Блейз Клемент - Cat Sitter Among The Pigeons

There were very few people about in this quiet country road. A car, with a man bending over the open hood. A bicycle leaning against a hedge. A man also waiting for the bus.

One or other of the three would, no doubt, follow her. It would be skillfully done, not obviously. She was quite alive to the fact, and it did not worry her. Her “shadow” was welcome to see where she went and what she did.

The bus came. She got in. A quarter of an hour later, she got out in the main square of the town. She did not trouble to look behind her. She crossed to where the show windows of a fairly large department store showed their display of new model gowns. Poor stuff, for provincial tastes, she thought, with a curling lip. But she stood looking at them as though much attracted.

Presently she went inside, made one or two trivial purchases, then went up to the first floor and entered the ladies' rest room. There was a writing table there, some easy chairs, and a telephone box. She went into the box, put the necessary coins in, dialled the number she wanted, waiting to hear if the right voice answered.

She nodded in approval, and spoke.

“This is the Maison Blanche. You understand me, the Maison Blanche? I have to speak of an account that is owed. You have until tomorrow evening. Tomorrow evening. To pay into the account of the Maison Blanche at the Credit Nationale in London, Ledbury St. branch, the sum that I tell you.”

She named the sum.

“If that money is not paid in, then it will be necessary for me to report in the proper quarters what I observed on the night of the 12th. The reference - pay attention - is to Miss Springer. You have a little over twenty-four hours.”

She hung up and emerged into the rest room. A woman had just come in from outside. Another customer of the shop, perhaps, or again perhaps not. But if the latter, it was too late for anything to be overheard.

Mademoiselle Blanche freshened herself up in the adjoining cloak room, then she went and tried on a couple of blouses, but did not buy them; she went out into the street again, smiling to herself. She looked into a bookshop, and then caught a bus back to Meadowbank.

She was smiling to herself as she walked up the drive. She had arranged matters very well. The sum she had demanded had not been too large - not impossible to raise at short notice. And it would do very well to go on with. Because, of course, in the future, there would be further demands...

Yes, a very pretty little source of income this was going to be. She had no qualms of conscience. She did not consider it in any way her duty to report what she knew and had seen to the police. That Springer had been a detestable woman, rude mal elevée. Prying into what was no business of hers. Ah, well, she had got her deserts.

Mademoiselle Blanche stayed for a while by the swimming pool. She watched Eileen Rich diving. Then Ann Shapland, too, climbed up and dived - very well, too. There was laughing, and squeals from the girls.

A bell rang, and Mademoiselle Blanche went in to take her junior class. They were inattentive and tiresome, but Mademoiselle Blanche hardly noticed. She would soon have done with teaching forever.

She went up to her room to tidy herself for supper. Vaguely, without really noticing, she saw that, contrary to her usual practice, she had thrown her garden coat across a chair in the corner instead of hanging it up as usual.

She leaned forward, studying her face in the glass. She applied powder, lipstick.

The movement was so quick that it took her completely by surprise. Noiseless! Professional. The coat on the chair seemed to gather itself together, drop to the ground and in an instant behind Mademoiselle Blanche a hand with a sandbag rose and, as she opened her lips to scream, fell, dully, on the back of her neck.

Cat Among the Pigeons

Chapter 22

INCIDENT IN ANATOLIA

Mrs. Upjohn was sitting by the side of the road overlooking a deep ravine. She was talking partly in French and partly with gestures to a large and solid looking Turkish woman who was telling her with as much detail as possible under these difficulties of communications all about her last miscarriage. Nine children she had had, she explained. Eight of them boys, and five miscarriages. She seemed as pleased at the miscarriages as she did at the births.

“And you?” she poked Mrs. Upjohn amiably in the ribs. “Combien - garзons - filles - combien?” She held up her hands ready to indicate on the fingers.

“Une fille,” said Mrs. Upjohn.

“Et garзons?”

Seeing that she was about to fall in the Turkish woman's estimation, Mrs. Upjohn in a surge of nationalism proceeded to perjure herself. She held up five fingers of her right hand.

“Cinq,” she said.

“Cinq garзons? Tres bien!”

The Turkish woman nodded with approbation and respect. She added that if only her cousin who spoke French really fluently were here they could understand each other a great deal better. She then resumed the story of her last miscarriage.

The other passengers were sprawled about near them, eating odd bits of food from the baskets they carried with them. The bus, looking slightly the worse for wear, was drawn up against an overhanging rock, and the driver and another man were busy inside the hood. Mrs. Upjohn had lost complete count of time. Floods had blocked two of the roads, detours had been necessary and they had once stuck for seven hours until the river they were fording subsided. Ankara lay in the not impossible future and that was all she knew. She listened to her friend's eager and incoherent conversation, trying to gauge when to nod admiringly, when to shake her head in sympathy.

A voice cut into her thoughts, a voice highly incongruous with her present surroundings.

“Mrs. Upjohn, I believe,” said the voice.

Mrs. Upjohn looked up. A little way away a car had driven up. The man standing opposite her had undoubtedly alighted from it. His face was unmistakably British, as was his voice. He was impeccably dressed in a grey flannel suit.

“Good heavens,” said Mrs. Upjohn. “Dr. Livingstone?”

“It must seem rather like that,” said the stranger pleasantly. “My name's Atkinson. I'm from the Consulate in Ankara. We've been trying to get in touch with you for two or three days, but the roads have been cut.”

“You wanted to get in touch with me? Why?” Suddenly Mrs. Upjohn rose to her feet. All traces of the gay traveller had disappeared. She was all mother, every inch of her. “Julia?” she said sharply. “Has something happened to Julia?”

“No, no,” Mr. Atkinson reassured her. “Julia's quite all right. It's not that at all. There's been a spot of trouble at Meadowbank and we want to get you home there as soon as possible. I'll drive you back to Ankara, and you can get on a plane in about an hour's time.”

Mrs. Upjohn opened her mouth and then shut it again. Then she rose and said, “You'll have to get my bag off the top of that bus. It's the dark blue one.” She turned, shook hands with her Turkish companion, said: “I'm sorry, I have to go home now,” waved to the rest of the bus load with the utmost friendliness, called out a Turkish farewell greeting which was part of her small stock of Turkish, and prepared to follow Mr. Atkinson immediately without asking any further questions. It occurred to him as it had occurred to many other people that Mrs. Upjohn was a very sensible woman.

Cat Among the Pigeons

Chapter 23

SHOWDOWN

In one of the smaller classrooms Miss Bulstrode looked at the assembled people. All the members of her staff were there: Miss Chadwick, Miss Johnson, Miss Rich, and the two younger mistresses. Ann Shapland sat with her pad and pencil in case Miss Bulstrode wanted her to take notes. Beside Miss Bulstrode sat Inspector Kelsey and beyond him, Hercule Poirot. Adam Goodman sat in a no man's land of his own halfway between the staff and what he called to himself, the executive body. Miss Bulstrode rose and spoke in her practiced, decisive voice.