Eleven

Superintendent Spence sat opposite Hercule Poirot and sighed.

“I’m not saying you haven’t got anything, M. Poirot,” he said slowly. “Personally, I thinkyou have. But it’s thin. It’s terribly thin!”

Poirot nodded.

“By itself it will not do. There must be more.”

“My sergeant or I ought to have spotted that newspaper.”

“No, no, you cannot blame yourself. The crime was so obvious. Robbery with violence. Theroom all pulled about, the money missing. Why should there be significance to you in a tornnewspaper amongst the other confusion.”

Spence repeated obstinately:

“I should have got that. And the bottle of ink—”

“I heard of that by the merest chance.”

“Yet it meant something to you—why?”

“Only because of that chance phrase about writing a letter. You and I, Spence, we write somany letters—to us it is such a matter of course.”

Superintendent Spence sighed. Then he laid out on the table four photographs.

“These are the photos you asked me to get—the original photos that the Sunday Comet used.

At any rate they’re a little clearer than the reproductions. But upon my word, they’re not much togo upon. Old, faded—and with women the hairdo makes a difference. There’s nothing definite inany of them to go upon like ears or a profile. That cloche hat and that arty hair and the roses!

Doesn’t give you a chance.”

“You agree with me that we can discard Vera Blake?”

“I should think so. If Vera Blake was in Broadhinny, everyone would know it—telling thesad story of her life seems to have been her speciality.”

“What can you tell me about the others?”

“I’ve got what I could for you in the time. Eva Kane left the country after Craig wassentenced. And I can tell you the name she took. It was Hope. Symbolic, perhaps?”

Poirot murmured:

“Yes, yes—the romantic approach. ‘Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead.’ A line from one of yourpoets. I dare say she thought of that. Was her name Evelyn, by the way?”

“Yes, I believe it was. But Eva was what she was known as always. And by the way, M.

Poirot, now that we’re on the subject, the police opinion of Eva Kane doesn’t quite square withthis article here. Very far from it.”

Poirot smiled.

“What the police think—it is not evidence. But it is usually a very sound guide. What did thepolice think of Eva Kane?”

“That she was by no means the innocent victim that the public thought her. I was quite ayoung chap at the time and remember hearing it discussed by my old Chief and Inspector Traillwho was in charge of the case. Traill believed (no evidence, mind you) that the pretty little idea ofputting Mrs. Craig out of the way was all Eva Kane’s idea—and that she not only thought of it, butshe did it. Craig came home one day and found his little friend had taken a short cut. She thoughtit would all pass off as natural death, I dare say. But Craig knew better. He got the wind up anddisposed of the body in the cellar and elaborated the plan of having Mrs. Craig die abroad. Then,when the whole thing came out, he was frantic in his assertions that he’d done it alone, that EvaKane had known nothing about it. Well,” Superintendent Spence shrugged his shoulders, “nobodycould prove anything else. The stuff was in the house. Either of them could have used it. PrettyEva Kane was all innocence and horror. Very well she did it, too: a clever little actress. InspectorTraill had his doubts—but there was nothing to go upon. I’m giving you that for what it’s worth,M. Poirot. It’s not evidence.”

“But it suggests the possibility that one, at least, of these ‘tragic women’ was something morethan a tragic woman—that she was a murderess and that, if the incentive was strong enough, shemight murder again .?.?. And now the next one, Janice Courtland, what can you tell me about her?”

“I’ve looked up the files. A nasty bit of goods. If we hanged Edith Thompson we certainlyought to have hanged Janice Courtland. An unpleasant pair, she and her husband, nothing tochoose between them, and she worked on that young man until she had him all up in arms. But allthe time, mark you, there was a rich man in the background, and it was to marry him she wantedher husband out of the way.”

“Did she marry him?”

Spence shook his head.

“No idea.”

“She went abroad—and then?”

Spence shook his head.

“She was a free woman. She’d not been charged with anything. Whether she married, or whathappened to her, we don’t know.”

“One might meet her at a cocktail party any day,” said Poirot, thinking of Dr. Rendell’sremark.

“Exactly.”

Poirot shifted his gaze to the last photograph.

