Twenty-three

Chief Inspector Neele drew a sheet of paper towards him, jotted one ortwo notes on it; and looked round at the other five people in the room. Hisvoice was crisp and formal.

“Miss Jacobs?” he said. He looked towards the policeman who stood bythe door. “Sergeant Conolly, I know, has taken her statement. But I’d liketo ask her a few questions myself.”

Miss Jacobs was ushered into the room a few minutes later. Neele rosecourteously to greet her.

“I am Chief Inspector Neele,” he said, shaking hands with her. “I amsorry to trouble you for a second time. But this time it is quite informal. Ijust want to get a clearer picture of exactly what you saw and heard. I’mafraid it may be painful—”

“Painful, no,” said Miss Jacobs, accepting the chair he offered her. “Itwas a shock, of course. But no emotions were involved.” She added: “Youseem to have tidied up things.”

He presumed she was referring to the removal of the body.

Her eyes, both observant and critical, passed lightly over the assembledpeople, registering, for Poirot, frank astonishment (What on earth is this?),for Mrs. Oliver, mild curiosity; appraisement for the back of Dr. Stilling-fleet’s red head, neighbourly recognition for Claudia to whom she vouch-safed a slight nod, and finally dawning sympathy for Andrew Restarick.

“You must be the girl’s father,” she said to him. “There’s not much pointto condolences from a total stranger. They’re better left unsaid. It’s a sadworld we live in nowadays—or so it seems to me. Girls study too hard inmy opinion.”

Then she turned her face composedly towards Neele.

“Yes?”

“I would like you, Miss Jacobs, to tell me in your own words exactlywhat you saw and heard.”

“I expect it will vary from what I said before,” said Miss Jacobs unexpec-tedly. “Things do, you know. One tries to make one’s description as accur-ate as possible, and so one uses more words. I don’t think one is any moreaccurate; I think, unconsciously, one adds things that you think you mayhave seen or ought to have seen—or heard. But I will do my best.

“It started with screams. I was startled. I thought someone must havebeen hurt. So I was already coming to the door when someone began beat-ing on it, and still screaming. I opened it and saw it was one of my next-door neighbours—the three girls who live in 67. I’m afraid I don’t knowher name, though I know her by sight.”

“Frances Cary,” said Claudia.

“She was quite incoherent, and stammered out something aboutsomeone being dead—someone she knew—David Someone—I didn’t catchhis last name. She was sobbing and shaking all over. I brought her in, gaveher some brandy, and went to see for myself.”

Everyone felt that throughout life that would be what Miss Jacobs wouldinvariably do.

“You know what I found. Need I describe it?”

“Just briefly, perhaps.”

“A young man, one of these modern young men—gaudy clothes andlong hair. He was lying on the floor and he was clearly dead. His shirt wasstiff with blood.”

Stillingfleet stirred. He turned his head and looked keenly at Miss Jac-obs.

“Then I became aware that there was a girl in the room. She was hold-ing a kitchen knife. She seemed quite calm and self-possessed—really,most peculiar.”

Stillingfleet said: “Did she say anything?”

“She said she had been into the bathroom to wash the blood off herhands—and then she said, ‘But you can’t wash things like that off, canyou?’”

“Out, damnéd spot, in fact?”

“I cannot say that she reminded me particularly of Lady Macbeth. Shewas—how shall I put it?—perfectly composed. She laid the knife down onthe table and sat down on a chair.”

“What else did she say?” asked Chief Inspector Neele, his eyes droppingto a scrawled note in front of him.

“Something about hate. That it wasn’t safe to hate anybody.”

“She said something about ‘poor David,’ didn’t she? Or so you told Ser-geant Conolly. And that she wanted to be free of him.”

“I’d forgotten that. Yes. She said something about his making her comehere—and something about Louise, too.”

“What did she say about Louise?” It was Poirot who asked, leaning for-ward sharply. Miss Jacobs looked at him doubtfully.

“Nothing, really, just mentioned the name. ‘Like Louise,’ she said, andthen stopped. It was after she had said about its not being safe to hatepeople….”

“And then?”

“Then she told me, quite calmly, I had better ring up the police. Which Idid. We just—sat there until they came…I did not think I ought to leaveher. We did not say anything. She seemed absorbed in her thoughts, and I—well, frankly, I couldn’t think of anything to say.”

“You could see, couldn’t you, that she was mentally unstable?” said An-drew Restarick. “You could see that she didn’t know what she had done orwhy, poor child?”

He spoke pleadingly—hopefully.

“If it is a sign of mental instability to appear perfectly cool and collectedafter committing a murder, then I will agree with you.”

Miss Jacobs spoke in the voice of one who quite decidedly did not agree.

Stillingfleet said:

“Miss Jacobs, did she at any time admit that she had killed him?”

“Oh yes. I should have mentioned that before—It was the very first thingshe did say. As though she was answering some question I had asked her.

She said, ‘Yes. I’ve killed him.’ And then went on about having washed herhands.”

