‘I’m glad something baffles you,’ said Spence.
‘Confirm one thing for me, mon cher Spence. Eva Kane left the country before Craig’s execution, that is right?’
‘Quite right.’
‘And she was, at that time, expecting a child?’
‘Quite right.’
‘Bon Dieu, how stupid I have been,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘The whole thing is simple, is it not?’
It was after that remark that there was very nearly a third murder—the murder of Hercule Poirot by Superintendent Spence in Kilchester Police Headquarters.
II
‘I want,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘a personal call. To Mrs Ariadne Oliver.’
A personal call to Mrs Oliver was not achieved without difficulties. Mrs Oliver was working and could not be disturbed. Poirot, however, disregarded all denials. Presently he heard the authoress’s voice.
It was cross and rather breathless.
‘Well, what is it?’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Have you got to ring me up just now? I’ve thought of a most wonderful idea for a murder in a draper’s shop. You know, the old-fashioned kind that sells combinations and funny vests with long sleeves.’
‘I do not know,’ said Poirot. ‘And anyway what I have to say to you is far more important.’
‘It couldn’t be,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Not to me, I mean. Unless I get a rough sketch of my idea jotted down, it will go!’
Hercule Poirot paid no attention to this creative agony. He asked sharp imperative questions to which Mrs Oliver replied somewhat vaguely.
‘Yes—yes—it’s a little Repertory Theatre—I don’t know its name…Well, one of them was Cecil Something, and the one I was talking to was Michael.’
‘Admirable. That is all I need to know.’
‘But why Cecil and Michael?’
‘Return to the combinations and the long-sleeved vests, madame.’
‘I can’t think why you don’t arrest Dr Rendell,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I would, if I were the Head of Scotland Yard.’
‘Very possibly. I wish you luck with the murder in the draper’s shop.’
‘The whole idea has gone now,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘You’ve ruined it.’
Poirot apologized handsomely.
He put down the receiver and smiled at Spence.
‘We go now—or at least I will go—to interview a young actor whose Christian name is Michael and who plays the less important parts in the Cullenquay Repertory Theatre. I pray only that he is the right Michael.’
‘Why on earth—’
Poirot dexterously averted the rising wrath of Superintendent Spence.
‘Do you know, cher ami, what is a secret de Polichinelle?’
‘Is this a French lesson?’ demanded the superintendent wrathfully.
‘A secret de Polichinelle is a secret that everyone can know. For this reason the people who do not know it never hear about it—for if everyone thinks you know a thing, nobody tells you.’
‘How I manage to keep my hands off you I don’t know,’ said Superintendent Spence.
Chapter 25
The inquest was over—a verdict had been returned of murder by a person or persons unknown.
After the inquest, at the invitation of Hercule Poirot, those who had attended it came to Long Meadows.
Working diligently, Poirot had induced some semblance of order in the long drawing-room. Chairs had been arranged in a neat semi-circle, Maureen’s dogs had been excluded with difficulty, and Hercule Poirot, a self-appointed lecturer, took up his position at the end of the room and initiated proceedings with a slightly self-conscious clearing of the throat.
‘Messieurs et Mesdames—’
He paused. His next words were unexpected and seemed almost farcical.
‘Mrs McGinty’s dead. How did she die?
Down on her knees just like I.
Mrs McGinty’s dead. How did she die?
Holding her hand out just like I.
Mrs McGinty’s dead. How did she die?
Like this…’
Seeing their expressions, he went on:
‘No, I am not mad. Because I repeat to you the childish rhyme of a childish game, it does not mean that I am in my second childhood. Some of you may have played that game as children. Mrs Upward had played it. Indeed she repeated it to me—with a difference. She said: “Mrs McGinty’s dead. How did she die? Sticking her neck out just like I.” That is what she said—and that is what she did. She stuck her neck out—and so she also, like Mrs McGinty, died…
‘For our purpose we must go back to the beginning—to Mrs McGinty—down on her knees scrubbing other people’s houses, Mrs McGinty was killed, and a man, James Bentley, was arrested, tried and convicted. For certain reasons, Superintendent Spence, the officer in charge of the case, was not convinced of Bentley’s guilt, strong though the evidence was. I agreed with him. I came down here to answer a question. “How did Mrs McGinty die? Why did she die?”
