by Mark Place
“Simpson - but it was Davis”
“If you will kindly permit me to continue, Hastings! Simpson knows that the theft will be discovered on Thursday afternoon.
He does not go to the bank on Thursday, but he lies in wait for Davis when he comes out to lunch. Perhaps he admits the theft and tells Davis he will return the securities to him - anyhow he succeeds in getting Davis to come to Clapham with him. It is the maid’s day out, and Mrs Todd was at the sales, so there is no one in the house. When the theft is discovered and Davis is missing, the implication will be overwhelming. Davis is the thief! Mr Simpson will be perfectly safe, and can return to work on the morrow like the honest clerk they think him.”
“And Davis?”
Poirot made an expressive gesture, and slowly shook his head.
“It seems too cold-blooded to be believed, and yet what other explanation can there be mon ami. The one difficulty for a murderer is the disposal of the body - and Simpson had planned that out beforehand. I was struck at once by the fact that although Eliza Dunn obviously meant to return that” night when she went out (witness her remark about the stewed peaches) yet her trunk was already packed when they came for it.
It was Simpson who sent word to Carter Paterson to call on Friday and it was Simpson who corded up the box on Thursday afternoon. What suspicion could possibly arise? A maid leaves and sends for her box, it is labelled and addressed ready in her name, probably to a railway station within easy reach of London. On Saturday afternoon, Simpson, in his Australian disguise, claims it, he affixes a new label and address and re -despatches it somewhere else, again "to be left till called for". When the authorities get suspicious, for excellent reasons, and open it, all that can be elicited will be that a bearded colonial despatched it from some junction near London. There will be nothing to connect it with 88 Prince Albert Road. Ah! Here we are.”
Poirot’s prognostications had been correct. Simpson had left two days previously. But he was not to escape the consequences of his crime. By the aid of wireless, he was discovered on the Olympia en route to America. A tin trunk, addressed to Mr Henry Wintergreen, attracted the attention of railway officials at Glasgow. It was opened and found to contain the body of the unfortunate Davis. Mrs Todd’s cheque for a guinea was never cashed. Instead Poirot had it framed and hung on the wall of our sitting-room.
“It is to me a little reminder, Hastings. Never to despise the trivial - the undignified. A disappearing domestic at one end - a cold-blooded murder at the other. To me, one of the most interesting of my cases.”
The Third Floor Flat
BY
AGATHA CHRISTIE
The Third-Floor Flat
“Bother!” said Pat.
With a deepening frown she rummaged wildly in the silken trifle she called an evening bag. Two young men and another girl watched her anxiously. They were all standing outside the closed door of Patricia Garnett’s flat.
“It’s no good,” said Pat. “It’s not there and now what shall we do?”
“What is life without a latchkey?” murmured Jimmy Faulkener. He was a short, broad-shouldered young man, with good-tempered blue eyes. Pat turned on him angrily. “Don’t make jokes, Jimmy. This is serious.”
“Look again, Pat,” said Donovan Bailey. “It must be there somewhere.” He had a lazy, pleasant voice that matched his lean, dark figure.
“If you ever brought it out,” said the other girl, Mildred Hope.
“Of course I brought it out,” said Pat. “I believe I gave it to one of you two.” She turned on the man accusingly. “I told Donovan to take it for me.”
But she was not to find a scapegoat so easily. Donovan put in a firm disclaimer, and Jimmy backed him up.
“I saw you put it in your bag, myself,” said Jimmy.
“Well, then, one of you dropped it out when you picked up my bag. I’ve dropped it once or twice.”
“Once or twice!” said Donovan. “You’ve dropped it a dozen times at least, besides leaving it behind on every possible occasion.”
“I can’t see why everything on earth doesn’t drop out of it the whole time,” said Jimmy.
“The point is - how are we going to get in?” said Mildred.
She was a sensible girl, who kept to the point, but she was not nearly so attractive as the impulsive and troublesome Pat. All four of them regarded the closed door blankly.
“Couldn’t the porter help?” suggested Jimmy.
“Hasn’t he got a master key or something of that kind?” Pat shook her head. There were only two keys. One was inside the flat hung up in the kitchen and the other was - or should be in the maligned bag.
