Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  Poirot said patiently: ‘What was queer?’

  ‘It was that morning, sir, the morning Mr Morley shot himself. I’d been wondering if I dared run down and get the post. The postman had come but that Alfred hadn’t brought up the letters, which he wouldn’t do, not unless there was some for Miss Morley or Mr Morley, but if it was just for Emma and me he wouldn’t bother to bring them up till lunch time.

  ‘So I went out on the landing and I looked down over the stairs. Miss Morley didn’t like us going down to the hall, not during the master’s business hours, but I thought maybe as I’d see Alfred taking in a patient to the master and I’d call down to him as he came back.’

  Agnes gasped, took a deep breath and went on: ‘And it was then I saw him—that Frank Carter, I mean. Halfway up the stairs he was—our stairs, I mean, above the master’s floor. And he was standing there waiting and looking down—and I’ve come to feel more and more as though there was something queer about it. He seemed to be listening very intent, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘It must have been getting on for half-past twelve, sir. And just as I was thinking: There now, it’s Frank Carter, and Miss Nevill’s away for the day and won’t he be disappointed, and I was wondering if I ought to run down and tell him because it looked as though that lump of an Alfred had forgot, otherwise I thought he wouldn’t have been waiting for her. And just as I was hesitating, Mr Carter, he seemed to make up his mind, and he slipped down the stairs very quick and went along the passage towards the master’s surgery, and I thought to myself, the master won’t like that, and I wondered if there was going to be a row, but just then Emma called me, said whatever was I up to? and I went up again and then, afterwards, I heard the master had shot himself and, of course, it was so awful it just drove everything out of my head. But later, when that Police Inspector had gone I said to Emma, I said, I didn’t say anything about Mr Carter having been up with the master this morning, and she said was he? and I told her, and she said well, perhaps I ought to tell, but anyway I said I’d better wait a bit, and she agreed, because neither of us didn’t want to get Frank Carter into trouble if we could help. And then, when it came to the inquest and it come out that the master had made that mistake in a drug and really had got the wind up and shot himself, quite natural-like—well, then, of course, there was no call to say anything. But reading that piece in the paper two days ago—Oh! it did give me a turn! And I said to myself, “If he’s one of those loonies that thinks they’re persecuted and goes round shooting people, well, then maybe he did shoot the master after all!”

  Her eyes, anxious and scared, looked hopefully at Hercule Poirot. He put as much reassurance into his voice as he could. ‘You may be sure that you have done absolutely the right thing in telling me, Agnes,’ he said. ‘Well, I must say, sir, it does take a load off my mind. You see, I’ve kept saying to myself as perhaps I ought to tell. And then, you see, I thought of getting mixed up with the police and what mother would say. She’s always been so particular about us all…’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Hercule Poirot hastily. He had had, he felt, as much of Agnes’ mother as he could stand for one afternoon.

  II

  Poirot called at Scotland Yard and asked for Japp. When he was taken up to the Chief Inspector’s room: ‘I want to see Carter,’ said Hercule Poirot. Japp shot him a quick, sideways glance.

  He said: ‘What’s the big idea?’

  ‘You are unwilling?’

  Japp shrugged his shoulders. He said: ‘Oh, I shan’t make objections. No good if I did. Who’s the Home Secretary’s little pet? You are. Who’s got half the Cabinet in his pocket? You have. Hushing up their scandals for them.’ Poirot’s mind flew for a moment to that case that he had named the Case of the Augean Stables. He murmured, not without complacence: ‘It was ingenious, yes? You must admit it. Well imagined, let us say.’

  ‘Nobody but you would ever have thought of such a thing! Sometimes, Poirot, I think you haven’t any scruples at all!’ Poirot’s face became suddenly grave. He said: ‘That is not true.’

  ‘Oh, all right, Poirot, I didn’t mean it. But you’re so pleased sometimes with your damned ingenuity. What do you want to see Carter for? To ask him whether he really murdered Morley?’

  To Japp’s surprise, Poirot nodded his head emphatically.

  ‘Yes, my friend, that is exactly the reason.’

  ‘And I suppose you think he’ll tell you if he did?’

  Japp laughed as he spoke. But Hercule Poirot remained grave. He said: ‘He might tell me—yes.’