‘I will not make you the long and complicated histories. I will say only that as simple a thing as a bottle of ink gave me a clue. In the Sunday Comet, read by Mrs McGinty on the Sunday before her death, four photographs were published. You know all about those photographs by now, so I will only say that Mrs McGinty recognized one of those photographs as a photograph she had seen in one of the houses where she worked.
‘She spoke of this to James Bentley though he attached no importance to the matter at the time, nor indeed afterwards. Actually he barely listened. But he had the impression that Mrs McGinty had seen the photograph in Mrs Upward’s house and that when she referred to a woman who need not be so proud if all was known, she was referring to Mrs Upward. We cannot depend on that statement of his, but she certainly used that phrase about pride and there is no doubt that Mrs Upward was a proud and imperious woman.
‘As you all know—some of you were present and the others will have heard—I produced those four photographs at Mrs Upward’s house. I caught a flicker of surprise and recognition in Mrs Upward’s expression and taxed her with it. She had to admit it. She said that she “had seen one of the photographs somewhere but she couldn’t remember where”. When asked which photograph, she pointed to a photograph of the child Lily Gamboll. But that, let me tell you, was not the truth. For reasons of her own, Mrs Upward wanted to keep her recognition to herself. She pointed to the wrong photograph to put me off.
‘But one person was not deceived—the murderer. One person knew which photograph Mrs Upward had recognized. And here I will not beat to and fro about the bush—the photograph in question was that of Eva Kane—a woman who was accomplice, victim or possibly leading spirit in the famous Craig Murder Case.
‘On the next evening Mrs Upward was killed. She was killed for the same reason that Mrs McGinty was killed. Mrs McGinty stuck her hand out, Mrs Upward stuck her neck out—the result was the same.
‘Now before Mrs Upward died, three women received telephone calls. Mrs Carpenter, Mrs Rendell, and Miss Henderson. All three calls were a message from Mrs Upward asking the person in question to come and see her that evening. It was her servant’s night out and her son and Mrs Oliver were going into Cullenquay. It would seem, therefore, that she wanted a private conversation with each of these three women.
‘Now why three women? Did Mrs Upward know where she had seen the photograph of Eva Kane? Or did she know she had seen it but could not remember where? Had these three women anything in common? Nothing, it would seem, but their age. They were all, roughly, in the neighbourhood of thirty.
‘You have, perhaps, read the article in the Sunday Comet. There is a truly sentimental picture in it of Eva Kane’s daughter in years to come. The women asked by Mrs Upward to come and see her were all of the right age to be Eva Kane’s daughter.
‘So it would seem that living in Broadhinny was a young woman who was the daughter of the celebrated murderer Craig and of his mistress Eva Kane, and it would also seem that that young woman would go to any lengths to prevent that fact being kn
own. Would go, indeed, to the length of twice committing murder. For when Mrs Upward was found dead, there were two coffee cups on the table, both used, and on the visitor’s cup faint traces of lipstick.
‘Now let us go back to the three women who received telephone messages. Mrs Carpenter got the message but says she did not go to Laburnums that night. Mrs Rendell meant to go, but fell asleep in her chair. Miss Henderson did go to Laburnums but the house was dark and she could not make anyone hear and she came away again.
‘That is the story these three woman tell—but there is conflicting evidence. There is that second coffee cup with lipstick on it, and an outside witness, the girl Edna, states positively that she saw a fair-haired woman go in to the house. There is also the evidence of scent—an expensive and exotic scent which Mrs Carpenter uses alone of those concerned.’
There was an interruption. Eve Carpenter cried out:
‘It’s a lie. It’s a wicked cruel lie. It wasn’t me! I never went there! I never went near the place. Guy, can’t you do something about these lies?’
