‘You do understand, don’t you, that there’s no earthly reason for suspecting Marshall of defalcation.’
‘Oh, parfaitement, parfaitement! It might be an affair of a forged cheque with someone in the household involved. This young Mr Dalehouse, who is he?’
‘A nephew.’
‘He will inherit, yes?’
‘He’s a sister’s son. Of course he might take the name—there’s not a Lytcham Roche left.’
‘I see.’
‘The place isn’t actually entailed, though it’s always gone from father to son. I’ve always imagined that he’d leave the place to his wife for her lifetime and then perhaps to Diana if he approved of her marriage. You see, her husband could take the name.’
‘I comprehend,’ said Poirot. ‘You have been most kind and helpful to me, monsieur. May I ask of you one thing further—to explain to Madame Lytcham Roche all that I have told you, and to beg of her that she accord me a minute?’
Sooner than he had thought likely, the door opened and Mrs Lytcham Roche entered. She floated to a chair.
‘Mr Barling has explained everything to me,’ she said. ‘We mustn’t have any scandal, of course. Though I do feel really it’s fate, don’t you? I mean with the mirror and everything.’
‘Comment—the mirror?’
‘The moment I saw it—it seemed a symbol. Of Hubert! A curse, you know. I think old families have a curse very often. Hubert was always very strange. Lately he has been stranger than ever.’
‘You will forgive me for asking, madame, but you are not in any way short of money?’
‘Money? I never think of money.’
‘Do you know what they say, madame? Those who never think of money need a great deal of it.’
He ventured a tiny laugh. She did not respond. Her eyes were far away.
‘I thank you, madame,’ he said, and the interview came to an end.
Poirot rang, and Digby answered.
‘I shall require you to answer a few questions,’ said Poirot. ‘I am a private detective sent for by your master before he died.’
‘A detective!’ the butler gasped. ‘Why?’
‘You will please answer my questions. As to the shot now—’
He listened to the butler’s account.
‘So there were four of you in the hall?’
‘Yes, sir; Mr Dalehouse and Miss Ashby and Mr Keene came from the drawing room.’
‘Where were the others?’
‘The others, sir?’
‘Yes, Mrs Lytcham Roche, Miss Cleves and Mr Barling.’
‘Mrs Lytcham Roche and Mr Barling came down later, sir.’
‘And Miss Cleves?’
‘I think Miss Cleves was in the drawing room, sir.’
Poirot asked a few more questions, then dismissed the butler with the command to request Miss Cleves to come to him.
She came immediately, and he studied her attentively in view of Barling’s revelations. She was certainly beautiful in her white satin frock with the rosebud on the shoulder.
He explained the circumstances which had brought him to Lytcham Close, eyeing her very closely, but she showed only what seemed to be genuine astonishment, with no signs of uneasiness. She spoke of Marshall indifferently with tepid approval. Only at mention of Barling did she approach animation.
‘That man’s a crook,’ she said sharply. ‘I told the Old Man so, but he wouldn’t listen—went on putting money into his rotten concerns.’
‘Are you sorry, mademoiselle, that your—father is dead?’
She stared at him.
‘Of course. I’m modern, you know, M. Poirot. I don’t indulge in sob stuff. But I was fond of the Old Man. Though, of course, it’s best for him.’
‘Best for him?’
‘Yes. One of these days he would have had to be locked up. It was growing on him—this belief that the last Lytcham Roche of Lytcham Close was omnipotent.’
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
‘I see, I see—yes, decided signs of mental trouble. By the way, you permit that I examine your little bag? It is charming—all these silk rosebuds. What was I saying? Oh, yes, did you hear the shot?’
‘Oh, yes! But I thought it was a car or a poacher, or something.’
‘You were in the drawing room?’
‘No. I was out in the garden.’
‘I see. Thank you, mademoiselle. Next I would like to see M. Keene, is it not?’
‘Geoffrey? I’ll send him along.’
Keene came in, alert and interested.