“And the child? Lily Gamboll?”

“Too young to be charged with murder. She was sent to an approved school. Good recordthere. Was taught shorthand and typing and was found a job under probation. Did well. Last heardof in Ireland. I think we could wash her out, you know, M. Poirot, same as Vera Blake. After all,she’d made good, and people don’t hold it against a kid of twelve for doing something in a fit oftemper. What about washing her out?”

“I might,” said Poirot, “if it were not for the chopper. It is undeniable that Lily Gamboll useda chopper on her aunt, and the unknown killer of Mrs. McGinty used something that was said tobe like a chopper.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Now, M. Poirot, let’s have your side of things. Nobody’s tried to doyou in, I’m glad to see.”

“N-no,” said Poirot, with a momentary hesitation.

“I don’t mind telling you I’ve had the wind up about you once or twice since that evening inLondon. Now what are the possibilities amongst the residents of Broadhinny?”

Poirot opened his little notebook.

“Eva Kane, if she is still alive, would be now approaching sixty. Her daughter, of whoseadult life our Sunday Comet paints such a touching picture, would be now in the thirties. LilyGamboll would also be about that age. Janice Courtland would now be not far short of fifty.”

Spence nodded agreement.

“So we come to the residents of Broadhinny, with especial reference to those for whom Mrs.

McGinty worked.”

“That last is a fair assumption, I think.”

“Yes, it is complicated by the fact that Mrs. McGinty did occasional odd work here and there,but we will assume for the time being that she saw whatever she did see, presumably aphotograph, at one of her regular ‘houses.’”

“Agreed.”

“Then as far as age goes, that gives us as possibles—first the Wetherbys where Mrs. McGintyworked on the day of her death. Mrs. Wetherby is the right age for Eva Kane and she has adaughter of the right age to be Eva Kane’s daughter — a daughter said to be by a previousmarriage.”

“And as regards the photograph?”

“Mon cher, no positive identification from that is possible. Too much time has passed, toomuch water, as you say, has flowed from the waterworks. One can but say this: Mrs. Wetherby hasbeen, decidedly, a pretty woman. She has all the mannerisms of one. She seems much too fragileand helpless to do murder, but then that was, I understand, the popular belief about Eva Kane.

How much actual physical strength would have been needed to kill Mrs. McGinty is difficult tosay without knowing exactly what weapon was used, its handle, the ease with which it could beswung, the sharpness of its cutting edge, etcetera.”

“Yes, yes. Why we never managed to find that—but go on.”

“The only other remarks I have to make about the Wetherby household are that Mr.

Wetherby could make himself, and I fancy does make himself, very unpleasant if he likes. Thedaughter is fanatically devoted to her mother. She hates her stepfather. I do not remark on thesefacts. I present them, only for consideration. Daughter might kill to prevent mother’s past comingto stepfather’s ears. Mother might kill for same reason. Father might kill to prevent ‘scandal’

coming out. More murders have been committed for respectability than one would believepossible! The Wetherbys are ‘nice people.’ ”

Spence nodded.

“If—I say if—there is anything in this Sunday Comet business, then the Wetherbys areclearly the best bet,” he said.

“Exactly. The only other person in Broadhinny who would fit in age with Eva Kane is Mrs.

Upward. There are two arguments against Mrs. Upward, as Eva Kane, having killed Mrs.

McGinty. First, she suffers from arthritis, and spends most of her time in a wheeled chair—”

“In a book,” said Spence enviously, “that wheeled chair business would be phoney, but inreal life it’s probably all according to Cocker.”

“Secondly,” continued Poirot, “Mrs. Upward seems of a dogmatic and forceful disposition,more inclined to bully than to coax, which does not agree with the accounts of our young Eva. Onthe other hand, people’s characters do develop and self-assertiveness is a quality that often comeswith age.”

“That’s true enough,” conceded Spence. “Mrs. Upward—not impossible but unlikely. Nowthe other possibilities. Janice Courtland?”

“Can, I think, be ruled out. There is no one in Broadhinny the right age.”

“Unless one of the younger women is Janice Courtland with her face lifted. Don’t mind me—just my little joke.”

