Dead Man's Folly hp-31

by Agatha Christie

  Mrs Tucker, wisps of hair hanging over her somewhat hot face, came to the door.

  "What is it?" she demanded sharply. "We don't need…" She paused, a faint look of recognition came across her face. "Why let me see, now, didn't I see you with the police that day?"

  "Alas, Madame, that I have brought back painful memories," said Poirot, stepping firmly inside the door. Mrs Tucker cast a swift agonised glance at his feet, but Poirot's pointed patent leather shoes had only trodden the high road. No mud was being deposited on Mrs Tucker's brightly polished linoleum.

  "Come in, won't you, sir," she said, backing before him, and throwing open the door of a room on her right hand.

  Poirot was ushered into a devastatingly neat little parlour. It smelt of furniture polish and Brasso and contained a large Jacobean suite, a round table, two potted geraniums, an elaborate brass fender, and a large variety of china ornaments.

  "Sit down, sir, do. I can't remember the name. Indeed, I don't think as I ever heard it."

  "My name is Hercule Poirot," said Poirot rapidly. "I found myself once more in this part of the world and I called here to offer you my condolences and to ask you if there had been any developments. I trust the murderer of your daughter has been discovered?"

  "Not sight or sound of him," said Mrs Tucker, speaking with some bitterness. "And 'tis a downright wicked shame if you ask me. 'Tis my opinion the police don't disturb themselves when it's only the likes of us. What's the police anyway? If they'm all like Bob Hoskins I wonder the whole country isn't a mass of crime. All that Bob Hoskins does is spend his time looking into parked cars on the Common."

  At this point, Mr Tucker, his boots removed, appeared through the doorway, walking on his stockinged feet. He was a large, red-faced man with a pacific expression.

  "Police be all right," he said in a husky voice. "Got their troubles just like anyone else. These here maniacs ar'n't so easy to find. Look the same as you or me, if you take my meaning," he added, speaking directly to Poirot.

  The little girl who had opened the door to Poirot appeared behind her father, and a boy of about eight poked his head round her shoulder. They all stared at Poirot with intense interest.

  "This is your younger daughter, I suppose," said Poirot.

  "That's Marilyn, that is," said Mrs Tucker. "And that's Gary. Come and say how do you do, Gary, and mind your manners."

  Gary backed away.

  "Shy-like, he is," said his mother.

  "Very civil of you, I'm sure, sir," said Mr Tucker, "to come and ask about Marlene. Ah, that was a terrible business, to be sure."

  "I have just called upon Mrs Folliat," said M. Poirot. "She, too, seems to feel this very deeply."

  "She's been poorly-like ever since," said Mrs Tucker. "She's an old lady and't was a shock to her, happening as it did at her own place."

  Poirot noted once more everybody's unconscious assumption that Nasse House still belonged to Mrs Folliat.

  "Makes her feel responsible-like in a way," said Mr Tucker, "not that 'twere anything to do with her."

  "Who was it that actually suggested that Marlene should play the victim?" asked Poirot.

  "The lady from London that writes the books," said Mrs Tucker promptly.

  Poirot said mildly:

  "But she was a stranger down here. She did not even know Marlene."

  "'Twas Mrs Masterton what rounded the girls up," said Mrs Tucker, "and I suppose 'twas Mrs Masterton said Marlene was to do it. And Marlene, I must say, was pleased enough at the idea."

  Once again, Poirot felt, he came up against a blank wall. But he knew now what Mrs Oliver had felt when she first sent for him. Someone had been working in the dark, someone who had pushed forward their own desires through other recognised personalities. Mrs Oliver, Mrs Masterton. Those were the figureheads. He said:

  "I have been wondering, Mrs Tucker, whether Marlene was already acquainted with this – er – homicidal maniac."

  "She wouldn't know nobody like that," said Mrs Tucker virtuously.

  "Ah," said Poirot, "but as your husband has just observed, these maniacs are very difficult to spot. They look the same as – er – you and me. Someone may have spoken to Marlene at the fête, or even before it. Made friends with her in a perfectly harmless manner. Given her presents, perhaps."

  "Oh, no, sir, nothing of that kind. Marlene wouldn't take presents from a stranger. I brought her up better than that."

