Three

For a few minutes there was silence.

Jane Plenderleith shot a swift appraising¹ glance at the little man, but after that she stared infront of her and did not speak. Yet a consciousness of his presence showed itself in a certainnervous tension. Her body was still but not relaxed. When at last Poirot did break the silence themere sound of his voice seemed to give her a certain relief. In an agreeable everyday voice heasked a question.

“When did you light the fire, mademoiselle?”

“The fire?” Her voice sounded vague and rather absentminded. “Oh, as soon as I arrived thismorning.”

“Before you went upstairs or afterwards?”

“Before.”

“I see. Yes, naturally . . . And it was already laid—or did you have to lay it?”

“It was laid. I only had to put a match to it.”

There was a slight impatience² in her voice. Clearly she suspected him of makingconversation. Possibly that was what he was doing. At any rate he went on in quiet conversationaltones.

“But your friend—in her room I noticed there was a gas fire only?”

Jane Plenderleith answered mechanically.

“This is the only coal fire we have—the others are all gas fires.”

“And you cook with gas, too?”

“I think everyone does nowadays.”

“True. It is much labour saving.”

The little interchange died down. Jane Plenderleith tapped on the ground with her shoe. Thenshe said abruptly⁴:

“That man—Chief Inspector⁵ Japp—is he considered clever?”

“He is very sound. Yes, he is well thought of. He works hard and painstakingly⁶ and very littleescapes him.”

“I wonder—” muttered the girl.

Poirot watched her. His eyes looked very green in the firelight. He asked quietly:

“It was a great shock to you, your friend’s death?”

“Terrible.”

She spoke⁷ with abrupt³ sincerity⁸.

“You did not expect it—no?”

“Of course not.”

“So that it seemed to you at first, perhaps, that it was impossible—that it could not be?”

The quiet sympathy of his tone seemed to break down Jane Plenderleith’s defences. Shereplied eagerly, naturally, without stiffness.

“That’s just it. Even if Barbara did kill herself, I can’t imagine her killing⁹ herself that way.”

“Yet she had a pistol?”

Jane Plenderleith made an impatient gesture.

“Yes, but that pistol was a—oh! a hang over. She’d been in out-of-the-way places. She kept itout of habit—not with any other idea. I’m sure of that.”

“Ah! and why are you sure of that?”

“Oh, because of the things she said.”

“Such as—?”

His voice was very gentle and friendly. It led her on subtly.

“Well, for instance, we were discussing suicide once and she said much the easiest waywould be to turn the gas on and stuff up all the cracks and just go to bed. I said I thought thatwould be impossible—to lie there waiting. I said I’d far rather shoot myself. And she said no, shecould never shoot herself. She’d be too frightened in case it didn’t come off and anyway she saidshe’d hate the bang.”

“I see,” said Poirot. “As you say, it is odd . . . Because, as you have just told me, there was agas fire in her room.”

Jane Plenderleith looked at him, slightly startled.

“Yes, there was . . . I can’t understand—no, I can’t understand why she didn’t do it thatway.”

Poirot shook his head.

“Yes, it seems—odd—not natural somehow.”

“The whole thing doesn’t seem natural. I still can’t believe she killed herself. I suppose itmust be suicide?”

“Well, there is one other possibility.”

“What do you mean?”

Poirot looked straight at her.

“It might be—murder.”

“Oh, no?” Jane Plenderleith shrank back. “Oh no! What a horrible suggestion.”

“Horrible, perhaps, but does it strike you as an impossible one?”

“But the door was locked on the inside. So was the window.”

“The door was locked—yes. But there is nothing to show if it were locked from the inside orthe outside. You see, the key was missing.”

“But then—if it is missing . . .” She took a minute or two. “Then it must have been lockedfrom the outside. Otherwise it would be somewhere in the room.”

“Ah, but it may be. The room has not been thoroughly¹⁰ searched yet, remember. Or it mayhave been thrown out of the window and somebody may have picked it up.”

“Murder!” said Jane Plenderleith. She turned over the possibility, her dark clever face eageron the scent¹¹. “I believe you’re right.”

“But if it were murder there would have been a motive¹². Do you know of a motive,mademoiselle?”

Slowly she shook her head. And yet, in spite of the denial, Poirot again got the impressionthat Jane Plenderleith was deliberately¹³ keeping something back. The door opened and Japp camein.

Poirot rose.

“I have been suggesting to Miss?Plenderleith,” he said, “that her friend’s death was notsuicide.”

Japp looked momentarily put out. He cast a glance of reproach at Poirot.

“It’s a bit early to say anything definite,” he remarked. “We’ve always got to take allpossibilities into account, you understand. That’s all there is to it at the moment.”

Jane Plenderleith replied quietly.

“I see.”

Japp came towards her.

“Now then, Miss?Plenderleith, have you ever seen this before?”

On the palm of his hand he held out a small oval of dark blue enamel¹⁴.

Jane Plenderleith shook her head.

“No, never.”

“It’s not yours nor Mrs.?Allen’s?”

“No. It’s not the kind of thing usually worn by our sex, is it?”

“Oh! so you recognize it.”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? That’s half of a man’s cuff¹⁵ link.”

 

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