“There are three women of thirty-odd. There is Deirdre Henderson. There is Dr. Rendell’swife, and there is Mrs. Guy Carpenter. That is to say, any one of these could be Lily Gamboll oralternatively Eva Kane’s daughter as far as age goes.”

“And as far as possibility goes?”

Poirot sighed.

“Eva Kane’s daughter may be tall or short, dark or fair—we have no guide to what she lookslike. We have considered Deirdre Henderson in that role. Now for the other two. First of all I willtell you this: Mrs. Rendell is afraid of something.”

“Afraid of you?”

“I think so.”

“That might be significant,” said Spence slowly. “You’re suggesting that Mrs. Rendell mightbe Eva Kane’s daughter or Lily Gamboll. Is she fair or dark?”

“Fair.”

“Lily Gamboll was a fair-haired child.”

“Mrs. Carpenter is also fair-haired. A most expensively made-up young woman. Whether sheis actually good-looking or not, she has very remarkable eyes. Lovely wide-open dark-blue eyes.”

“Now, Poirot—” Spence shook his head at his friend.

“Do you know what she looked like as she ran out of the room to call her husband? I wasreminded of a lovely fluttering moth. She blundered into the furniture and stretched her hands outlike a blind thing.”

Spence looked at him indulgently.

“Romantic, that’s what you are, M. Poirot,” he said. “You and your lovely fluttering mothsand wide-open blue eyes.”

“Not at all,” said Poirot. “My friend Hastings, he was romantic and sentimental, me never!

Me, I am severely practical. What I am telling you is that if a girl’s claims to beauty dependprincipally on the loveliness of her eyes, then, no matter how shortsighted she is, she will take offher spectacles and learn to feel her way round even if outlines are blurred and distance hard tojudge.”

And gently, with his forefinger, he tapped the photograph of the child Lily Gamboll in thethick disfiguring spectacles.

“So that’s what you think? Lily Gamboll?”

“No, I speak only of what might be. At the time Mrs. McGinty died Mrs. Carpenter was notyet Mrs. Carpenter. She was a young war widow, very badly off, living in a labourer’s cottage. Shewas engaged to be married to the rich man of the neighbourhood—a man with political ambitionsand a great sense of his own importance. If Guy Carpenter had found out that he was about tomarry, say, a child of low origin who had obtained notoriety by hitting her aunt on the head with achopper, or alternatively the daughter of Craig, one of the most notorious criminals of the century—prominently placed in your Chamber of Horrors—well, one asks would he have gone throughwith it? You say perhaps, if he loved the girl, yes! But he is not quite that kind of man. I would puthim down as selfish, ambitious, and a man very nice in the manner of his reputation. I think that ifyoung Mrs. Selkirk, as she was then, was anxious to achieve the match she would have been veryvery anxious that no hint of an unfortunate nature got to her fiancé’s ears.”

“I see, you think it’s her, do you?”

“I tell you again, mon cher, I do not know. I examine only possibilities. Mrs. Carpenter wason her guard against me, watchful, alarmed.”

“That looks bad.”

“Yes, yes, but it is all very difficult. Once I stayed with some friends in the country and theywent out to do the shooting. You know the way it goes? One walks with the dogs and the guns,and the dogs, they put up the game—it flies out of the woods, up into the air and you go bangbang. That is like us. It is not only one bird we put up, perhaps, there are other birds in the covert.

Birds, perhaps, with which we have nothing to do. But the birds themselves do not know that. Wemust make very sure, cher ami, which is our bird. During Mrs. Carpenter’s widowhood, there mayhave been indiscretions—no worse than that, but still inconvenient. Certainly there must be somereason why she says to me quickly that Mrs. McGinty was a liar!”

Superintendent Spence rubbed his nose.

“Let’s get this clear, Poirot. What do you really think?”

“What I think does not matter. I must know. And as yet, the dogs have only just gone into thecovert.”

Spence murmured: “If we could get anything at all definite. One really suspiciouscircumstance. As it is, it’s all theory and rather far-fetched theory at that. The whole thing’s thin,you know, as I said. Does anyone really murder for the reasons we’ve been considering?”

