清洁女工之死16

Sixteen

Sitting at lunch in the Blue Cat, Poirot finished outlining his instructions to Maude Williams.

“So you understand what it is you have to look for?”

Maude Williams nodded.

“You have arranged matters with your office?”

She laughed.

“My auntie’s dangerously ill! I sent myself a telegram.”

“Good. I have one more thing to say. Somewhere, in that village, we have a murderer atlarge. That is not a very safe thing to have.”

“Warning me?”

“Yes.”

“I can take care of myself,” said Maude Williams.

“That,” said Hercule Poirot, “might be classed under the heading of Famous Last Words.”

She laughed again, a frank amused laugh. One or two heads at near tables turned around tolook at her.

Poirot found himself appraising¹ her carefully. A strong, confident young woman, full ofvitality, keyed up and eager to attempt a dangerous task. Why? He thought again of JamesBentley, his gentle defeated voice, his lifeless apathy³. Nature was indeed curious and interesting.

Maude said:

“You’re asking me to do it, aren’t you? Why suddenly try to put me off?”

“Because if one offers a mission, one must be exact about what it involves.”

“I don’t think I’m in any danger,” said Maude confidently.

“I do not think so at the moment. You are unknown in Broadhinny?”

Maude considered.

“Ye-es. Yes, I should say so.”

“You have been there?”

“Once or twice—for the firm, of course—only once recently—that was about five monthsago.”

“Who did you see? Where did you go?”

“I went to see an old lady—Mrs. Carstairs—or Carlisle—I can’t remember her name for sure.

She was buying a small property near here, and I went over to see her with some papers and somequeries and a surveyor’s report which we’d got for her. She was staying at that Guest House sortof place where you are.”

“Long Meadows⁴?”

“That was it. Uncomfortable-looking house with a lot of dogs.”

Poirot nodded.

“Did you see Mrs. Summerhayes, or Major Summerhayes?”

“I saw Mrs. Summerhayes, I suppose it was. She took me up to the bedroom. The old pussywas in bed.”

“Would Mrs. Summerhayes remember you?”

“Don’t suppose so. Even if she did, it wouldn’t matter, would it? After all, one changes one’sjob quite often these days. But I don’t suppose she even looked at me. Her sort don’t.”

There was a faint bitterness in Maude Williams’ voice.

“Did you see anyone else in Broadhinny?”

Maude said rather awkwardly⁵:

“Well, I saw Mr. Bentley.”

“Ah, you saw Mr. Bentley. By accident.”

Maude wriggled⁶ a little in her chair.

“No, as a matter of fact, I’d sent him a p.c. Telling him I was coming that day. Asked him ifhe’d meet me as a matter of fact. Not that there was anywhere to go. Dead little hole. No café orcinema or anything. ’S a matter of fact we just talked in the bus stop. While I was waiting for mybus back.”

“That was before the death of Mrs. McGinty?”

“Oh yes. But not much before, though. Because it was only a few days later that it was in allthe newspapers.”

“Did Mr. Bentley speak to you at all of his landlady⁷?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And you spoke⁸ to no one else in Broadhinny?”

“Well—only Mr. Robin⁹ Upward. I’ve heard him talk on the wireless¹⁰. I saw him coming outof his cottage and I recognized him from his pictures and I did ask him for his autograph.”

“And he gave it to you?”

“Oh yes, he was ever so nice about it. I hadn’t my book with me, but I’d got an odd sheet ofnotepaper, and he whipped out his fountain pen and wrote it at once.”

“Do you know any of the other people in Broadhinny by sight?”

“Well, I know the Carpenters, of course. They’re in Kilchester a lot. Lovely car they’ve got,and she wears lovely clothes. She opened a Bazaar¹¹ about a month ago. They say he’s going to beour next M.P.”

Poirot nodded. Then he took from his pocket the envelope that he always carried about withhim. He spread the four photographs on the table.

“Do you recognize any of—what’s the matter?”

“It was Mr. Scuttle¹². Just going out of the door. I hope he didn’t see you with me. It mightseem a bit odd. People are talking about you, you know. Saying you’ve been sent over from Paris—from the Sooretay or some name like that.”

“I am Belgian, not French, but no matter.”

“What’s this about these photographs?” She bent² over, studying them closely. “Rather on theold-fashioned side, aren’t they?”

“The oldest is thirty years ago.”

“Awfully silly, old-fashioned clothes look. Makes the women look such fools.”

“Have you seen any of them before?”

“D’you mean do I recognize any of the women, or do you mean have I seen the pictures?”

“Either.”

“I’ve an idea I’ve seen that one.” Her finger rested against Janice Courtland in her cloche hat.

“In some paper or other, but I can’t remember when. That kid looks a bit familiar, too. But I can’tremember when I saw them; some time ago.”

“All those photographs appeared in the Sunday Comet¹³ on the Sunday before Mrs. McGintydied.”

Maude looked at him sharply¹⁴.

“And they’ve got something to do with it? That’s why you want me to—”

She did not finish the sentence.

“Yes,” said Hercule Poirot. “That is why.”

He took something else from his pocket and showed it to her. It was the cutting from theSunday Comet.

“You had better read that,” he said.

She read it carefully. Her bright golden head bent over the flimsy bit of newsprint.

Then she looked up.

“So that’s who they are? And reading this has given you ideas?”

“You could not express it more justly.”

“But all the same I don’t see—” She was silent a moment, thinking. Poirot did not speak.

However pleased he might be with his own ideas, he was always ready to hear other people’s ideastoo.

“You think one or other of these people is in Broadhinny?”

“It might be, might it not?”

“Of course. Anyone may be anywhere .?.?.” She went on, placing her finger on Eva Kane’spretty simpering face: “She’d be quite old now—about Mrs. Upward’s age.”

“About that.”

“What I was thinking was—the sort of woman she was—there must be several people who’dhave it in for her.”

“That is a point of view,” said Poirot slowly. “Yes, it is a point of view.” He added: “Youremember the Craig case?”

“Who doesn’t?” said Maude Williams. “Why, he’s in Madame Tussaud’s! I was only a kid atthe time, but the newspapers are always bringing him up and comparing the case with other cases.

I don’t suppose it will ever be forgotten, do you?”

Poirot raised his head sharply.

He wondered what brought that sudden note of bitterness into her voice.

 

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