清洁女工之死15

Fifteen

I“Someone rang you up,” called Maureen from the kitchen as Poirot entered the house.

“Rang me up? Who was that?”

He was slightly surprised.

“Don’t know, but I jotted¹ the number down on my ration² book.”

“Thank you, Madame.”

He went into the dining room and over to the desk. Amongst the litter of papers he found theration book lying near the telephone and the words—Kilchester 350.

Raising the receiver of the telephone, he dialled the number.

Immediately a woman’s voice said:

“Breather and Scuttle³.”

Poirot made a quick guess.

“Can I speak to Miss Maude Williams?”

There was a moment’s interval⁴ and then a contralto voice said:

“Miss Williams speaking.”

“This is Hercule Poirot. I think you rang me.”

“Yes—yes, I did. It’s about the property you were asking me about the other day.”

“The property?” For a moment Poirot was puzzled. Then he realized that Maude’sconversation was being overheard. Probably she had telephoned him before when she was alone inthe office.

“I understand you, I think. It is the affair of James Bentley and Mrs. McGinty’s murder.”

“That’s right. Can we do anything in the matter for you?”

“You want to help. You are not private where you are?”

“That’s right.”

“I understand. Listen carefully. You really want to help James Bentley?”

“Yes.”

“Would you resign your present post?”

There was no hesitation⁶.

“Yes.”

“Would you be willing to take a domestic post? Possibly with not very congenial people?”

“Yes.”

“Could you get away at once? By tomorrow, for instance?”

“Oh yes, M. Poirot. I think that could be managed.”

“You understand what I want you to do. You would be a domestic help—to live in. You cancook?”

A faint amusement tinged⁷ the voice.

“Very well.”

“Bon Dieu, what a rarity! Now listen, I am coming into Kilchester at once. I will meet you inthe same café where I met you before, at lunch time.”

“Yes, certainly.”

Poirot rang off.

“An admirable young woman,” he reflected. “Quick-witted, knows her own mind—perhaps,even, she can cook. .?.?.”

With some difficulty he disinterred the local telephone directory from under a treatise⁸ onpigkeeping and looked up the Wetherbys’ number.

The voice that answered him was that of Mrs. Wetherby.

“ ’Allo? ’Allo? It is M. Poirot—you remember, Madame—”

“I don’t think I—”

“M. Hercule Poirot.”

“Oh yes—of course—do forgive me. Rather a domestic upset today—”

“It is for that reason exactly I rang you up. I am desolated⁹ to learn of your difficulties.”

“So ungrateful—these foreign girls. Her fare paid over here, and everything. I do so hateingratitude.”

“Yes, yes. I do indeed sympathize. It is monstrous—that is why I hasten to tell you that Ihave, perhaps, a solution. By the merest chance I know of a young woman wanting a domesticpost. Not, I fear, fully⁵ trained.”

“Oh, there’s no such thing as training nowadays. Will she cook—so many of them won’tcook.”

“Yes—yes—she cooks. Shall I then send her to you—at least on trial? Her name is MaudeWilliams.”

“Oh, please do, M. Poirot. It’s most kind of you. Anything would be better than nothing. Myhusband is so particular and gets so annoyed with dear Deirdre when the household doesn’t gosmoothly. One can’t expect men to understand how difficult everything is nowadays—I—”

There was an interruption. Mrs. Wetherby spoke¹⁰ to someone entering the room, and thoughshe had placed her hand over the receiver Poirot could hear her slightly muffled¹¹ words.

“It’s that little detective man—knows of someone to come in to replace Frieda. No, notforeign—English, thank goodness. Very kind of him, really, he seems quite concerned about me.

Oh, darling, don’t make objections. What does it matter? You know the absurd way Roger goeson. Well, I think it’s very kind—and I don’t suppose she’s too awful.”

The asides over, Mrs. Wetherby spoke with the utmost graciousness.

“Thank you very much, M. Poirot. We are most grateful.”

Poirot replaced the receiver and glanced at his watch.

He went to the kitchen.

“Madame, I shall not be in to lunch. I have to go to Kilchester.”

“Thank goodness,” said Maureen. “I didn’t get to that pudding in time. It had boiled dry. Ithink it’s really all right—just a little scorched¹² perhaps. In case it tasted rather nasty I thought Iwould open a bottle of those raspberries I put up last summer. They seem to have a bit of mouldon top but they say nowadays that that doesn’t matter. It’s really rather good for you—practicallypenicillin.”

Poirot left the house, glad that scorched pudding and near- penicillin¹³ were not to be hisportion today. Better—far better—eat macaroni and custard and plums at the Blue Cat than theimprovisations of Maureen Summerhayes.

II

At Laburnums a little friction¹⁴ had arisen.

“Of course, Robin¹⁵, you never seem to remember anything when you are working on a play.”

Robin was contrite¹⁶.

“Madre, I am most terribly sorry. I’d forgotten all about it’s being Janet’s night out.”

“It doesn’t matter at all,” said Mrs. Upward coldly.

“Of course it matters. I’ll ring up the Rep and tell them we’ll go tomorrow night instead.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ve arranged to go tonight and you’ll go.”

“But really—”

“That’s settled.”

“Shall I ask Janet to go out another night?”

“Certainly not. She hates to have her plans disarranged.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t really mind. Not if I put it to her—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Robin. Please don’t go upsetting Janet. And don’t go on aboutit. I don’t care to feel I’m a tiresome¹⁷ old woman spoiling other people’s pleasure.”

“Madre—sweetest—”

“That’s enough—you go and enjoy yourselves. I know who I’ll ask to keep me company.”

“Who?”

“That’s my secret,” said Mrs. Upward, her good humour restored. “Now stop fussing,Robin.”

“I’ll ring up Shelagh Rendell—”

“I’ll do my own ringing up, thank you. It’s all settled. Make the coffee before you go, andleave it by me in the percolator ready to switch on. Oh, and you might as well put out an extra cup—in case I have a visitor.”

 

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