“If only the flat were on the ground floor,” wailed Pat. “We could have broken open a window or something. Donovan, you wouldn’t like to be a cat burglar, would you?” Donovan declined firmly but politely to be a cat burglar.
“A flat on the fourth floor is a bit of an undertaking,” said Jimmy.
“How about a fire-escape?” suggested Donovan.
“There isn’t one.”
“There should be,” said Jimmy. “A building five storeys high ought to have a fire escape.”
“I dare say,” said Pat. “But what should be doesn’t help us. How am I ever to get into my flat?”
“Isn’t there a sort of thingummy bob?” said Donovan. “A thing the tradesmen send up chops and brussels sprouts in?”
“The service lift,” said Pat. “Oh yes, but it’s only a sort of wire-basket thing. Oh wait - I know. What about the coal lift?”
“Now that,” said Donovan, “is an idea.” Mildred made a discouraging suggestion. “It’ll be bolted,” she said. “In Pat’s kitchen, I mean, on the inside.” But the idea was instantly negatived. “Don’t you believe it,” said Donovan.
“Not in Pat’s kitchen,” said Jimmy. “Pat never locks and bolts things.”
“I don’t think it’s bolted,” said Pat. “I took the dustbin off this morning, and I’m sure I never bolted it afterwards, and I don’t think I’ve been near it since.”
“Well,” said Donovan, “that fact’s going to be very useful to us tonight, but, all the same, young Pat, let me point out to you that these slack habits are leaving you at the mercy of burglars -non-feline - every night.”
Pat disregarded these admonitions. “Come on,” she cried, and began racing down the four flights of stairs. The others followed her. Pat led them through a dark recess, apparently full to overflowing of perambulators, and through another door into the well of the flats, and guided them to the right lift. There was, at the moment, a dustbin on it. Donovan lifted it off and stepped gingerly on to the platform in its place. He wrinkled up his nose.
“A little noisome,” he remarked. “But what of that? Do I go alone on this venture or is anyone coming with me?”
“I’ll come, too,” said Jimmy.
He stepped on by Donovan’s side. “I suppose the lift will bear me,” he added doubtfully.
“You can’t weigh much more than a ton of coal,” said Pat, who had never been particularly strong on her weights-and-measures table.
“And, anyway, we shall soon find out,” said Donovan cheerfully, and he hauled on the rope. With a grinding noise they disappeared from sight. “This thing makes an awful noise,” remarked Jimmy, as they passed up through blackness.
“What will the people in the other flats think?”
“Ghosts or burglars, I expect,” said Donovan.
“Hauling this rope is quite heavy work. The porter of Friars Mansions does more work than I ever suspected. I say, Jimmy, old son are you counting the floors?”
“Oh, Lord! No. I forgot about it.”
“Well, I have, which is just as well. That’s the third we’re passing now. The next is ours.”
“And now, I suppose,” grumbled Jimmy, “we shall find that Pat did bolt the door after all.”
But these fears were unfounded. The wooden door swung back at a touch, and Donovan and Jimmy stepped
out into the inky blackness of Pat’s kitchen.
“We ought to have a torch for this wild night work,” explained Donovan. “If I know Pat, everything’s on the floor, and we shall smash endless crockery before I can get to the light switch. Don’t move about, Jimmy, till I get the light on.”
He felt his way cautiously over the floor uttering one fervent “Damn?” as a corner of the kitchen table took him unawares in the ribs. He reached the switch, and in another moment another “Damn!” floated out of the darkness.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jimmy.
“Light won’t come on. Dud bulb, I suppose.
Wait a minute. I’ll turn the sitting-room light on.” The sitting-room was the door immediately across the passage. Jimmy heard Donovan go out of the door, and presently fresh muffled curses reached him. He himself edged his way cautiously across the kitchen.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know. Rooms get bewitched at night, I believe. Everything seems to be in a different place. Chairs and tables where you least expected them. Oh, hell! Here’s another? But at this moment Jimmy fortunately connected with the electric-light switch and pressed it down. In another minute two young men were looking at each other in silent horror. This room was not Pat’s sitting-room. They were in the wrong flat. To begin with, the room was about ten times more crowded than Pat’s, which explained Donovan’s pathetic bewilderment at repeatedly cannoning into chairs and tables. There was a large round table in the centre of the room covered with a baize cloth, and there was an aspidistra in the window. It was, in fact, the kind of room whose owner, the young men felt sure, would be difficult to explain to. With silent horror they gazed down at the table, on which lay a little pile of letters. “Mrs Ernestine Grant,” breathed Donovan, picking them up and reading the name. Oh help! Do you think she’s heard us?” “It’s a miracle she hasn’t heard you,” said Jimmy.
