清洁女工之死22

Twenty-two

IHercule Poirot took a hired car back to Broadhinny.

He was tired because he had been thinking. Thinking was always exhausting. And histhinking had not been entirely¹ satisfactory. It was as though a pattern, perfectly² visible, was woveninto a piece of material and yet, although he was holding the piece of material, he could not seewhat the pattern was.

But it was all there. That was the point. It was all there. Only it was one of those patterns,self-coloured and subtle, that are not easy to perceive.

A little way out of Kilchester his car encountered the Summerhayes’ station wagon³ coming inthe opposite direction. Johnnie was driving and he had a passenger. Poirot hardly noticed them. Hewas still absorbed in thought.

When he got back to Long Meadows, he went into the drawing room. He removed a colanderfull of spinach⁴ from the most comfortable chair in the room and sat down. From overhead camethe faint drumming of a typewriter. It was Robin⁵ Upward, struggling with a play. Three versionshe had already torn up, so he told Poirot. Somehow, he couldn’t concentrate.

Robin might feel his mother’s death quite sincerely, but he remained Robin Upward, chieflyinterested in himself.

“Madre,” he said solemnly, “would have wished me to go on with my work.”

Hercule Poirot had heard many people say much the same thing. It was one of the mostconvenient assumptions, this knowledge of what the dead would wish. The bereaved⁶ had neverany doubt about their dear ones’ wishes and those wishes usually squared with their owninclinations.

In this case it was probably true. Mrs. Upward had had great faith in Robin’s work and hadbeen extremely proud of him.

Poirot leaned back and closed his eyes.

He thought of Mrs. Upward. He considered what Mrs. Upward had really been like. Heremembered a phrase that he had once heard used by a police officer.

“We’ll take him apart and see what makes him tick.”

What had made Mrs. Upward tick?

There was a crash, and Maureen Summerhayes came in. Her hair was flapping madly.

“I can’t think what’s happened to Johnnie,” she said. “He just went down to the post officewith those special orders. He ought to have been back hours ago. I want him to fix the henhousedoor.”

A true gentleman, Poirot feared, would have gallantly⁷ offered to fix the henhouse doorhimself. Poirot did not. He wanted to go on thinking about two murders and about the character ofMrs. Upward.

“And I can’t find that Ministry⁸ of Agriculture form,” continued Maureen. “I’ve lookedeverywhere.”

“The spinach is on the sofa,” Poirot offered helpfully.

Maureen was not worried about spinach.

“The form came last week,” she mused⁹. “And I must have put it somewhere. Perhaps it waswhen I was darning that pullover of Johnnie’s.”

She swept over to the bureau and started pulling out the drawers. Most of the contents sheswept on to the floor ruthlessly. It was agony to Hercule Poirot to watch her.

Suddenly she uttered a cry of triumph.

“Got it!”

Delightedly she rushed from the room.

Hercule Poirot sighed and resumed meditation¹⁰.

To arrange, with order and precision—

He frowned. The untidy heap of objects on the floor by the bureau distracted his mind. Whata way to look for things!

Order and method. That was the thing. Order and method.

Though he had turned sideways in his chair, he could still see the confusion on the floor.

Sewing things, a pile of socks, letters, knitting wool, magazines, sealing wax, photographs, apullover—

It was insupportable!

Poirot rose, went across to the bureau and with quick deft¹¹ movements began to return theobjects to the open drawers.

The pullover, the socks, the knitting wool. Then, in the next drawer, the sealing wax, thephotographs, the letters.

The telephone rang.

The sharpness of the bell made him jump.

He went across to the telephone and lifted the receiver.

“ ’Allo, ’allo, ’allo,” he said.

The voice that spoke¹² to him was the voice of Superintendent¹³ Spence.

“Ah! it’s you, M. Poirot. Just the man I want.”

Spence’s voice was almost unrecognizable. A very worried man had given place to aconfident one.

“Filling me up with a lot of fandangle about the wrong photograph,” he said with reproachfulindulgence. “We’ve got some new evidence. Girl at the post office in Broadhinny. MajorSummerhayes just brought her in. It seems she was standing¹⁴ practically opposite the cottage thatnight and she saw a woman go in. Some time after eight thirty and before nine o’clock. And itwasn’t Deirdre Henderson. It was a woman with fair hair. That puts us right back where we were—it’s definitely between the two of them—Eve Carpenter and Shelagh Rendell. The only questionis—which?”

Poirot opened his mouth but did not speak. Carefully, deliberately¹⁵, he replaced the receiveron the stand.

He stood there staring unseeingly in front of him.

The telephone rang again.

“ ’Allo! ’Allo! ’Allo!”

“Can I speak to M. Poirot, please?”

“Hercule Poirot speaking.”

“Thought so. Maude Williams here. Post office in a quarter of an hour?”

“I will be there.”

He replaced the receiver.

He looked down at his feet. Should he change his shoes? His feet ached a little. Ah well—nomatter.

Resolutely¹⁶ Poirot clapped on his hat and left the house.

On his way down the hill he was hailed by one of Superintendent Spence’s men justemerging from Laburnums.