Restarick groaned and buried his face in his hands. Claudia put herhand on his arm.

Poirot said:

“Miss Jacobs, you say the girl put down the knife she was carrying onthat table. It was quite near you? You saw it clearly? Did it appear to youthat the knife also had been washed?”

Miss Jacobs looked hesitantly at Chief Inspector Neele. It was clear thatshe felt that Poirot struck an alien and unofficial note in this presumablyofficial inquiry.

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to answer that?” said Neele.

“No—I don’t think the knife had been washed or wiped in any way. Itwas stained and discoloured with some thick sticky substance.”

“Ah.” Poirot leaned back in his chair.

“I should have thought you would have known all about the knife your-self,” said Miss Jacobs to Neele accusingly. “Didn’t your police examine it?

It seems to me very lax if they didn’t.”

“Oh yes, the police examined it,” said Neele. “But we—er—always like toget corroboration.”

She darted him a shrewd glance.

“What you really mean, I suppose, is that you like to find out how accur-ate the observation of your witnesses is. How much they make up, or howmuch they actually see, or think they have seen.”

He smiled slightly as he said:

“I don’t think we need have doubts about you, Miss Jacobs. You willmake an excellent witness.”

“I shan’t enjoy it. But it’s the kind of thing one has to go through with, Isuppose.”

“I’m afraid so. Thank you, Miss Jacobs.” He looked round. “No one hasany additional questions?”

Poirot indicated that he had. Miss Jacobs paused near the doorway, dis-pleased.

“Yes?” she said.

“About this mention of someone called Louise. Did you know who it wasthe girl meant?”

“How should I know?”

“Isn’t it possible that she might have meant Mrs. Louise Charpentier?

You knew Mrs. Charpentier, didn’t you?”

“I did not.”

“You knew that she recently threw herself out of a window in this blockof flats?”

“I knew that, of course. I didn’t know her Christian name was Louise,and I was not personally acquainted with her.”

“Nor, perhaps, particularly wished to be?”

“I have not said so, since the woman is dead. But I will admit that that isquite true. She was a most undesirable tenant, and I and other residentshave frequently complained to the management here.”

“Of what exactly?”

“To speak frankly, the woman drank. Her flat was actually on the topfloor above mine and there were continual disorderly parties, with brokenglass, furniture knocked over, singing and shouting, a lot of—er—comingand going.”

“She was, perhaps, a lonely woman,” suggested Poirot.

“That was hardly the impression she conveyed,” said Miss Jacobs acidly.

“It was put forward at the inquest that she was depressed over the state ofher health. Entirely her own imagination. She seems to have had nothingthe matter with her.”

And having disposed of the late Mrs. Charpentier without sympathy,Miss Jacobs took her departure.

Poirot turned his attention to Andrew Restarick. He asked delicately:

“Am I correct in thinking, Mr. Restarick, that you were at one time wellacquainted with Mrs. Charpentier?”

Restarick did not answer for a moment or two. Then he sighed deeplyand transferred his gaze to Poirot.

“Yes. At one time, many years ago, I knew her very well indeed…Not, Imay say, under the name of Charpentier. She was Louise Birell when Iknew her.”

“You were—er—in love with her!”

“Yes, I was in love with her…Head over ears in love with her! I left mywife on her account. We went to South Africa. After barely a year thewhole thing blew up. She returned to England. I never heard from heragain. I never even knew what had become of her.”

“What about your daughter? Did she, also, know Louise Birell?”

“Not to remember her, surely. A child of five years old!”

“But did she know her?” Poirot persisted.

“Yes,” said Restarick slowly. “She knew Louise. That is to say, Louisecame to our house. She used to play with the child.”

“So it is possible that the girl might remember her, even after a lapse ofyears?”

“I don’t know. I simply don’t know. I don’t know what she looked like;how much Louise might have changed. I never saw her again, as I toldyou.”

Poirot said gently, “But you heard from her, didn’t you, Mr. Restarick? Imean, you have heard from her since your return to England?”

Again there came that pause, and the deep unhappy sigh:

“Yes—I heard from her…” said Restarick. And then, with sudden curios-ity, he asked: “How did you know that, M. Poirot?”

From his pocket, Poirot drew a neatly folded piece of paper. He unfol-ded it and handed it to Restarick.

The latter looked at it with a faintly puzzled frown.

Dear Andy

I see from the papers you’re home again. We must meet and compare notesas to what we’ve both been doing all these years—It broke off here—and started again.

Andy—Guess who this is from! Louise. Don’t dare to say you’ve forgottenme!—

Dear Andy,

As you will see by this letterhead, I’m living in the same block of flats as yoursecretary. What a small world it is! We must meet. Could you come for a drinkMonday or Tuesday next week?

Andy darling, I must see you again…Nobody has ever mattered to me butyou—you haven’t really forgotten me, either, have you?

“How did you get this?” asked Restarick of Poirot, tapping it curiously.