Guy Carpenter was white with anger.
‘Let me inform you, M. Poirot, that there is a law of slander and all these people present are witnesses.’
‘Is it slander to say that your wife uses a certain scent—and also, let me tell you, a certain lipstick?’
‘It’s ridiculous,’ cried Eve. ‘Absolutely ridiculous! Anyone could go splashing my scent about.’
Unexpectedly Poirot beamed on her.
‘Mais oui, exactly! Anyone could. An obvious, not very subtle thing to do. Clumsy and crude. So clumsy that, as far as I was concerned, it defeated its object. It did more. It gave me, as the phrase goes, ideas. Yes, it gave me ideas.
‘Scent—and traces of lipstick on a cup. But it is so easy to remove lipstick from a cup—I assure you every trace can be wiped off quite easily. Or the cups themselves could be removed and washed. Why not? There was no one in the house. But that was not done. I asked myself why? And the answer seemed to be a deliberate stress on femininity, an underlining of the fact that it was a woman’s murder. I reflected on the telephone calls to those three women—all of them had been messages. In no case had the recipient herself spoken to Mrs Upward. So perhaps it was not Mrs Upward who had telephoned. It was someone who was anxious to involve a woman—any woman—in the crime. Again I asked why? And there can only be one answer—that it was not a woman who killed Mrs Upward—but a man.’
He looked round on his audience. They were all very still. Only two people responded.
Eve Carpenter said with a sigh: ‘Now you’re talking sense!’
Mrs Oliver, nodding her head vigorously, said: ‘Of course.’
‘So I have arrived at this point—a man killed Mrs Upward and a man killed Mrs McGinty! What man? The reason for the murder must still be the same—it all hinges on a photograph. In whose possession was that photograph? That is the first question. And why was it kept?’
‘Well, that is perhaps not so difficult. Say that it was kept originally for sentimental reasons. Once Mrs McGinty is—removed, the photograph need not be destroyed. But after the second murder, it is different. This time the photograph has definitely been connected with the murder. The photograph is now a dangerous thing to keep. Therefore you will all agree, it is sure to be destroyed.’
He looked round at the heads that nodded agreement.
‘But, for all that, the photograph was not destroyed! No, it was not destroyed! I know that—because I found it. I found it a few days ago. I found it in this house. In the drawer of the bureau that you see standing against the wall. I have it here.’
He held out the faded photograph of a simpering girl with roses.
‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘It is Eva Kane. And on the back of it are written two words in pencil. Shall I tell you what they are? “My mother”…’
His eyes, grave and accusing, rested on Maureen Summerhayes. She pushed back the hair from her face and stared at him with wide bewildered eyes.
‘I don’t understand. I never—’
‘No, Mrs Summerhayes, you do not understand. There can be only two reasons for keeping this photograph after the second murder. The first of them is an innocent sentimentality. You had no feeling of guilt and so you could keep the photograph. You told us yourself, at Mrs Carpenter’s house one day, that you were an adopted child. I doubt whether you have ever known what your real mother’s name was. But somebody else knew. Somebody who has all the pride of family—a pride that makes him cling to his ancestral home, a pride in his ancestors and his lineage. That man would rather die than have the world—and his children—know that Maureen Summerhayes is the daughter of the murderer Craig and of Eva Kane. That man, I have said, would rather die. But that would not help, would it? So instead let us say that we have here a man who is prepared to kill.’
Johnnie Summerhayes got up from his seat. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet, almost friendly.
‘Rather a lot of nonsense you’re talkin’, aren’t you? Enjoying yourself spouting out a lot of theories? Theories, that’s all they are! Saying things about my wife—’
His anger broke suddenly in a furious tide.
‘You damned filthy swine—’
The swiftness of his rush across the floor took the room unawares. Poirot skipped back nimbly and Superintendent Spence was suddenly between Poirot and Summerhayes.
‘Now, now, Major Summerhayes, take it easy—take it easy—’
Summerhayes recovered himself, shrugged, said:
‘Sorry. Ridiculous really! After all—anyone can stick a photograph in a drawer.’