  Japp looked at him curiously. He said: ‘You know, I’ve known you a long time—twenty years? Something like that. But I still don’t always catch on to what you’re driving at. I know you’ve got a bee in your bonnet about young Frank Carter. For some reason or other, you don’t want him to be guilty—’ Hercule Poirot shook his head energetically.

  ‘No, no, there you are wrong. It is the other way about—’

  ‘I thought perhaps it was on account of that girl of his—the blonde piece. You’re a sentimental old buzzard in some ways—’

  Poirot was immediately indignant. ‘It is not I who am sentimental! That is an English failing! It is in England that they weep over young sweethearts and dying mothers and devoted children. Me, I am logical. If Frank Carter is a killer, then I am certainly not sentimental enough to wish to unite him in marriage to a nice but commonplace girl who, if he is hanged, will forget him in a year or two and find someone else!’

  ‘Then why don’t you want to believe he is guilty?’

  ‘I do want to believe he is guilty.’

  ‘I suppose you mean that you’ve got hold of something which more or less conclusively proves him to be innocent? Why hold it up, then? You ought to play fair with us, Poirot.’

  ‘I am playing fair with you. Presently, very shortly, I will give you the name and address of a witness who will be invaluable to you for the prosecution. Her evidence ought to clinch the case against him.’

  ‘But then—Oh! You’ve got me all tangled up. Why are you so anxious to see him.’

  ‘To satisfy myself,’ said Hercule Poirot. And he would say no more.

  III

  Frank Carter, haggard, white-faced, still feebly inclined to bluster, looked on his unexpected visitor with unconcealed disfavour. He said rudely: ‘So it’s you, you ruddy little foreigner? What do you want?’

  ‘I want to see you and talk to you.’

  ‘Well, you see me all right. But I won’t talk. Not without my lawyer. That’s right, isn’t it? You can’t go against that. I’ve got the right to have my solicitor present before I say a word.’

  ‘Certainly you have. You can send for him if you like—but I should prefer that you did not.’

  ‘I dare say. Think you’re going to trap me into making some damaging admissions, eh?’

  ‘We are quite alone, remember.’

  ‘That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it? Got your police pals listening-in, no doubt.’

  ‘You are wrong. This is a private interview between you and me.’ Frank Carter laughed. He looked cunning and unpleasant. He said: ‘Come off it! You don’t take me in with that old gag.’

  ‘Do you remember a girl called Agnes Fletcher?’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘I think you will remember her, though you may never have taken much notice of her. She was house-parlourmaid at 58, Queen Charlotte Street.’

  ‘Well, what of it?’

  Hercule Poirot said slowly: ‘On the morning of the day that Mr Morley was shot, this girl Agnes happened to look over the banisters from the top floor. She saw you on the stairs—waiting and listening. Presently she saw you go along to Mr Morley’s room. The time was then twenty-six minutes or thereabouts past twelve.’

  Frank Carter trembled violently. Sweat came out on his brow. His eyes, more furtive than ever, went wildly from side to side. He shouted angrily: ‘It’s a lie! It’s a da
mned lie! You’ve paid her—the police have paid her—to say she saw me.’

  ‘At that time,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘by your own account, you had left the house and were walking in the Marylebone Road.’

  ‘So I was. That girl’s lying. She couldn’t have seen me. It’s a dirty plot. If it’s true, why didn’t she say so before?’

  Hercule Poirot said quietly: ‘She did mention it at the time to her friend and colleague the cook. They were worried and puzzled and didn’t know what to do. When a verdict of suicide was brought in they were much relieved and decided that it wasn’t necessary for them to say anything.’

  ‘I don’t believe a word of it! They’re in it together, that’s all. A couple of dirty, lying little…’ He tailed off into furious profanity.

  Hercule Poirot waited. When Carter’s voice at last ceased, Poirot spoke again, still in the same calm, measured voice. ‘Anger and foolish abuse will not help you. These girls are going to tell their story and it is going to be believed. Because, you see, they are telling the truth. The girl, Agnes Fletcher, did see you. You were there, on the stairs, at that time. You had not left the house. And you did go into Mr Morley’s room.’

  He paused and then asked quietly: ‘What happened then?’

  ‘It’s a lie, I tell you!’