“From a friend of mine via a furniture van,” said Poirot, with a glance atMrs. Oliver.

Restarick looked at her without favour.

“I couldn’t help it,” said Mrs. Oliver, interpreting his look correctly. “Isuppose it was her furniture being moved out, and the men let go of adesk, and a drawer fell out and scattered a lot of things, and the wind blewthis along the courtyard, so I picked it up and tried to give it back to them,but they were cross and didn’t want it, so I just put it in my coat pocketwithout thinking. And I never even looked at it until this afternoon when Iwas taking things out of pockets before sending the coat to the cleaners. Soit really wasn’t my fault.”

She paused, slightly out of breath.

“Did she get her letter to you written in the end?” Poirot asked.

“Yes—she did—one of the more formal versions! I didn’t answer it. Ithought it would be wiser not to do so.”

“You didn’t want to see her again?”

“She was the last person I wanted to see! She was a particularly difficultwoman—always had been. And I’d heard things about her—for one thatshe had become a heavy drinker. And well—other things.”

“Did you keep her letter to you?”

“No, I tore it up!”

Dr. Stillingfleet asked an abrupt question.

“Did your daughter ever speak about her to you?”

Restarick seemed unwilling to answer.

Dr. Stillingfleet urged him:

“It might be significant if she did, you know.”

“You doctors! Yes, she did mention her once.”

“What did she say exactly?”

“She said quite suddenly: ‘I saw Louise the other day, Father.’ I wasstartled. I said: ‘Where did you see her?’ And she said: ‘In the restaurant ofour flats.’ I was a bit embarrassed. I said: ‘I never dreamed you’d re-membered her.’ And she said: ‘I’ve never forgotten. Mother wouldn’t havelet me forget, even if I wanted to.’”

“Yes,” said Dr. Stillingfleet. “Yes, that could certainly be significant.”

“And you, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, turning suddenly to Claudia. “DidNorma ever speak to you about Louise Carpenter?”

“Yes—it was after the suicide. She said something about her being awicked woman. She said it in rather a childish way, if you know what Imean.”

“You were here in the flats yourself on the night—or more correctly theearly morning when Mrs. Carpenter’s suicide occurred?”

“I was not here that night, no! I was away from home. I remember arriv-ing back here the next day and hearing about it.”

She half turned to Restarick…“You remember? It was the twenty-third. Ihad gone to Liverpool.”

“Yes, of course. You were to represent me at the Hever Trust meeting.”

Poirot said:

“But Norma slept here that night?”

“Yes.” Claudia seemed uncomfortable.

“Claudia?” Restarick laid his hand on her arm. “What is it you knowabout Norma? There’s something. Something that you’re holding back.”

“Nothing! What should I know about her?”

“You think she’s off her head, don’t you?” said Dr. Stillingfleet in a con-versational voice. “And so does the girl with the black hair. And so doyou,” he added, turning suddenly on Restarick. “All of us behaving nicelyand avoiding the subject and thinking the same thing! Except, that is, thechief inspector. He’s not thinking anything. He’s collecting the facts: mador a murderess. What about you, Madam?”

“Me?” Mrs. Oliver jumped. “I—don’t know.”

“You reserve judgment? I don’t blame you. It’s difficult. On the whole,most people agree on what they think. They use different terms for it—that’s all. Bats in the Belfry. Wanting in the top storey. Off her onion. Men-tal. Delusions. Does anyone think that girl is sane?”

“Miss Battersby,” said Poirot.

“Who the devil is Miss Battersby?”

“A schoolmistress.”

“If I ever have a daughter I shall send her to that school…Of course I’min a different category. I know. I know everything about that girl!”

Norma’s father stared at him.

“Who is this man?” he demanded of Neele. “What can he possibly meanby saying that he knows everything about my daughter?”

“I know about her,” said Stillingfleet, “because she’s been under my pro-fessional care for the last ten days.”

“Dr. Stillingfleet,” said Chief Inspector Neele, “is a highly qualified andreputable psychiatrist.”

“And how did she come into your clutches—without someone gettingmy consent first?”

“Ask Moustaches,” said Dr. Stillingfleet, nodding towards Poirot.

“You—you…”

Restarick could hardly speak he was so angry.

Poirot spoke placidly.

“I had your instructions. You wanted care and protection for yourdaughter when she was found. I found her—and I was able to interest Dr.

Stillingfleet in her case. She was in danger, Mr. Restarick, very gravedanger.”

“She could hardly be in any more danger than she is now! Arrested on acharge of murder!”

“Technically she is not yet charged,” murmured Neele.

He went on:

“Dr. Stillingfleet, do I understand that you are willing to give your pro-fessional opinion as to Miss Restarick’s mental condition, and as to howwell she knows the nature and meaning of her acts?”

“We can save the M’Naughten act for court,” said Stillingfleet. “Whatyou want to know now is, quite simply, if the girl is mad or sane? All right,I’ll tell you. That girl is sane—as sane as any one of you sitting here in thisroom!”