III

Poirot arrived at No. 14 Bardsley Gardens Mews almost at the same moment as a car drew upcontaining Japp and three other men.

No. 14 was clearly marked out as the centre of interest. A big circle of people, chauffeurs,their wives, errand boys, loafers, well-dressed passersby¹ and innumerable children were drawn² upall staring at No. 14 with open mouths and a fascinated stare.

A police constable³ in uniform stood on the step and did his best to keep back the curious.

Alert-looking young men with cameras were busy and surged forward as Japp alighted.

“Nothing for you now,” said Japp, brushing them aside. He nodded to Poirot. “So here youare. Let’s get inside.”

They passed in quickly, the door shut behind them and they found themselves squeezedtogether at the foot of a ladderlike flight of stairs.

A man came to the top of the staircase, recognized Japp and said:

“Up here, sir.”

Japp and Poirot mounted the stairs.

The man at the stairhead opened a door on the left and they found themselves in a smallbedroom.

“Thought you’d like me to run over the chief points, sir.”

“Quite right, Jameson,” said Japp. “What about it?”

Divisional Inspector⁴ Jameson took up the tale.

“Deceased’s a Mrs.?Allen, sir. Lived here with a friend—a Miss?Plenderleith.

Miss?Plenderleith was away staying in the country and returned this morning. She let herself inwith her key, was surprised to find no one about. A woman usually comes in at nine o’clock to dofor them. She went upstairs first into her own room (that’s this room) then across the landing toher friend’s room. Door was locked on the inside. She rattled⁵ the handle, knocked and called, butcouldn’t get any answer. In the end getting alarmed she rang up the police station. That was at tenforty-five. We came along at once and forced the door open. Mrs.?Allen was lying in a heap on theground shot through the head. There was an automatic in her hand—a Webley .25—and it lookeda clear case of suicide.”

“Where is Miss?Plenderleith now?”

“She’s downstairs in the sitting room, sir. A very cool, efficient young lady, I should say. Gota head on her.”

“I’ll talk to her presently. I’d better see Brett now.”

Accompanied by Poirot he crossed the landing and entered the opposite room. A tall, elderlyman looked up and nodded.

“Hallo, Japp, glad you’ve got here. Funny business, this.”

Japp advanced towards him. Hercule Poirot sent a quick searching glance round the room.

It was much larger than the room they had just quitted. It had a built-out bay window, andwhereas the other room had been a bedroom pure and simple, this was emphatically a bedroomdisguised as a sitting room.

The walls were silver and the ceiling emerald green. There were curtains of a modernisticpattern in silver and green. There was a divan⁶ covered with a shimmering⁷ emerald green silk quiltand numbers of gold and silver cushions. There was a tall antique walnut⁸ bureau, a walnut tallboy,and several modern chairs of gleaming chromium. On a low glass table there was a big ashtray⁹ fullof cigarette stubs.

Delicately Hercule Poirot sniffed¹⁰ the air. Then he joined Japp where the latter stood lookingdown at the body.

In a heap on the floor, lying as she had fallen from one of the chromium chairs, was the bodyof a young woman of perhaps twenty-seven. She had fair hair and delicate features. There wasvery little makeup¹¹ on the face. It was a pretty, wistful, perhaps slightly stupid face. On the left sideof the head was a mass of congealed¹² blood. The fingers of the right hand were clasped round asmall pistol. The woman was dressed in a simple frock of dark green high to the neck.

“Well, Brett, what’s the trouble?”

Japp was looking down also at the huddled¹³ figure.

“Position’s all right,” said the doctor. “If she shot herself she’d probably have slipped fromthe chair into just that position. The door was locked and the window was fastened on the inside.”

“That’s all right, you say. Then what’s wrong?”

“Take a look at the pistol. I haven’t handled it—waiting for the fingerprint¹⁴ men. But you cansee quite well what I mean.”

Together Poirot and Japp knelt down and examined the pistol closely.

“I see what you mean,” said Japp rising. “It’s in the curve of her hand. It looks as thoughshe’s holding it—but as a matter of fact she isn’t holding it. Anything else?”

“Plenty. She’s got the pistol in her right hand. Now take a look at the wound. The pistol washeld close to the head just above the left ear—the left ear, mark you.”

“H’m,” said Japp. “That does seem to settle it. She couldn’t hold a pistol and fire it in thatposition with her right hand?”

