IV
As they went down the stairs again to No. 42, Japp ejaculated with feeling: “Shades of Phillips Oppenheim, Valentine Williams and William le Queux, I think I’m going mad!”
That smart young man, Sergeant Beddoes, was waiting for them.
He said respectfully:
“Haven’t been able to get anything helpful from the maid, sir. Mrs. Chapman changed maids pretty often, it seems. This one only worked for her for a month or two. She says Mrs. Chapman was a nice lady, fond of the radio and pleasant spoken. Girl was of the opinion the husband was a gay deceiver but that Mrs. Chapman didn’t suspect it. She got letters from abroad sometimes, some from Germany, two from America, one from Italy and one from Russia. The girl’s young man collects stamps, and Mrs. Chapman used to give them to her off the letters.”
“Anything among Mrs. Chapman’s papers?”
“Absolutely nothing, sir. She didn’t keep much. A few bills and receipted accounts—all local. Some old theatre programmes, one or two cookery recipes cut out of the papers, and a pamphlet about Zenana Missions.”
“And we can guess who brought that here. She doesn’t sound like a murderess, does she? And yet that’s what it seems to be. She’s bound to be an accomplice anyway. No strange men seen about that evening?”
“The porter doesn’t remember any—but then I don’t suppose he would by now, and anyway it’s a big block of flats—people always going in and out. He can only fix the date of Miss Sainsbury Seale’s visit because he was taken off to the hospital the next day and was actually feeling rather bad that evening.”
“Anybody in the other flats hear anything out of the way?”
The younger man shook his head.
“I’ve inquired at the flat above this and the one below. Nobody can remember hearing anything unusual. Both of them had their radios on, I gather.”
The divisional surgeon came out of the bathroom where he had been washing his hands.
“Most unsavoury corpse,” he said cheerfully. “Send her along when you’re ready and I’ll get down to brass tacks.”
“No idea of the cause of death, doctor?”
“Impossible to say until I’ve done the autopsy. Those face injuries were definitely inflicted after death, I should say. But I shall know better when I’ve got her at the mortuary. Middle-aged woman, quite healthy—grey hair at the roots but tinted blonde. There may be distinguishing marks on the body—if there isn’t, it may be a job to identify her—oh, you know who she is, splendid? What? Missing woman there’s been all the fuss about? Well, you know, I never read the papers. Just do the crosswords.”
Japp said bitterly:
“And that’s publicity for you!” as the doctor went out.
Poirot was hovering over the desk. He picked up a small brown address book.
The indefatigable Beddoes said:
“Nothing of special interest there—most hairdressers, dressmakers, etc. I’ve noted down any private names and addresses.”
Poirot opened the book at the letter D.
He read:
Dr. Davis, 17, Prince Albert Road,
Drake and Pomponetti, Fishmongers.
And below it:
Dentist. Mr. Morley, 58, Queen Charlotte Street.
There was a green light in Poirot’s eyes. He said:
“There will be no difficulty, I imagine, in positively identifying the body.”
Japp looked at him curiously. He said:
“Surely—you don’t imagine—?”
Poirot said with vehemence:
“I want to be sure.”
V
Miss Morley had moved to the country. She was living in a small country cottage near Hertford.
The Grenadier greeted Poirot amicably. Since her brother’s death her face had perhaps grown slightly grimmer, her carriage more upright, her general attitude towards life more unyielding. She resented bitterly the slur cast upon her brother’s professional name by the findings of the inquest.
Poirot, she had reason to believe, shared the view that the verdict of the Coroner’s inquest was untrue. Hence the Grenadier unbent a little.
She answered his questions readily enough and with competence. All Mr. Morley’s professional papers had been carefully filed by Miss Nevill and had been handed over by her to Mr. Morley’s successor. Some of the patients had transferred themselves to Mr. Reilly, others had accepted the new partner, others again had gone to other dentists elsewhere.
Miss Morley, after she had given what information she could, said:
“So you have found that woman who was Henry’s patient—Miss Sainsbury Seale—and she was murdered too.”
The “too” was a little defiant. She stressed the word.
Poirot said:
“Your brother never mentioned Miss Sainsbury Seale particularly to you?”
“No, I don’t remember his doing so. He would tell me if he had had a particularly trying patient, or if one of his patients had said something amusing he would pass it on to me, but we didn’t usually talk about his work much. He was glad to forget it when the day was over. He was very tired sometimes.”
“Do you remember hearing of a Mrs. Chapman amongst your brother’s patients?”
“Chapman? No, I don’t think so. Miss Nevill is really the person to help you over all this.”
“I am anxious to get in touch with her. Where is she now?”
“She has taken a post with a dentist in Ramsgate, I believe.”
“She has not married that young man Frank Carter yet?”
“No. I rather hope that will never come off. I don’t like that young man, M. Poirot. I really don’t. There is something wrong about him. I still feel that he hasn’t really any proper moral sense.”
Poirot said:
“Do you think it is possible that he could have shot your brother?”