“What with your language and the way you’ve been crashing into the furniture. Come on, for the Lord’s sake, let’s get out of here quickly.” They hastily switched off the light and retraced their steps on tiptoe to the lift. Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief as they regained the fastness of its depths without further incident.
“I do like a woman to be a good, sound sleeper,” he said approvingly. “Mrs Ernestine Grant has her points.” “I see if now,” said Donovan; “why we made the mistake in the floor, I mean. Out in that well we started up from the basement.” He heaved on the rope, and the lift shot up.
“We’re right this time.” “I devoutly trust we are,” said Jimmy as he stepped out into another inky void. “My nerves won’t stand many more shocks of this kind.” But no further nerve strain was imposed. The first click of the light showed them Pat’s kitchen, and in another minute they were opening the front door and admitting the two girls who were waiting outside.
“You have been a long time,” grumbled Pat.
“Mildred and I have been waiting here ages.”
“We’ve had an adventure,” said Donovan. “We might have been hauled off to the police-station as dangerous malefactors.” Pat had passed on into the sitting-room, where she switched on the light and dropped her wrap on the sofa. She listened with lively interest to Donovan’s account of his adventures.
“I’m glad she didn’t catch you,” she commented. “I’m sure she’s an old curmudgeon. I got a note from her this morning - wanted to see me some time - something she had to complain about - my piano, I suppose. People who don’t like pianos over their heads shouldn’t come and live in flats. I say, Donovan, you’ve hurt your hand. It’s all over blood. Go and wash it under the tap.”
Donovan looked down at his hand in surprise. He went out of the room obediently and presently his voice called to Jimmy. “Hullo,” said the other, “what’s up? You haven’t hurt yourself badly, have you?”
“I haven’t hurt myself at all.”
There was something so queer in Donovan’s voice that Jimmy stared at him in surprise. Donovan held out his washed hand and Jimmy saw that there was no mark or cut of any kind on it.
“That’s odd,” he said, frowning. “There was quite a lot of blood. Where did it come from?” And then suddenly he realized what his quicker-witted friend had already seen. “By Jove,” he said. “It must have come from that flat” He stopped, thinking over the possibilities his words implied. “You’re sure it was - er - blood?” he said. “Not paint?” Donovan shook his head. “It was blood, all right,” he said, and shivered. They looked at each other. The same thought was clearly in each of their minds. It was Jimmy who voiced it first.
“I say,” he said awkwardly. “Do you think we ought to - well go down again - and have - a - a look around? See it’s all right, you know?”
“What about the girls?”
“We won’t say anything to them. Pat’s going to put on an apron and make us an omelette. We’ll be back by the time they wonder where we are.”
“Oh, well, come on,” said Donovan. “I suppose we’ve got to go through with it. I dare say there isn’t anything really wrong.” But his tone lacked conviction. They got into the lift and descended to the floor below. They found their way across the kitchen without much difficulty and once more switched on the sitting-room light.
“It must have been in here,” said Donovan, “that - that I got the stuff on me. I never touched anything in the kitchen.” He looked round him. Jimmy did the same, and they both frowned. Everything looked neat and commonplace and miles removed from any suggestion of violence or gore. Suddenly Jimmy started violently and caught his companion’s. “Look!”
Donovan followed the pointing finger, and in his turn uttered an exclamation. From beneath the heavy rep curtains there protruded a foot - a woman’s foot in a gaping patent-leather shoe. Jimmy went to the curtains and drew them sharply apart. In the recess of the window a woman’s huddled body lay on the floor, a sticky dark pool beside it. She was dead there was no doubt of that. Jimmy was attempting to raise her up when Donovan stopped him.