  Hercule Poirot felt very tired—very old. He did not like Frank Carter. He disliked him very much. In his opinion Frank Carter was a bully, a liar, a swindler—altogether the type of young man the world could well do without. He, Hercule Poirot, had only to stand back and let this young man persist in his lies and the world would be rid of one of its more unpleasant inhabitants…Hercule Poirot said: ‘I suggest you tell me the truth…’ He realized the issue very clearly. Frank Carter was stupid—but he wasn’t so stupid as not to see that to persist in his denial was his best and safest course. Let him once admit that he had gone into that room at twenty-six minutes past twelve and he was taking a step into grave danger. For after that, any story he told would have a good chance of being considered a lie. Let him persist in his denial, then. If so, Hercule Poirot’s duty would be over. Frank Carter would in all probability be hanged for the murder of Henry Morley—and it might be, justly hanged. Hercule Poirot had only to get up and go. Frank Carter said again: ‘It’s a lie!’

  There was a pause. Hercule Poirot did not get up and go. He would have liked to do so—very much. Nevertheless, he remained. He leaned forward. He said—and his voice held all the compelling power of his powerful personality—‘I am not lying to you. I ask you to believe me. If you did not kill Morley your only hope is to tell me the exact truth of what happened that morning.’ The mean, treacherous face looking at him wavered, became uncertain. Frank Carter pulled at his lip. His eyes went from side to side, terrified, frankly animal eyes. It was touch and go now…Then suddenly, overborne by the strength of the personality confronting him, Frank Carter surrendered. He said hoarsely:

  ‘All right then—I’ll tell you. God curse you if you let me down now! I did go in…I went up the stairs and waited till I could be sure of getting him alone. Waited there, up above Morley’s landing. Then a gent came out and went down—fat gent. I was just making up my mind to go—when another gent came out of Morley’s room and went down too. I knew I’d got to be quick. I went along and nipped into his room without knocking. I was all set to have it out with him. Mucking about, putting my girl against me—damn him—’ He stopped.

  ‘Yes?’ said Hercule Poirot: and his voice was still urgent—compelling—Carter’s voice croaked uncertainly.

  ‘And he was lying there—dead. It’s true! I swear it’s true! Lying just as they said at the inquest. I couldn’t believe it at first. I stooped over him. But he was dead all right. His hand was stone cold and I saw the bullet hole in his head with a hard black crust of blood round it…’ At the memory of it, sweat broke out on his forehead again.

  ‘I saw then I was in a jam. They’d go and say I’d done it. I hadn’t touched anything except his hand and the door-handle. I wiped that with my handkerchief, both sides, as I went out, and I stole downstairs as quickly as I could. There was nobody in the hall and I let myself out and legged it away as fast as I could. No wonder I felt queer.’

  He paused. His scared eyes went to Poirot. ‘That’s the truth. I swear that’s the truth…He was dead already . You’ve got to believe me!’ Poirot got up. He said—and his voice was tired and sad—‘I believe you.’ He moved towards the door. Frank Carter cried out: ‘They’ll hang me—they’ll hang me for a cert if they know I was in there.’ Poirot said: ‘By telling the truth you have saved yourself from being hanged.’

  ‘I don’t see it. They’ll say—’ Poirot interrupted him. ‘Your story has confirmed what I knew to be the truth. You can leave it now to me.’ He went out. He was not at all happy.

  IV

  He reached Mr Barnes’ House at Ealing at 6.45. He remembered that Mr Barnes had called that a good time of day. Mr Barnes was at work in his garden. He said by way of greeting: ‘We need rain, M. Poirot—need it badly.’ He looked thoughtfully at his guest. He said: ‘You don’t look very well, M. Poirot?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘I do not like the things I have to do.’ Mr Barnes nodded his head sympathetically. He said: ‘I know.’ Hercule Poirot looked vaguely round at the neat arrangement of the small beds. He murmured: ‘It is well-planned, this garden. Everything is to scale. It is small but exact.’ Mr Barnes said: ‘When you have only a small place you’ve got to make the most of it. You can’t afford to make mistakes in the planning.’ Hercule Poirot nodded. Barnes went on: ‘I see you’ve got your man?’

  ‘Frank Carter?’

  ‘Yes. I’m rather surprised, really.’

  ‘You did not think that it was, so to speak, a private murder?’

  ‘No. Frankly I didn’t. What with Amberiotis and Alistair Blunt—I made sure that it was one of these Espionage or Counter-Espionage mix-ups.’