  "But she might see no harm in it," said Poirot, persisting. "Supposing it had been some nice lady who had offered her things."

  "Someone, you mean, like young Mrs Legge down to the Mill Cottage."

  "Yes," said Poirot. "Someone like that."

  "Give Marlene a lipstick once, she did," said Mrs Tucker. "Ever so mad, I was. I won't have you putting that muck on your face, Marlene, I said. Think what your father would say. Well, she says, perky as may be, 'tis the lady down at Lawder's Cottage as give it me. Said as how it would suit me, she did. Well, I said, don't you listen to what no London ladies say. 'Tis all very well for them, painting their faces and blacking their eyelashes and everything else. But you're a decent girl, I said, and you wash your face with soap and water until you're a good deal older than what you are now."

  "But she did not agree with you, I expect," said Poirot, smiling.

  "When I say a thing I mean it," said Mrs Tucker.

  The fat Marilyn suddenly gave an amused giggle. Poirot shot her a keen glance.

  "Did Mrs Legge give Marlene anything else?" he asked.

  "Believe she gave her a scarf or summat – one she hadn't no more use for. A showy sort of thing, but not much quality. I know quality when I see it," said Mrs Tucker, nodding her head. "Used to work at Nasse House as a girl, I did. Proper stuff the ladies wore in those days. No gaudy colours and all this nylon and rayon; real good silk. Why, some of their taffeta dresses would have stood up by themselves."

  "Girls like a bit of finery," said Mr Tucker indulgently. "I don't mind a few bright colours myself, but I won't have this 'ere mucky lipstick."

  "A bit sharp I was with her," said Mrs Tucker, her eyes suddenly misty, "and her gorn in that terrible way. Wished afterwards I hadn't spoken so sharp. Ah, nought but trouble and funerals lately, it seems. Troubles never come singly, so they say, and 'tis true enough."

  "You have had other losses?" inquired Poirot politely.

  "The wife's father," explained Mr Tucker. "Come across the ferry in his boat from the Three Dogs late at night, and must have missed his footing getting on to the quay and fallen in the river. Of course he ought to have stayed quiet at home at his age. But there, yu can't do anything with the old 'uns. Always pottering about on the quay, he was."

  "Father was a great one for the boats always," said Mrs Tucker. "Used to look after them in the old days for Mr Folliat, years and years ago that was. Not," she added brightly, "as father's much loss, as you might say. Well over ninety, he was, and trying in many of his ways. Always babbling some nonsense or other. 'Twas time he went. But, of course, us had to bury him nice – and two funerals running costs a lot of money."

  These economic reflections passed Poirot by – a faint remembrance was stirring.

  "An old man – on the quay? I remember talking to him. Was his name -?"

  "Merdell, sir. That was my name before I married."

  "Your father, if I remember rightly, was head gardener at Nasse?"

  "No, that was my eldest brother. I was the youngest of the family – eleven of us, there were." She added with some pride. "There's been Merdells at Nasse for years, but they're all scattered now. Father was the last of us."

  Poirot said softly:

  "There'll always be Folliats at Nasse House."

  "I beg your pardon, sir?"

  "I am repeating what your old father said to me on the quay."

  "Ah, talked a lot of nonsense, father did. I had to shut him up pretty sharp now and then."

  "So Marlene was Merdell's granddaughter," said Poirot. "Y
es, I begin to see." He was silent for a moment, an immense excitement was surging within him. "Your father was drowned, you say, in the river?"

  "Yes, sir. Took a drop too much, he did. And where he got the money from, I don't know. Of course he used to get tips now and again on the quay helping people with boats or with parking their cars. Very cunning he was at hiding his money from me. Yes, I'm afraid as he'd had a drop too much. Missed his footing, I'd say, getting off his boat on to the quay. So he fell in and was drowned. His body was washed up down to Helmmouth the next day. 'Tis a wonder, as you might say, that it never happened before, him being ninety-two and half blinded anyway."

  "The fact remains that it did not happen before -"

  "Ah, well, accidents happen, sooner or later -"

  "Accident," mused Poirot. "I wonder."

  He got up. He murmured:

  "I should have guessed. Guessed long ago. The child practically told me -"

  "I beg your pardon, sir?"