‘Mr Barling has been telling me of the reason for your being down here. I don’t know that there’s anything I can tell you, but if I can—’
Poirot interrupted him. ‘I only want to know one thing, Monsieur Keene. What was it that you stooped and picked up just before we got to the study door this evening?’
‘I—’ Keene half sprang up from his chair, then subsided again. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said lightly.
‘Oh, I think you do, monsieur. You were behind me, I know, but a friend of mine he says I have eyes in the back of my head. You picked up something and you put it in the right hand pocket of your dinner jacket.’
There was a pause. Indecision was written plainly on Keene’s handsome face. At last he made up his mind.
‘Take your choice, M. Poirot,’ he said, and leaning forward he turned his pocket inside out. There was a cigarette holder, a handkerchief, a tiny silk rosebud, and a little gold match box.
A moment’s silence and then Keene said, ‘As a matter of fact it was this.’ He picked up the match box. ‘I must have dropped it earlier in the evening.’
‘I think not,’ said Poirot.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say. I, monsieur, am a man of tidiness, of method, of order. A match box on the ground, I should see it and pick it up—a match box of this size, assuredly I should see it! No, monsieur, I think it was something very much smaller—such as this, perhaps.’
He picked up the little silk rosebud.
‘From Miss Cleve’s bag, I think?’
There was a moment’s pause, then Keene admitted it with a laugh.
‘Yes, that’s so. She—gave it to me last night.’
‘I see,’ said Poirot, and at the moment the door opened and a tall fair-haired man in a lounge suit strode into the room.
‘Keene—what’s all this? Lytcham Roche shot himself? Man, I can’t believe it. It’s incredible.’
‘Let me introduce you,’ said Keene, ‘to M. Hercule Poirot.’ The other started. ‘He will tell you all about it.’ And he left the room, banging the door.
‘M. Poirot—’ John Marshall was all eagerness ‘—I’m most awfully pleased to meet you. It is a bit of luck your being down here. Lytcham Roche never told me you were coming. I’m a most frightful admirer of yours, sir.’
A disarming young man, thought Poirot—not so young, either, for there was grey hair at the temples and lines in the forehead. It was the voice and manner that gave the impression of boyishness.
‘The police—’
‘They are here now, sir. I came up with them on hearing the news. They don’t seem particularly surprised. Of course, he was mad as a hatter, but even then—’
‘Even then you are surprised at his committing suicide?’
‘Frankly, yes. I shouldn’t have thought that—well, that Lytcham Roche could have imagined the world getting on without him.’
‘He has had money troubles of late, I understand?’
Marshall nodded.
‘He speculated. Wildcat schemes of Barling’s.’
Poirot said quietly, ‘I will be very frank. Had you any reason to suppose that Mr Lytcham Roche suspected you of tampering with your accounts?’
Marshall stared at Poirot in a kind of ludicrous bewilderment. So ludicrous was it that Poirot was forced to smile.
‘I see that you are utterly taken aback, Captain Marshall.’
‘Yes, indeed.
The idea’s ridiculous.’
‘Ah! Another question. He did not suspect you of robbing him of his adopted daughter?’
‘Oh, so you know about me and Di?’ He laughed in an embarrassed fashion.
‘It is so, then?’
Marshall nodded.
‘But the old man didn’t know anything about it. Di wouldn’t have him told. I suppose she was right. He’d have gone up like a—a basketful of rockets. I should have been chucked out of a job, and that would have been that.’
‘And instead what was your plan?’
‘Well, upon my word, sir, I hardly know. I left things to Di. She said she’d fix it. As a matter of fact I was looking out for a job. If I could have got one I would have chucked this up.’
‘And mademoiselle would have married you? But M. Lytcham Roche might have stopped her allowance. Mademoiselle Diana is, I should say, fond of money.’
Marshall looked rather uncomfortable.
‘I’d have tried to make it up to her, sir.’
Geoffrey Keene came into the room. ‘The police are just going and would like to see you, M. Poirot.’
‘Merci. I will come.’
In the study were a stalwart inspector and the police surgeon.
‘Mr Poirot?’ said the inspector. ‘We’ve heard of you, sir. I’m Inspector Reeves.’