  ‘That is the view you expounded to me at our first meeting.’

  ‘I know. I was quite sure of it at the time.’ Poirot said slowly: ‘But you were wrong.’

  ‘Yes. Don’t rub it in. The trouble is, one goes by one’s own experience. I’ve been mixed up in that sort of thing so much I suppose I’m inclined to see it everywhere.’ Poirot said: ‘You have observed in your time a conjurer offer a card, have you not? What is called—forcing a card?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘That is what was done here. Every time that one thinks of a private reason for Morley’s death, hey presto—the card is forced on one. Amberiotis, Alistair Blunt, the unsettled state of politics—of the country—’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘As for you, Mr Barnes, you did more to mislead me than anybody.’

  ‘Oh, I say, Poirot, I’m sorry. I suppose that’s true.’

  ‘You were in a position to know, you see. So your words carried weight.’

  ‘Well—I believed what I said. That’s the only apology I can make.’ He paused and sighed. ‘And all the time, it was a purely private motive?’

  ‘Exactly. It has taken me a long time to see the reason for the murder—although I had one very definite piece of luck.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘A fragment of conversation. Really a very illuminating fragment if only I had had the sense to realize its significance at the time.’

  Mr Barnes scratched his nose thoughtfully with the trowel. A small piece of earth adhered to the side of his nose.

  ‘Being rather cryptic, aren’t you?’ he asked genially.

  Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:

  ‘I am, perhaps, aggrieved that you were not more frank with me.’

  ‘I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My dear fellow—I never had the least idea of Carter’s guilt. As far as I knew, he’d left the house long before Morley was killed. I suppose now they’ve found he didn’t leave when he said he did?’

  Poirot said: ‘
Carter was in the house at twenty-six minutes past twelve. He actually saw the murderer.’

  ‘Then Carter didn’t—’

  ‘Carter saw the murderer, I tell you!’

  Mr Barnes said: ‘Did he recognize him?’

  Slowly Hercule Poirot shook his head.

  Seventeen, Eighteen, Maids in Waiting

  I

  On the following day Hercule Poirot spent some hours with a theatrical agent of his acquaintance. In the afternoon he went to Oxford. On the day after that he drove down to the country—it was late when he returned. He had telephoned before he left to make an appointment with Mr Alistair Blunt for that same evening. It was half-past nine when he reached the Gothic House. Alistair Blunt was alone in his library when Poirot was shown in. He looked an eager question at his visitor as he shook hands. He said: ‘Well?’

  Slowly, Hercule Poirot nodded his head. Blunt looked at him in almost incredulous appreciation. ‘Have you found her?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I have found her.’

  He sat down. And he sighed.

  Alistair Blunt said: ‘You are tired?’

  ‘Yes. I am tired. And it is not pretty—what I have to tell you.’

  Blunt said: ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘That depends,’ said Hercule Poirot slowly, ‘on how you like to look at it.’ Blunt frowned. He said: ‘My dear man, a person must be dead or alive. Miss Sainsbury Seale must be one or the other!’

  ‘Ah, but who is Miss Sainsbury Seale?’

  Alistair Blunt said: ‘You don’t mean that—that there isn’t any such person?’

  ‘Oh no, no. There was such a person. She lived in Calcutta. She taught elocution. She busied herself with good works. She came to England in the Maharanah —the same boat in which Mr Amberiotis travelled. Although they were not in the same class, he helped her over something—some fuss about her luggage. He was, it would seem, a kindly man in little ways. And sometimes, M. Blunt, kindness is repaid in an unexpected fashion. It was so, you know, with M. Amberiotis. He chanced to meet the lady again in the streets of London. He was feeling expansive, he good naturedly invited her to lunch with him at the Savoy. An unexpected treat for her. And an unexpected windfall for M. Amberiotis! For his kindness was not pre-meditated—he had no idea that this faded, middle-aged lady was going to present him with the equivalent of a gold mine. But nevertheless, that is what she did, though she never suspected the fact herself. ‘She was never, you see, of the first order of intelligence. A good, well-meaning soul, but the brain, I should say, of a hen.’ Blunt said: ‘Then it wasn’t she who killed the Chapman woman?’ Poirot said slowly: ‘It is difficult to know just how to present the matter. I shall begin, I think, where the matter began for me. With a shoe!’