“Plumb impossible, I should say. You might get your arm round but I doubt if you could firethe shot.”

“That seems pretty obvious then. Someone else shot her and tried to make it look like suicide.

What about the locked door and window, though?”

Inspector Jameson answered this.

“Window was closed and bolted, sir, but although the door was locked we haven’t been ableto find the key.”

Japp nodded.

“Yes, that was a bad break. Whoever did it locked the door when he left and hoped theabsence of the key wouldn’t be noticed.”

Poirot murmured:

“C’est bête, ?a!”

“Oh, come now, Poirot, old man, you mustn’t judge everybody else by the light of yourshining intellect! As a matter of fact that’s the sort of little detail that’s quite apt to be overlooked.

Door’s locked. People break in. Woman found dead—pistol in her hand—clear case of suicide—she locked herself in to do it. They don’t go hunting about for keys. As a matter of fact,Miss?Plenderleith’s sending for the police was lucky. She might have got one or two of thechauffeurs to come and burst in the door—and then the key question would have been overlookedaltogether.”

“Yes, I suppose that is true,” said Hercule Poirot. “It would have been many people’s naturalreaction. The police, they are the last resource, are they not?”

He was still staring down at the body.

“Anything strike you?” Japp asked.

The question was careless but his eyes were keen and attentive¹⁵.

Hercule Poirot shook his head slowly.

“I was looking at her wristwatch.”

He bent¹⁶ over and just touched it with a fingertip. It was a dainty jewelled affair on a blackmoiré strap¹⁷ on the wrist of the hand that held the pistol.

“Rather a swell¹⁸ piece that,” observed Japp. “Must have cost money!” He cocked his headinquiringly at Poirot. “Something in that maybe?”

“It is possible—yes.”

Poirot strayed across to the writing bureau. It was the kind that has a front flap that lets down.

This was daintily set out to match the general colour scheme.

There was a somewhat massive silver inkstand in the centre, in front of it a handsome greenlacquer blotter. To the left of the blotter was an emerald glass pen tray containing a silverpenholder—a stick of green sealing wax, a pencil and two stamps. On the right of the blotter was amovable calendar giving the day of the week, date and month. There was also a little glass jar ofshot and standing¹⁹ in it a flamboyant²⁰ green quill²¹ pen. Poirot seemed interested in the pen. He took itout and looked at it but the quill was innocent of ink. It was clearly a decoration—nothing more.

The silver pen-holder with the ink-stained nib²² was the one in use. His eyes strayed to the calendar.

“Tuesday, November fifth,” said Japp. “Yesterday. That’s all correct.”

He turned to Brett.

“How long has she been dead?”

“She was killed at eleven thirty-three yesterday evening,” said Brett promptly²³.

Then he grinned as he saw Japp’s surprised face.

“Sorry, old boy,” he said. “Had to do the super doctor of fiction! As a matter of fact eleven isabout as near as I can put it—with a margin²⁴ of about an hour either way.”

“Oh, I thought the wristwatch might have stopped—or something.”

“It’s stopped all right, but it’s stopped at a quarter past four.”

“And I suppose she couldn’t have been killed possibly at a quarter past four.”

“You can put that right out of your mind.”

Poirot had turned back the cover of the blotter.

“Good idea,” said Japp. “But no luck.”

The blotter showed an innocent white sheet of blotting²⁵ paper. Poirot turned over the leavesbut they were all the same.

He turned his attention to the wastepaper basket.

It contained two or three torn-up letters and circulars. They were only torn once and wereeasily reconstructed. An appeal for money from some society for assisting ex-servicemen, aninvitation to a cocktail²⁶ party on November 3rd, an appointment with a dressmaker. The circularswere an announcement of a furrier’s sale and a catalogue from a department store.

“Nothing there,” said Japp.

“No, it is odd . . .” said Poirot.

“You mean they usually leave a letter when it’s suicide?”

“Exactly.”

“In fact, one more proof that it isn’t suicide.”

He moved away.

“I’ll have my men get to work now. We’d better go down and interview thisMiss?Plenderleith. Coming, Poirot?”

Poirot still seemed fascinated by the writing bureau and its appointments.

He left the room, but at the door his eyes went back once more to the flaunting²⁷ emerald quillpen.

 

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