‘You are most amiable,’ said Poirot, shaking hands. ‘You do not need my co-operation, no?’ He gave a little laugh.
‘Not this time, sir. All plain sailing.’
‘The case is perfectly straightforward, then?’ demanded Poirot.
‘Absolutely. Door and window locked, key of door in dead man’s pocket. Manner very strange the past few days. No doubt about it.’
‘Everything quite—natural?’
The doctor grunted.
‘Must have been sitting at a damned queer angle for the bullet to have hit that mirror. But suicide’s a queer business.’
‘You found the bullet?’
‘Yes, here.’ The doctor held it out. ‘Near the wall below the mirror. Pistol was Mr Roche’s own. Kept it in the drawer of the desk always. Something behind it all, I daresay, but what that is we shall never know.’
Poirot nodded.
The body had been carried to a bedroom. The police now took their leave. Poirot stood at the front door looking after them. A sound made him turn. Harry Dalehouse was close behind him.
‘Have you, by any chance, a strong flashlight, my friend?’ asked Poirot.
‘Yes, I’ll get it for you.’
When he returned with it Joan Ashby was with him.
‘You may accompany me if you like,’ said Poirot graciously.
He stepped out of the front door and turned to the right, stopping before the study window. About six feet of grass separated it from the path. Poirot bent down, playing the flashlight on the grass. He straightened himself and shook his head.
‘No,’ he said, ‘not there.’
Then he paused and slowly his figure stiffened. On either side of the grass was a deep flower border. Poirot’s attention was focused on the right hand border, full of Michaelmas daisies and dahlias. His torch was directed on the front of the bed. Distinct on the soft mould were footprints.
‘Four of them,’ murmured Poirot. ‘Two going toward the window, two coming from it.’
‘A gardener,’ suggested Joan.
‘But no, mademoiselle, but no. Employ your eyes. These shoes are small, dainty, high-heeled, the shoes of a woman. Mademoiselle Diana mentioned having been out in the garden. Do you know if she went downstairs before you did, mademoiselle?’
Joan shook her head.
‘I can’t remember. I was in such a hurry because the gong went, and I thought I’d heard the first one. I do seem to remember that her room door was open as I went past, but I’m not sure. Mrs Lytcham Roche’s was shut, I know.’
‘I see,’ said Poirot.
Something in his voice made Harry look up sharply, but Poirot was merely frowning gently to himself.
In the doorway they met Diana Cleves.
‘The police have gone,’ she said. ‘It’s all—over.’
She gave a deep sigh.
‘May I request one little word with you, mademoiselle?’
She led the way into the morning room, and Poirot followed, shutting the door.
‘Well?’ She looked a little surprised.
‘One little question, mademoiselle. Were you tonight at any time in the flower border outside the study window?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘About seven o’clock and again just before dinner.’
‘I do not understand,’ he said.
‘I can’t see that there is anything to “understand”, as you call it,’ she said coldly. ‘I was picking Michaelmas daisies—for the table. I always do the flowers. That was about seven o’clock.’
‘And afterward—later?’
‘Oh, that! As a matter of fact I dropped a spot of hair oil on my dress—just on the shoulder here. It was just as I was ready to come down. I didn’t want to change the dress. I remembered I’d seen a late rose in bud in the border. I ran out and picked it and pinned it in. See—’ She came close to him and lifted the head of the rose. Poirot saw the minute grease spot. She remained close to him, her shoulder almost brushing his.
‘And what time was this?’
‘Oh, about ten minutes past eight, I suppose.’
‘You did not—try the window?’
‘I believe I did. Yes, I thought it would be quicker to go in that way. But it was fastened.’
‘I see.’ Poirot drew a deep breath. ‘And the shot,’ he said, ‘where were you when you heard that? Still in the flower border?’
‘Oh, no; it was two or three minutes later, just before I came in by the side door.’
‘Do you know what this is, mademoiselle?’
On the palm of his hand he held out the tiny silk rosebud. She examined it coolly.
‘It looks like a rosebud off my little evening bag. Where did you find it?’