Miss Morley said slowly:
“I do feel perhaps that he would be capable of it—he has a very uncontrollable temper. But I don’t really see that he had any motive—nor opportunity for that matter. You see, it wasn’t as though Henry had succeeded in persuading Gladys to give him up. She was sticking to him in the most faithful way.”
“Could he have been bribed, do you think?”
“Bribed? To kill my brother? What an extraordinary idea!”
A nice-looking dark-haired girl brought in the tea at this moment. As she closed the door behind her again, Poirot said:
“That girl was with you in London, was she not?”
“Agnes? Yes, she was house-parlourmaid. I let the cook go—she didn’t want to come to the country anyway—and Agnes does everything for me. She is turning into quite a nice little cook.”
Poirot nodded.
He knew very accurately the domestic arrangements of 58, Queen Charlotte Street. They had been thoroughly gone into at the time of the tragedy. Mr. Morley and his sister had occupied the two top floors of the house as a maisonette. The basement had been shut up altogether except for a narrow passage leading from the area to the back yard where a wire cage ran up to the top floor with the tradesmen’s deliveries and where a speaking tube was installed. Therefore the only entrance to the house was by the front door which it was Alfred’s business to answer. This had enabled the police to be sure that no outsider could have entered the house on that particular morning.
Both cook and house-parlourmaid had been with the Morleys for some years and bore good characters. So, although it was theoretically possible that one or the other of them might have crept down to the second floor and shot her master, the possibility had never been taken seriously into account. Neither of the two had appeared unduly flustered or upset at being questioned, and there certainly seemed no possible reason for connecting either of them with his death.
Nevertheless, as Agnes handed Poirot his hat and stick on leaving, she asked him with an unusually nervous abruptness:
“Does—does anyone know anything more about the master’s death, sir?�
�
Poirot turned to look at her. He said:
“Nothing fresh has come to light.”
“They’re still quite sure as he did shoot himself because he’d made a mistake with that drug?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
Agnes pleated her apron. Her face was averted. She said rather indistinctly:
“The—the mistress doesn’t think so.”
“And you agree with her, perhaps?”
“Me? Oh, I don’t know nothing, sir. I only—I only wanted to be sure.”
Hercule Poirot said in his most gentle voice:
“It would be a relief to you to feel beyond any possible doubt that it was suicide?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Agnes agreed quickly, “it would indeed.”
“For a special reason, perhaps?”
Her startled eyes met his. She shrank back a little.
“I—I don’t know anything about it, sir. I only just asked.”
“But why did she ask?” Hercule Poirot demanded of himself, as he walked down the path to the gate.
He felt sure that there was an answer to that question. But as yet he could not guess what it was.
All the same, he felt a step nearer.
VI
When Poirot returned to his flat he was surprised to find an unexpected visitor waiting for him.
A bald head was visible above the back of a chair, and the small neat figure of Mr. Barnes rose to his feet.
With eyes that twinkled as usual, he made a dry little apology.
He had come, he explained, to return M. Hercule Poirot’s visit.
Poirot professed himself delighted to see Mr. Barnes.
George was instructed to bring some coffee unless his visitor preferred tea or whisky and soda?
“Coffee will be admirable,” said Mr. Barnes. “I imagine that your manservant prepares it well. Most English servants do not.”
Presently, after a few interchanges of polite remarks, Mr. Barnes gave a little cough and said:
“I will be frank with you, M. Poirot. It was sheer curiosity that brought me here. You, I imagined, would be well posted in all the details of this rather curious case. I see by the papers that the missing Miss Sainsbury Seale has been found. That an inquest was held and adjourned for further evidence. Cause of death was stated to have been an overdose of medinal.”
“That is quite correct,” said Poirot.
There was a pause and then Poirot asked:
“Have you ever heard of Albert Chapman, Mr. Barnes?”
“Ah, the husband of the lady in whose flat Miss Sainsbury Seale came to die? Rather an elusive person, it would seem.”
“But hardly nonexistent?”
“Oh no,” said Mr. Barnes. “He exists. Oh yes, he exists—or did exist. I had heard he was dead. But you can’t trust these rumours.”
“Who was he, Mr. Barnes?”
“I don’t suppose they’ll say at the inquest. Not if they can help it. They’ll trot out the armaments firm traveller story.”
“He was in the Secret Service then?”
“Of course he was. But he had no business to tell his wife so—no business at all. In fact he ought not to have continued in the Service after his marriage. It isn’t usually done—not, that is, when you’re one of the really hush-hush people.”
“And Albert Chapman was?”
“Yes. Q.X.912. That’s what he was known as. Using a name is most irregular. Oh, I don’t mean that Q.X.912 was specially important—or anything of that kind. But he was useful because he was an insignificant kind of chap—the kind whose face isn’t easily remembered. He was used a lot as a messenger up and down Europe. You know the sort of thing. One dignified letter sent via our Ambassador in Ruritania—one unofficial ditto containing the dirt per Q.X.912—that is to say: Mr. Albert Chapman.”
“Then he knew a lot of useful information?”
