Agatha Christie - Murder in the mews

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

Poirot consulted his watch.

‘It is not yet four o’clock. We could get to Wentworth, I think, before it is dark.’

‘Do you think she really went there?’

‘I think so—yes. She would know that we might make inquiries. Oh, yes, I think we will find that she has been there.’

Japp grunted.

‘Oh well, come on.’ He threaded his way dexterously through the traffic. ‘Though what this attaché-case business has to do with the crime I can’t imagine. I can’t see that it’s got anything at all to do with it.’

‘Precisely, my friend, I agree with you—it has nothing to do with it.’

‘Then why—No, don’t tell me! Order and method and everything nicely rounded off! Oh, well, it’s a fine day.’

The car was a fast one. They arrived at Wentworth Golf Club a little after half-past four. There was no great congestion there on a week day.

Poirot went straight to the caddie-master and asked for Miss Plenderleith’s clubs. She would be playing on a different course tomorrow, he explained.

The caddie-master raised his voice and a boy sorted through some golf clubs standing in a corner. He finally produced a bag bearing the initials, J.P.

‘Thank you,’ said Poirot. He moved away, then turned carelessly and asked, ‘She did not leave with you a small attaché-case also, did she?’

‘Not today, sir. May have left it in the clubhouse.’

‘She was down here today?’

‘Oh, yes, I saw her.’

‘Which caddie did she have, do you know? She’s mislaid an attaché-case and can’t remember where she had it last.’

‘She didn’t take a caddie. She came in here and bought a couple of balls. Just took out a couple of irons. I rather fancy she had a little case in her hand then.’

Poirot turned away with a word of thanks. The two men walked round the clubhouse. Poirot stood a moment admiring the view.

‘It is beautiful, is it not, the dark pine trees—and then the lake. Yes, the lake—’

Japp gave him a quick glance.

‘That’s the idea, is it?’

Poirot smiled.

‘I think it possible that someone may have seen something. I should set the inquiries in motion if I were you.’

Poirot stepped back, his head a little on one side as he surveyed the arrangement of the room. A chair here—another chair there. Yes, that was very nice. And now a ring at the bell—that would be Japp.

The Scotland Yard man came in alertly.

‘Quite right, old cock! Straight from the horse’s mouth. A young woman was seen to throw something into the lake at Wentworth yesterday. Description of her answers to Jane Plenderleith. We managed to fish it up without much difficulty. A lot of reeds just there.’

‘And it was?’

‘It was the attaché-case all right! But why , in heaven’s name? Well, it beats me! Nothing inside it—not even the magazines. Why a presumably sane young woman should want to fling an expensively-fitted dressing-case into a lake—d’you know, I worried all night because I couldn’t get the hang of it.’

‘ Mon pauvre Japp ! But you need worry no longer. Here is the answer coming. The bell has just rung.’

George, Poirot’s immaculate man-servant, opened the door and announced:

‘Miss Plenderleith.’

The girl came into the room with her usual air of complete self-assurance. She greeted the two men.

‘I asked you to come here—’ explained Poirot. ‘Sit here, will you not, and you here, Japp—because I have certain news to give you.’

The girl sat down. She looked from one to the other, pushing aside her hat. She took it off and laid it aside impatiently.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Major Eustace has been arrested.’

‘You saw that, I expect, in the morning paper?’

‘Yes.’

‘He is at the moment charged with a minor offence,’ went on Poirot. ‘In the meantime we are gathering evidence in connection with the murder.’

‘It was murder, then?’

The girl asked it eagerly.

Poirot nodded his head.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was murder. The wilful destruction of one human being by another human being.’

She shivered a little.

‘Don’t,’ she murmured. ‘It sounds horrible when you say it like that.’

‘Yes—but it is horrible!’

He paused—then he said:

‘Now, Miss Plenderleith, I am going to tell you just how I arrived at the truth in this matter.’

She looked from Poirot to Japp. The latter was smiling.

‘He has his methods, Miss Plenderleith,’ he said. ‘I humour him, you know. I think we’ll listen to what he has to say.’

Poirot began:

‘As you know, mademoiselle, I arrived with my friend at the scene of the crime on the morning of November the sixth. We went into the room where the body of Mrs Allen had been found and I was struck at once by several significant details. There were things, you see, in that room that were decidedly odd.’

‘Go on,’ said the girl.

‘To begin with,’ said Poirot, ‘there was the smell of cigarette smoke.’

‘I think you’re exaggerating there, Poirot,’ said Japp. ‘ I didn’t smell anything.’

Poirot turned on him in a flash.

‘Precisely. You did not smell any stale smoke. No more did I . And that was very, very strange—for the door and the window were both closed and on an ashtray there were the stubs of no fewer than ten cigarettes. It was odd, very odd, that the room should smell—as it did, perfectly fresh.’

‘So that’s what you were getting at!’ Japp sighed. ‘Always have to get at things in such a tortuous way.’

‘Your Sherlock Holmes did the same. He drew attention, remember, to the curious incident of the dog in the night-time—and the answer to that was there was no curious incident. The dog did nothing in the night-time. To proceed:

‘The next thing that attracted my attention was a wrist-watch worn by the dead woman.’

‘What about it?’

‘Nothing particular about it, but it was worn on the right wrist. Now in my experience it is more usual for a watch to be worn on the left wrist.’

Japp shrugged his shoulders. Before he could speak, Poirot hurried on:

‘But as you say, there is nothing very definite about that . Some people prefer to wear one on the right hand. And now I come to something really interesting—I come, my friends, to the writing-bureau.’

‘Yes, I guessed that,’ said Japp.

‘That was really very odd— very remarkable! For two reasons. The first reason was that something was missing from that writing-table.’

Jane Plenderleith spoke.

‘What was missing?’

Poirot turned to her.

‘ A sheet of blotting-paper, mademoiselle . The blotting-book had on top a clean, untouched piece of blotting-paper.’

Jane shrugged her shoulders.

‘Really, M. Poirot. People do occasionally tear off a very much used sheet!’

‘Yes, but what do they do with it? Throw it into the waste-paper basket, do they not? But it was not in the waste-paper basket . I looked.’

Jane Plenderleith seemed impatient.

‘Because it had probably been already thrown away the day before. The sheet was clean because Barbara hadn’t written any letters that day.’

‘That could hardly be the case, mademoiselle. For Mrs Allen was seen going to the post-box that evening. Therefore she must have been writing letters . She could not write downstairs—there were no writing materials. She would be hardly likely to go to your room to write. So, then, what had happened to the sheet of paper on which she had blotted her letters? It is true that people sometimes throw things in the fire instead of the waste-paper basket, but there was only a gas fire in the room. And the fire downstairs had not been alight the previous day, since you told me it was all laid ready when you put a match to it .’