“Morning, M. Poirot.”

Poirot responded politely. He noticed that Sergeant¹⁷ Fletcher was looking excited.

“The Super sent me over to have a thorough check up,” he explained. “You know—any littlething we might have missed. Never know, do you? We’d been over the desk, of course, but theSuper got the idea there might be a secret drawer—must have been reading spy stuff. Well, therewasn’t a secret drawer. But after that I got on to the books. Sometimes people slip a letter into abook they’re reading. You know?”

Poirot said that he knew. “And you found something?” he asked politely.

“Not a letter or anything of that sort, no. But I found something interesting—at least I thinkit’s interesting. Look here.”

He unwrapped from a piece of newspaper an old and rather decrepit¹⁸ book.

“In one of the bookshelves it was. Old book, published years ago. But look here.” He openedit and showed the flyleaf. Pencilled across it were the words: Evelyn Hope.

“Interesting, don’t you think? That’s the name, in case you don’t remember—”

“The name that Eva Kane took when she left England. I do remember,” said Poirot.

“Looks as though when Mrs. McGinty spotted¹⁹ one of those photos here in Broadhinny, it wasour Mrs. Upward. Makes it kind of complicated, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” said Poirot with feeling. “I can assure you that when you go back to SuperintendentSpence with this piece of information he will pull out his hair by the roots—yes, assuredly by theroots.”

“I hope it won’t be as bad as that,” said Sergeant Fletcher.

Poirot did not reply. He went on down the hill. He had ceased to think. Nothing anywheremade sense.

He went into the post office. Maude Williams was there looking at knitting patterns. Poirotdid not speak to her. He went to the stamp counter. When Maude had made her purchase, Mrs.

Sweetiman came over to him and he bought some stamps. Maude went out of the shop.

Mrs. Sweetiman seemed preoccupied²⁰ and not talkative. Poirot was able to follow Maude outfairly quickly. He caught her up a short distance along the road and fell into step beside her.

Mrs. Sweetiman, looking out of the post office window, exclaimed to herself disapprovingly²¹.

“Those foreigners! All the same, every manjack of ’em. Old enough to be her grandfather, he is!”

II

“Eh bien,” said Poirot, “you have something to tell me?”

“I don’t know that it’s important. There was somebody trying to get in at the window of Mrs.

Wetherby’s room.”

“When?”

“This morning. She’d gone out, and the girl was out with the dog. Old frozen fish was shut upin his study as usual. I’d have been in the kitchen normally—it faces the other way like the study—but actually it seemed a good opportunity to—you understand?”

Poirot nodded.

“So I nipped upstairs and into Her Acidity’s bedroom. There was a ladder against the windowand a man was fumbling²² with the window catch. She’s had everything locked and barred since themurder. Never a bit of fresh air. When the man saw me he scuttled²³ down and made off. The ladderwas the gardener’s—he’d been cutting back the ivy²⁴ and had gone to have his elevenses.”

“Who was the man? Can you describe him?”

“I only got the merest glimpse. By the time I got to the window he was down the ladder andgone, and when I first saw him he was against the sun, so I couldn’t see his face.”

“You are sure it was a man?”

Maude considered.

“Dressed as a man—an old felt hat on. It might have been a woman, of course. .?.?.”

“It is interesting,” said Poirot. “It is very interesting .?.?. Nothing else?”

“Not yet. The junk that old woman keeps! Must be dotty! She came in without me hearingthis morning and bawled²⁵ me out for snooping. I shall be murdering her next. If anyone asks to bemurdered that woman does. A really nasty bit of goods.”

Poirot murmured softly:

“Evelyn Hope .?.?.”

“What’s that?” She spun²⁶ round on him.

“So you know that name?”

“Why—yes .?.?. It’s the name Eva Whatsername took when she went to Australia. It—it wasin the paper—the Sunday Comet.”

“The Sunday Comet said many things, but it did not say that. The police found the namewritten in a book in Mrs. Upward’s house.”

Maude exclaimed:

“Then it was her—and she didn’t die out there .?.?. Michael was right.”

“Michael?”

Maude said abruptly²⁷:

“I can’t stop. I’ll be late serving lunch. I’ve got it all in the oven, but it will be getting driedup.”

She started off at a run. Poirot stood looking after her.

At the post office window, Mrs. Sweetiman, her nose glued to the pane²⁸, wondered if that oldforeigner had been making suggestions of a certain character. .?.?.

III

Back at Long Meadows, Poirot removed his shoes, and put on a pair of bedroom slippers²⁹. Theywere not chic³⁰, not in his opinion comme il faut—but there must be relief.

He sat down on the easy chair again and began once more to think. He had by now a lot tothink about.

There were things he had missed—little things.

The pattern was all there. It only needed cohesion³¹.

Maureen, glass in hand, talking in a dreamy voice—asking a question .?.?. Mrs. Oliver’saccount of her evening at the Rep. Cecil? Michael? He was almost sure that she had mentioned aMichael—Eva Kane, nursery governess to the Craigs—Evelyn Hope. .?.?.

Of course! Evelyn Hope!

 

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