‘Precisely,’ said Poirot. ‘And the interesting thing about this photograph is that it has no fingerprints on it.’
He paused, then nodded his head gently.
‘But it should have had,’ he said. ‘If Mrs Summerhayes kept it, she would have kept it innocently, and so her fingerprints should have been on it.’
Maureen exclaimed:
‘I think you’re mad. I’ve never seen that photograph in my life—except at Mrs Upward’s that day.’
‘It is fortunate for you,’ said Poirot, ‘that I know that you are speaking the truth. The photograph was put into that drawer only a few minutes before I found it there. Twice that morning the contents of that drawer were tumbled on to the ground, twice I replaced them; the first time the photograph was not in the drawer, the second time it was. It had been placed there during that interval—and I know by whom.’
A new note crept into his voice. He was no longer a ridiculous little man with an absurd moustache and dyed hair, he was a hunter very close to his quarry.
‘The crimes were committed by a man—they were committed for the simplest of all reasons—for money. In Mrs Upward’s house there was a book found and on the flyleaf of that book is written Evelyn Hope. Hope was the name Eva Kane took when she left England. If her real name was Evelyn then in all probability she gave the name of Evelyn to her child when it was born. But Evelyn is a man’s name as well as a woman’s. Why had we assumed that Eva Kane’s child was a girl? Roughly because the Sunday Comet said so! But actually the Sunday Comet had not said so in so many words, it had assumed it because of a romantic interview with Eva Kane. But Eva Kane left England before her child was born—so nobody could say what the sex of the child would be.
‘That is where I let myself be misled. By the romantic inaccuracy of the Press.
‘Evelyn Hope, Eva Kane’s son, comes to England. He is talented and he attracts the attention of a very rich woman who knows nothing about his origin—only the romantic story he chooses to tell her. (A very pretty little story it was—all about a tragic young ballerina dying of tuberculosis in Paris!)
‘She is a lonely woman who has recently lost her own son. The talented young playwright takes her name by deed poll.
‘But your real name is Evelyn Hope, isn’t it, Mr Upward?’
Robin Upward cried out shrilly:
‘Of course i
t isn’t! I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You really cannot hope to deny it. There are people who know you under that name. The name Evelyn Hope, written in the book, is in your handwriting—the same handwriting as the words “my mother” on the back of this photograph. Mrs McGinty saw the photograph and the writing on it when she was tidying your things away. She spoke to you about it after reading the Sunday Comet. Mrs McGinty assumed that it was a photograph of Mrs Upward when young, since she had no idea Mrs Upward was not your real mother. But you knew that if once she mentioned the matter so that it came to Mrs Upward’s ears, it would be the end. Mrs Upward had quite fanatical views on the subject of heredity. She would not tolerate for a moment an adopted son who was the son of a famous murderer. Nor would she forgive your lies on the subject.
‘So Mrs McGinty had at all costs to be silenced. You promised her a little present, perhaps, for being discreet. You called on her the next evening on your way to broadcast—and you killed her! Like this…’
With a sudden movement, Poirot seized the sugar hammer from the shelf and whirled it round and down as though to bring it crashing down on Robin’s head.
So menacing was the gesture that several of the circle cried out.
Robin Upward screamed. A high terrified scream.
He yelled: ‘Don’t…don’t…It was an accident. I swear it was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill her. I lost my head. I swear I did.’
‘You washed off the blood and put the sugar hammer back in this room where you had found it. But there are new scientific methods of determining blood stains—and of bringing up latent fingerprints.’
‘I tell you I never meant to kill her…It was all a mistake…And anyway it isn’t my fault…I’m not responsible. It’s in my blood. I can’t help it. You can’t hang me for something that isn’t my fault…’
Under his breath Spence muttered: ‘Can’t we? You see if we don’t!’
Aloud he spoke in a grave official voice:
‘I must warn you, Mr Upward, that anything you say…’
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