“Probably didn’t know a thing,” said Mr. Barnes cheerfully. “His job was just hopping in and out of trains and boats and aero-planes and having the right story to explain why he was going where he was going!”
“And you heard he was dead?”
“That’s what I heard,” said Mr. Barnes. “But you can’t believe all you hear. I never do.”
Looking at Mr. Barnes intently, Poirot asked:
“What do you think has happened to his wife?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Mr. Barnes. He looked, wide-eyed at Poirot. “Can you?”
Poirot said:
“I had an idea—” He stopped.
He said slowly:
“It is very confusing.”
Mr. Barnes murmured sympathetically: “Anything worrying you in particular?”
Hercule Poirot said slowly:
“Yes. The evidence of my own eyes….”
VII
Japp came into Poirot’s sitting room and slammed down his bowler hat with such force that the table rocked.
He said:
“What the devil made you think of it?”
“My good Japp, I do not know what you are talking about.”
Japp said slowly and forcefully:
“What gave you the idea that the body wasn’t Miss Sainsbury Seale’s body?”
Poirot looked worried. He said:
“It was the face that worried me. Why smash up a dead woman’s face?”
Japp said:
“My word, I hope old Morley’s somewhere where he can know about it. It’s just possible, you know, that he was put out of the way on purpose—so that he couldn’t give evidence.”
“It would certainly be better if he could have given evidence himself.”
“Leatheran will be all right. Morley’s successor. He’s a thoroughly capable man with a good manner and the evidence is unmistakable.”
The evening papers came out with a sensation the next day. The dead body found in the Battersea flat, believed to be that of Miss Sainsbury Seale, was positively identified as that of Mrs. Albert Chapman.
Mr. Leatheran, of 58, Queen Charlotte Street, unhesitatingly pronounced it to be Mrs. Chapman on the evidence of the teeth and jaw, full particulars of which were recorded in the late Mr. Morley’s professional chart.
Miss Sainsbury Seale’s clothes had been found on the body and Miss Sainsbury Seale’s handbag with the body—but where was Miss Sainsbury Seale herself?
NINE, TEN, A GOOD FAT HEN
I
As they came away from the inquest Japp said jubilantly to Poirot:
“A smart piece of work, that. Gave ’em a sensation!”
Poirot nodded.
“You tumbled to it first,” said Japp, “but, you know, I wasn’t happy about that body myself. After all, you don’t go smashing a dead person’s face and head about for nothing. It’s messy, unpleasant work, and it was pretty plain there must be some reason for it. And there’s only one reason there could be—to confuse the identity.” He added generously: “But I shouldn’t have tumbled so quickly to the fact that it actually was the other woman.”
Poirot said with a smile:
“And yet, my friend, the actual descriptions of the women were not unlike as regards fundamentals. Mrs. Chapman was a smart, good-looking woman, well made up and fashionably turned out. Miss Sainsbury Seale was dowdy and innocent of lipstick or rouge. But the essentials were the same. Both were women of forty odd. Both were roughly about the same height and build. Both had hair turning grey which they touched up to make it appear golden.”
“Yes, of course, when you put it like that. One thing we’ve got to admit—the fair Mabelle put it over on both of us, good and proper. I’d have sworn she was the genuine article.”
“But, my friend, she was the genuine article. We know all about her past life.”
“We didn’t know she was capable of murder—and that’s what it looks like now. Sylvia didn’t murder Mabelle. Mabelle murdered Sylvia.”
Hercule Poirot shook his head in a worried fashion. He still found it difficult
to reconcile Mabelle Sainsbury Seale with murder. Yet in his ears he heard the small, ironic voice of Mr. Barnes:
“Look among the respectable people….”
Mabelle Sainsbury Seale had been eminently respectable.
Japp said with emphasis:
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this case, Poirot. That woman isn’t going to put it over on me.”
II
The following day, Japp rang up. His voice held a curious note.
He said:
“Poirot, do you want to hear a piece of news? It’s napoo, my lad. Napoo!”
“Pardon?—the line is perhaps not very clear. I did not quite catch—”
“It’s off, my boy. O.F.F. Call it a day! Sit down and twiddle our thumbs!”
There was no mistaking the bitterness now. Poirot was startled.
“What is off?”
“The whole ruddy blinking thing! The hue and cry! The publicity! The whole bag of tricks!”
“But I still do not understand.”
“Well, listen. Listen carefully, because I can’t mention names very well. You know our inquiry? You know we’re combing the country for a performing fish?”
“Yes, yes, perfectly. I comprehend now.”
“Well, that’s been called off. Hushed up—kept mum. Now do you understand?”
“Yes, yes. But why?”
“Orders from the ruddy Foreign Office.”
“Is not that very extraordinary?”
“Well, it does happen now and again.”
“Why should they be so forbearing to Miss—to the performing fish?”
“They’re not. They don’t care tuppence about her. It’s the publicity—if she’s brought to trial too much might come out about Mrs. A. C. The corpse. That’s the hush-hush side! I can only suppose that the ruddy husband—Mr. A. C.—Get me?”
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