  "It is nothing," said Poirot. "Once more I tender you my condolences both on the death of your daughter and on that of your father."

  He shook hands with them both and left the cottage. He said to himself:

  "I have been foolish – very foolish. I have looked at everything the wrong way round."

  "Hi – mister."

  It was a cautious whisper. Poirot looked round. The fat child Marilyn was standing in the shadow of the cottage wall. She beckoned him to her and spoke in a whisper.

  "Mum don't know everything," she said. "Marlene didn't get that scarf off of the lady down at the cottage."

  "Where did she get it?"

  "Bought it in Torquay. Bought some lipstick, too, and some scent – Newt in Paris – funny name. And a jar of foundation cream, what she'd read about in an advertisement." Marilyn giggled. "Mum doesn't know. Hid it at the back of her drawer, Marlene did, under her winter vests. Used to go into the convenience at the bus stop and do herself up, when she went to the pictures."

  Marilyn giggled again.

  "Mum never knew."

  "Didn't your mother find these things after your sister died?"

  Marilyn shook her fair fluffy head.

  "No," she said. "I got 'em now – in my drawer. Mum doesn't know."

  Poirot eyed her consideringly, and said:

  "You seem a very clever girl, Marilyn."

  Marilyn grinned rather sheepishly.

  "Miss Bird says it's no good my trying for the grammar school."

  "Grammar school is not everything," said Poirot. "Tell me, how did Marlene get the money to buy these things?"

  Marilyn looked with close attention at a drainpipe.

  "Dunno," she muttered.

  "I think you do know," said Poirot.

  Shamelessly he drew out a half-crown from his pocket and added another half-crown to it.

  "I believe," he said, "there is a new, very attractive shade of lipstick called 'Carmine Kiss.'"

  "Sounds smashing," said Marilyn, her hand advanced towards the five shillings. She spoke in a rapid whisper. "She used to snoop about a bit, Marlene did. Used to see goings-on – you know what. Marlene would promise not to tell and then they'd give her a present, see?"

  Poirot relinquished the five shillings.

  "I see," he said.

  He nodded to Marilyn and walked away. He murmured again under his breath, but this time with intensified meaning:

  "I see."

  So many things now fell into place. Not all of it. Not clear yet by any means – but he was on the right track. A perfectly clear trail all the way if only he had had the wit to see it. That first conversation with Mrs Oliver, some casual words of Michael Weyman's, the significant conversation with old Merdell on the quay, an illuminating phrase spoken by Miss Brewis – the arrival of Etienne De Sousa.

  A public telephone box stood adjacent to the village post office. He entered it and rang up a number. A few minutes later he was speaking to Inspector Bland.

  "Well, M. Poirot, where are you?"

  "I am here, in Nassecombe."

  "But you were in London yesterday afternoon?"

  "It only takes three and a half hours to come here by a good train," Poirot pointed out. "I have a question for you."

  "Yes?"

  "What kind of a yacht did Etienne De Sousa have?"

  "Maybe I can guess what you're thinking, M. Poirot, but I assure you there was nothing of that kind. It wasn't fitted up for smuggling if that's what you mean. There were no fancy hidden partitions or secret cubbyholes. We'd have found them if there had been. There was nowhere on it you could have stowed away a body."

  "You are wrong, mon cher, that is not what I mean. I only asked what kind of a yacht, big or small?"

  "Oh, it was very fancy. Must have cost the earth. All very smart, newly painted, luxury fittings."

  "Exactly," said Poirot. He sounded so pleased that Inspector Bland felt quite surprised.

  "What are you getting at, M. Poirot?" he asked.

  "Etienne De Sousa," said Poirot, "is a rich man. That, my friend, is very significant."

  "Why?" demanded Inspector Bland.

  "It fits in with my latest idea," said Poirot.

  "You've got an idea, then?"

  "Yes. At last I have an idea. Up to now I have been very stupid."

  "You mean we've all been very stupid."

  "No," said Poirot, "I mean specially myself. I had the good fortune to have a perfectly clear trail presented to me, and I did not see it."

  "But now you're definitely on to something?"

  "I think so, yes."

  "Look here, M. Poirot -"

  But Poirot had rung off. After searching his pockets for available change, he put through a personal call to Mrs Oliver at her London number.

