the fullest extent.

“That damned dog’s eaten the hens’ food again, Maureen.”

“Oh damn, now he’ll be sick!”

“Look here,” John Summerhayes displayed a colander full of greenery, “is this enoughspinach?”

“Of course not.”

“Seems a colossal amount to me.”

“It’ll be about a teaspoonful when it’s cooked. Don’t you know by now what spinach islike?”

“Oh Lord!”

“Has the fish come?”

“Not a sign of it.”

“Hell, we’ll have to open a tin of something. You might do that, Johnnie. One of the ones inthe corner cupboard. That one we thought was a bit bulged. I expect it’s quite all right really.”

“What about the spinach?”

“I’ll get that.”

She leaped through the window, and husband and wife moved away together.

“Nom d’un nom d’un nom!” said Hercule Poirot. He crossed the room and closed thewindow as nearly as he could. The voice of Major Summerhayes came to him borne on the wind.

“What about this new fellow, Maureen? Looks a bit peculiar to me. What’s his name again?”

“I couldn’t remember it just now when I was talking to him. Had to say Mr. Er-um. Poirot—that’s what it is. He’s French.”

“You know, Maureen, I seem to have seen that name somewhere.”

“Home Perm, perhaps. He looks like a hairdresser.” Poirot winced.

“N-no. Perhaps it’s pickles. I don’t know. I’m sure it’s familiar. Better get the first sevenguineas out of him, quick.”

The voices died away.

Hercule Poirot picked up the beans from the floor where they had scattered far and wide. Justas he finished doing so, Mrs. Summerhayes came in again through the door.

He presented them to her politely:

“Voici, madame.”

“Oh, thanks awfully. I say, these beans look a bit black. We store them, you know, in crocks,salted down. But these seem to have gone wrong. I’m afraid they won’t be very nice.”

“I, too, fear that .?.?. You permit that I shut the door? There is a decided draught.”

“Oh yes, do. I’m afraid I always leave doors open.”

“So I have noticed.”

“Anyway, that door never stays shut. This house is practically falling to pieces. Johnnie’sfather and mother lived here and they were badly off, poor dears, and they never did a thing to it.

And then when we came home from India to live here, we couldn’t afford to do anything either.

It’s fun for the children in the holidays, though, lots of room to run wild in, and the garden andeverything. Having paying guests here just enables us to keep going, though I must say we’ve hada few rude shocks.”

“Am I your only guest at present?”

“We’ve got an old lady upstairs. Took to her bed the day she came and has been there eversince. Nothing the matter with her that I can see. But there she is, and I carry up four trays a day.

Nothing wrong with her appetite. Anyway, she’s going tomorrow to some niece or other.”

Mrs. Summerhayes paused for a moment before resuming in a slightly artificial voice.

“The fishman will be here in a minute. I wonder if you’d mind—er—forking out the firstweek’s rent. You are staying a week, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps longer.”

“Sorry to bother you. But I’ve not got any cash in the house and you know what these peopleare like—always dunning you.”

“Pray do not apologize, madame.” Poirot took out seven pound notes and added sevenshillings. Mrs. Summerhayes gathered the money up with avidity.

“Thanks a lot.”

“I should, perhaps, madame, tell you a little more about myself. I am Hercule Poirot.”

The revelation left Mrs. Summerhayes unmoved.

“What a lovely name,” she said kindly. “Greek, isn’t it?”

“I am, as you may know,” said Poirot, “a detective.” He tapped his chest. “Perhaps the mostfamous detective there is.”

Mrs. Summerhayes screamed with amusement.

“I see you’re a great practical joker, M. Poirot. What are you detecting? Cigarette ash andfootprints?”

“I am investigating the murder of Mrs. McGinty,” said Poirot. “And I do not joke.”

“Ouch,” said Mrs. Summerhayes, “I’ve cut my hand.”

She raised a finger and inspected it.

Then she stared at Poirot.

“Look here,” she said. “Do you mean it? What I mean is, it’s all over, all that. They arrestedthat poor half- wit who lodged there and he’s been tried and convicted and everything. He’sprobably been hanged by now.”

“No, madame,” said Poirot. “He has not been hanged—yet. And it is not ‘over’—the case ofMrs. McGinty. I will remind you of the line from one of your poets. ‘A question is never settleduntil it is settled—right.’ ”

“Oo,” said Mrs. Summerhayes, her attention diverted from Poirot to the basin in her lap. “I’mbleeding over the beans. Not too good as we’ve got to have them for lunch. Still it won’t matterreally because they’ll go into boiling water. Things are always all right if you boil them, aren’tthey? Even tins.”

“I think,” said Hercule Poirot quietly, “that I shall not be in for lunch.”