“You’d better not do that. She oughtn’t to be touched till the police come.”
“The police. Oh, of course. I say, Donovan, what a ghastly business. Who do you think she is? Mrs Ernestine Grant?”
“Looks like it. At any rate, if there’s anyone else in the flat they’re keeping jolly quiet.”
“What do we do next?” asked Jimmy.
“Run out and get a policeman or ring up from Pat’s flat?”
“I should think ringing up would be best. Come on, we might as well go out the front door. We can’t spend the whole night going up and down in that evil-smelling lift.” Jimmy agreed.
Just as they were passing through the door he hesitated. “Look here; do you think one of us ought to stay - just to keep an eye on things - till the police come?”
“Yes, I think you’re right. If you’ll stay I’ll run up and telephone.” He ran quickly up the stairs and rang the bell of the flat above.
Pat came to open it, a very pretty Pat with a flushed face and a cooking apron on. Her eyes widened in surprise.
“You? But how - Donovan, what is it? Is anything the matter?”
He took both her hands in his. “It’s all right, Pat - only we’ve made rather an unpleasant discovery in the flat below. A woman dead.”
“Oh!” She gave a little gasp. “How horrible. Has she had a fit or something?”
“No. It looks - well - it looks rather as though she had been murdered.”
“Oh Donovan!”
“I know. It’s pretty beastly.” Her hands were still in his. She had left them there - was even clinging to him. Darling Pat - how he loved her. Did she care at all for him? Sometimes he thought she did. Sometimes he was afraid that Jimmy Faulkener - remembrances of Jimmy waiting patiently below made him start guiltily.
“Pat, dear, we must telephone to the police.”
“Monsieur is right,” said a voice behind him.
“And in the meantime, while we
are waiting their arrival, perhaps I can be of some slight assistance.”
They had been standing in the doorway of the flat, and now they peered out on to the landing. A figure was standing on the stairs a little way above them. It moved down and into their range of vision. They stood staring at a little man with a very fierce moustache and an egg-shaped head. He wore a resplendent dressing-gown and embroidered slippers. He bowed gallantly to Patricia. “Mademoiselle!” he said. “I am, as perhaps you know, the tenant of the flat above. I like to be up high - the air - the view over London. I take the flat in the name of Mr O’Connor. But I am not an Irishman. I have another name. That is why I venture to put myself at your service. Permit me.” With a flourish he pulled out a card and handed it to Pat. She read it. “M. Hercule Poirot. Oh!” She caught her breath. “The M. Poirot! The great detective? And you will really help?”
“That is my intention, mademoiselle. I nearly offered my help earlier in the evening.” Pat looked puzzled.
“I heard you discussing how to gain admission to your flat. Me, I am very clever at picking locks. I could, without doubt, have opened your door for you, but I hesitated to suggest it. You would have had the grave suspicions of me.” Pat laughed.
“Now, monsieur,” said Poirot to Donovan. “Go in, I pray of you, and telephone to the police. I will descend to the flat below.” Pat came down the stairs with him. They found Jimmy on guard, and Pat explained Poirot’s presence. Jimmy, in his turn, explained to Poirot his and Donovan’s adventures. The detective listened attentively.
“The lift door was unbolted, you say? You emerged into the kitchen, but the light it would not turn on.” He directed his footsteps to the kitchen as he spoke. His finger pressed the switch.
“Tiens! Void ce qui est curieux!” he said as the light flashed on. “It functions perfectly now. I wonder - “He held up a finger to ensure silence and listened. A faint sound broke the still ness-the sound of an unmistakable snore. “Ah!” said Poirot. “La chambre de domestique.” He tiptoed across the kitchen into a little pantry, out of which led a door. He opened the door and switched on the light. The room was the kind of dog kennel designed by the builders of flats to accommodate a human being. The floor space was almost entirely occupied by the bed. In the bed was a rosy-cheeked girl lying on her back with her mouth wide-open, snoring placidly. Poirot switched off the light and beat a retreat. “She will not wake,” he said. “We will let her sleep till the police come.” He went back to the sitting-room. Donovan had joined them. “The police will be here almost immediately, they say,” he said breathlessly. “We are to touch nothing.”