“That depends,” said Poirot. “It depends on a lot of family circumstances we do not know.

But the passion for respectability is very strong. These are not artists or Bohemians. Very nicepeople live in Broadhinny. My postmistress said so. And nice people like to preserve theirniceness. Years of happy married life, maybe, no suspicion that you were once a notorious figurein one of the most sensational murder trials, no suspicion that your child is the child of a famousmurderer. One might say ‘I would rather die than have my husband know!’ Or ‘I would rather diethan have my daughter discover who she is!’ And then you would go on to reflect that it would bebetter, perhaps, if Mrs. McGinty died. .?.?.”

Spence said quietly:

“So you think it’s the Wetherbys.”

“No. They fit the best, perhaps, but that is all. In actual character, Mrs. Upward is a morelikely killer than Mrs. Wetherby. She has determination and willpower and she fairly dotes on herson. To prevent his learning of what happened before she married his father and settled down torespectable married bliss, I think she might go far.”

“Would it upset him so much?”

“Personally I do not think so. Young Robin has a modern sceptical point of view, isthoroughly selfish, and in any case is less devoted, I should say, to his mother than she to him. Heis not another James Bentley.”

“Granting Mrs. Upward was Eva Kane, her son Robin wouldn’t kill Mrs. McGinty to preventthe fact coming out?”

“Not for a moment, I should say. He would probably capitalize on it. Use the fact forpublicity for his plays! I can’t see Robin Upward committing a murder for respectability, ordevotion, or in fact for anything but a good solid gain to Robin Upward.”

Spence sighed. He said: “It’s a wide field. We may be able to get something on the pasthistory of these people. But it will take time. The war has complicated things. Records destroyed—endless opportunities for people who want to cover their traces doing so by means of otherpeople’s identity cards, etc., especially after ‘incidents’ when nobody could know which corpsewas which! If we could concentrate on just one lot, but you’ve got so many possibles, M. Poirot.”

“We may be able to cut them down soon.”

Poirot left the superintendent’s office with less cheerfulness in his heart than he had shown inhis manner. He was obsessed as Spence was, by the urge of time. If only he could have time. .?.?.

And farther back still was the one teasing doubt—was the edifice he and Spence had built upreally sound? Supposing, after all, that James Bentley was guilty .?.?.

He did not give in to that doubt, but it worried him.

Again and again he had gone over in his mind the interview he had had with James Bentley.

He thought of it now whilst he waited on the platform at Kilchester for his train to come in. It hadbeen market day and the platform was crowded. More crowds were coming in through thebarriers.

Poirot leaned forward to look. Yes, the train was coming at last. Before he could right himselfhe felt a sudden hard purposeful shove in the small of his back. It was so violent and sounexpected that he was taken completely unawares. In another second he would have fallen on theline under the incoming train, but a man beside him on the platform caught hold of him in the nickof time, pulling him back.

“Why, whatever came over you?” he demanded. He was a big burly Army sergeant. “Takenqueer? Man, you were nearly under the train.”

“I thank you. I thank you a thousand times.” Already the crowd was milling round them,boarding the train, others leaving it.

“All right now? I’ll help you in.”

Shaken, Poirot subsided on to a seat.

Useless to say “I was pushed,” but he had been pushed. Up till that very evening he had goneabout consciously on his guard, on the alert for danger. But after talking with Spence, afterSpence’s bantering inquiry as to whether any attempt on his life had been made, he had insensiblyregarded the danger as over or unlikely to materialize.

But how wrong he had been! Amongst those he had interviewed in Broadhinny one interviewhad achieved a result. Somebody had been afraid. Somebody had sought to put an end to hisdangerous resuscitation of a closed case.

From a call-box in the station at Broadhinny, Poirot rang up Superintendent Spence.

“It is you, mon ami? Attend, I pray. I have news for you. Splendid news. Somebody has triedto kill me. .?.?.”

He listened with satisfaction to the flow of remarks from the other end.

“No, I am not hurt. But it was a very near thing .?.?. Yes, under a train. No, I did not see whodid it. But be assured, my friend, I shall find out. We know now—that we are on the right track.”