  "But do not," he hastened to add, when he made his demand, "disturb the lady to answer the telephone if she is at work."

  He remembered how bitterly Mrs Oliver had once reproached him for interrupting a train of creative thought and how the world in consequence had been deprived of an intriguing mystery centring round an old-fashioned long-sleeved woollen vest. The exchange, however, was unable to appreciate his scruples.

  "Well," it demanded, "do you want a personal call or don't you?"

  "I do," said Poirot, sacrificing Mrs Oliver's creative genius upon the altar of his own impatience. He was relieved when Mrs Oliver spoke. She interrupted his apologies.

  "It's splendid that you've rung me up," she said. "I was just going out to give a talk on How I Write My Books. Now I can get my secretary to ring up and say I am unavoidably detained."

  "But, Madame, you must not let me prevent -"

  "It's not a case of preventing," said Mrs Oliver joyfully. "I'd have made the most awful fool of myself. I mean, what can you say about how you write books? What I mean is, first you've got to think of something, and when you've thought of it you've got to force yourself to sit down and write it. That's all. It would have taken me just three minutes to explain that, and then the Talk would have been ended and everyone would have been very fed up. I can't imagine why everybody is always so keen for authors to talk about writing. I should have thought it was an author's business to write, not talk."

  "And yet it is about how you write that I want to ask you."

  "You can ask," said Mrs Oliver; "but I probably shan't know the answer. I mean one just sits down and writes. Half a minute, I've got a frightfully silly hat on for the Talk – and I must take it off. It scratches my forehead." There was a momentary pause and then the voice of Mrs Oliver resumed in a relieved voice, "Hats are really only a symbol, nowadays, aren't they? I mean, one doesn't wear them for sensible reasons any more; to keep one's head warm, or shield one from the sun, or hide one's face from people one doesn't want to meet. I beg your pardon, M. Poirot, did you say something?"

  "It was an ejaculation only. It is extraordinary," said Poirot, and his voice was awed. "Always you give me ideas. So also did my friend Hastings whom I have
not seen for many, many years. You have given me now the clue to yet another piece of my problem. But no more of all that. Let me ask you instead my question. Do you know an atom scientist, Madame?"

  "Do I know an atom scientist?" said Mrs Oliver in a surprised voice. "I don't know. I suppose I may. I mean, I know some professors and things. I'm never quite sure what they actually do."

  "Yet you made an atom scientist one of the suspects in your Murder Hunt?"

  "Oh, that! That was just to be up to date. I mean, when I went to buy presents for my nephews last Christmas, there was nothing but science fiction and the stratosphere and supersonic toys, and so I thought when I started on the Murder Hunt, 'Better have an atom scientist as the chief suspect and be modern.' After all, if I'd needed a little technical jargon for it I could always have got it from Alec Legge."

  "Alec Legge – the husband of Sally Legge? Is he an atom scientist?"

  "Yes, he is. Not Harwell. Wales somewhere. Cardiff. Or Bristol, is it? It's just a holiday cottage they have on the Helm. Yes, so, of course, I do know an atom scientist after all."

  "And it was meeting him at Nasse House that probably put the idea of an atom scientist into your head? But his wife is not Yugoslavian."

  "Oh, no," said Mrs Oliver, "Sally is English as English. Surely you realise that?"

  "Then what put the idea of the Yugoslavian wife into your head?"

  "I really don't know… Refugees perhaps? Students? All those foreign girls at the hostel trespassing through the woods and speaking broken English."

  "I see… Yes, I see now a lot of things."

  "It's about time," said Mrs Oliver.

  "Pardon?"

  "I said it was about time," said Mrs Oliver. "That you did see things, I mean. Up to now you don't seem to have done anything" Her voice held reproach.

  "One cannot arrive at things all in a moment," said Poirot, defending himself. "The police," he added, "have been completely baffled."

  "Oh, the police," said Mrs Oliver. "Now if a woman were the head of Scotland Yard…"

  Recognising this well-known phrase, Poirot hastened to interrupt.

  "The matter has been complex," he said. "Extremely complex. But now – I tell you this in confidence – but now I arrive!"

  Mrs Oliver remained unimpressed.