‘It was in Mr Keene’s pocket,’ said Poirot dryly. ‘Did you give it to him, mademoiselle?’
‘Did he tell you I gave it to him?’
Poirot smiled.
‘When did you give it to him, mademoiselle?’
‘Last night.’
‘Did he warn you to say that, mademoiselle?’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked angrily.
But Poirot did not answer. He strode out of the room and into the drawing room. Barling, Keene, and Marshall were there. He went straight up to them.
‘Messieurs,’ he said brusquely, ‘will you follow me to the study?’
He passed out into the hall and addressed Joan and Harry.
‘You, too, I pray of you. And will somebody request madame to come? I thank you. Ah! And here is the excellent Digby. Digby, a little question, a very important little question. Did Miss Cleves arrange some Michaelmas daisies before dinner?’
The butler looked bewildered.
‘Yes, sir, she did.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Quite sure, sir.’
‘Très bien. Now—come, all of you.’
Inside the study he faced them.
‘I have asked you to come here for a reason. The case is over, the police have come and gone. They say Mr Lytcham Roche has shot himself. All is finished.’ He paused. ‘But I, Hercule Poirot, say that it is not finished.’
As startled eyes turned to him the door opened and Mrs Lytcham Roche floated into the room.
‘I was saying, madame, that this case is not finished. It is a matter of the psychology. Mr Lytcham Roche, he had the manie de grandeur, he was a king. Such a man does not kill himself. No, no, he may go mad, but he does not kill himself. Mr Lytcham Roche did not kill himself.’ He paused. ‘He was killed.’
‘Killed?’ Marshall gave a short laugh. ‘Alone in a room with the door and window locked?’
‘All the same,’ said Poiro
t stubbornly, ‘he was killed.’
‘And got up and locked the door or shut the window afterward, I suppose,’ said Diana cuttingly.
‘I will show you something,’ said Poirot, going to the window. He turned the handle of the French windows and then pulled gently.
‘See, they are open. Now I close them, but without turning the handle. Now the window is closed but not fastened. Now!’
He gave a short jarring blow and the handle turned, shooting the bolt down into its socket.
‘You see?’ said Poirot softly. ‘It is very loose, this mechanism. It could be done from outside quite easily.’
He turned, his manner grim.
‘When that shot was fired at twelve minutes past eight, there were four people in the hall. Four people have an alibi. Where were the other three? You, madame? In your room. You, Monsieur Barling. Were you, too, in your room?’
‘I was.’
‘And you, mademoiselle, were in the garden. So you have admitted.’
‘I don’t see—’ began Diana.
‘Wait.’ He turned to Mrs Lytcham Roche. ‘Tell me, madame, have you any idea of how your husband left his money?’
‘Hubert read me his will. He said I ought to know. He left me three thousand a year chargeable on the estate, and the dower house or the town house, whichever I preferred. Everything else he left to Diana, on condition that if she married her husband must take the name.’
‘Ah!’
‘But then he made a codicil thing—a few weeks ago, that was.’
‘Yes, madame?’
‘He still left it all to Diana, but on condition that she married Mr Barling. If she married anyone else, it was all to go to his nephew, Harry Dalehouse.’
‘But the codicil was only made a few weeks ago,’ purred Poirot. ‘Mademoiselle may not have known of that.’ He stepped forward accusingly. ‘Mademoiselle Diana, you want to marry Captain Marshall, do you not? Or is it Mr Keene?’
She walked across the room and put her arm through Marshall’s sound one.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘I will put the case against you, mademoiselle. You loved Captain Marshall. You also loved money. Your adopted father he would never have consented to your marrying Captain Marshall, but if he dies you are fairly sure that you get everything. So you go out, you step over the flower border to the window which is open, you have with you the pistol which you have taken from the writing table drawer. You go up to your victim talking amiably. You fire. You drop the pistol by his hand, having wiped it and then pressed his fingers on it. You go out again, shaking the window till the bolt drops. You come into the house. Is that how it happened? I am asking you, mademoiselle?’
Problem at Pollensa Bay Page 4