Agatha Christie - Murder in the mews

‘Penny for the guy, sir?’

A small boy with a grimy face grinned ingratiatingly.

‘Certainly not!’ said Chief Inspector Japp. ‘And, look here, my lad—’

A short homily followed. The dismayed urchin beat a precipitate retreat, remarking briefly and succinctly to his youthful friends:

‘Blimey, if it ain’t a cop all togged up!’

The band took to its heels, chanting the incantation:

The chief inspector’s companion, a small, elderly man with an egg-shaped head and large, military-looking moustaches, was smiling to himself.

‘ Très bien , Japp,’ he observed. ‘You preach the sermon very well! I congratulate you!’

‘Rank excuse for begging, that’s what Guy Fawkes’ Day is!’ said Japp.

‘An interesting survival,’ mused Hercule Poirot. ‘The fireworks go up—crack—crack—long after the man they commemorate and his deed are forgotten.’

The Scotland Yard man agreed.

‘Don’t suppose many of those kids really know who Guy Fawkes was.’

‘And soon, doubtless, there will be confusion of thought. Is it in honour or in execration that on the fifth of November the feu d’artifice are sent up? To blow up an English Parliament, was it a sin or a noble deed?’

Japp chuckled.

‘Some people would say undoubtedly the latter.’

Turning off the main road, the two men passed into the comparative quiet of a mews. They had been dining together and were now taking a short cut to Hercule Poirot’s flat.

As they walked along the sound of squibs was still heard periodically. An occasional shower of golden rain illuminated the sky.

‘Good night for a murder,’ remarked Japp with professional interest. ‘Nobody would hear a shot, for instance, on a night like this.’

‘It has always seemed odd to me that more criminals do not take advantage of the fact,’ said Hercule Poirot.

‘Do you know, Poirot, I almost wish sometimes that you would commit a murder.’

‘ Mon cher! ’

‘Yes, I’d like to see just how you’d set about it.’

‘My dear Japp, if I committed a murder you would not have the least chance of seeing—how I set about it! You would not even be aware, probably, that a murder had been committed.’

Japp laughed good-humouredly and affectionately.

‘Cocky little devil, aren’t you?’ he said indulgently.

At half-past eleven the following morning, Hercule Poirot’s telephone rang.

‘ ’Allo? ’Allo?’

‘Hallo, that you, Poirot?’

‘ Oui, c’est moi. ’

‘Japp speaking here. Remember we came home last night through Bardsley Gardens Mews?’

‘Yes?’

‘And that we talked about how easy it would be to shoot a person with all those squibs and crackers and the rest of it going off?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Well, there was a suicide in that mews. No. 14. A young widow—Mrs Allen. I’m going round there now. Like to come?’

‘Excuse me, but does someone of your eminence, my dear friend, usually get sent to a case of suicide?’

‘Sharp fellow. No—he doesn’t. As a matter of fact our doctor seems to think there’s something funny about this. Will you come? I kind of feel you ought to be in on it.’

‘Certainly I will come. No. 14, you say?’

‘That’s right.’

Poirot arrived at No. 14 Bardsley Gardens Mews almost at the same moment as a car drew up containing Japp and three other men.

No. 14 was clearly marked out as the centre of interest. A big circle of people, chauffeurs, their wives, errand boys, loafers, well-dressed passers-by and innumerable children were drawn up all staring at No. 14 with open mouths and a fascinated stare.

A police constable in uniform stood on the step and did his best to keep back the curious. Alert-looking young men with cameras were busy and surged forward as Japp alighted.

‘Nothing for you now,’ said Japp, brushing them aside. He nodded to Poirot. ‘So here you are. Let’s get inside.’

They passed in quickly, the door shut behind them and they found themselves squeezed together at the foot of a ladder-like flight of stairs.

A man came to the top of the staircase, recognized Japp and said:

‘Up here, sir.’

Japp and Poirot mounted the stairs.

The man at the stairhead opened a door on the left and they found themselves in a small bedroom.

‘Thought you’d like me to run over the chief points, sir.’

‘Quite right, Jameson,’ said Japp. ‘What about it?’

Divisional Inspector Jameson took up the tale.

‘Deceased’s a Mrs Allen, sir. Lived here with a friend—a Miss Plenderleith. Miss Plenderleith was away staying in the country and returned this morning. She let herself in with her key, was surprised to find no one about. A woman usually comes in at nine o’clock to do for them. She went upstairs first into her own room (that’s this room) then across the landing to her friend’s room. Door was locked on the inside. She rattled the handle, knocked and called, but couldn’t get any answer. In the end getting alarmed she rang up the police station. That was at ten forty-five. We came along at once and forced the door open. Mrs Allen was lying in a heap on the ground shot through the head. There was an automatic in her hand—a Webley .25—and it looked a clear case of suicide.’

‘Where is Miss Plenderleith now?’

‘She’s downstairs in the sitting-room, sir. A very cool, efficient young lady, I should say. Got a head on her.’

‘I’ll talk to her presently. I’d better see Brett now.’

Accompanied by Poirot he crossed the landing and entered the opposite room. A tall, elderly man looked up and nodded.

‘Hallo, Japp, glad you’ve got here. Funny business, this.’

Japp advanced towards him. Hercule Poirot sent a quick searching glance round the room.

It was much larger than the room they had just quitted. It had a built-out bay window, and whereas the other room had been a bedroom pure and simple, this was emphatically a bedroom disguised as a sitting-room.

The walls were silver and the ceiling emerald green. There were curtains of a modernistic pattern in silver and green. There was a divan covered with a shimmering emerald green silk quilt and numbers of gold and silver cushions. There was a tall antique walnut bureau, a walnut tallboy, and several modern chairs of gleaming chromium. On a low glass table there was a big ashtray full of cigarette stubs.

Delicately Hercule Poirot sniffed the air. Then he joined Japp where the latter stood looking down at the body.

In a heap on the floor, lying as she had fallen from one of the chromium chairs, was the body of a young woman of perhaps twenty-seven. She had fair hair and delicate features. There was very little make-up on the face. It was a pretty, wistful, perhaps slightly stupid face. On the left side of the head was a mass of congealed blood. The fingers of the right hand were clasped round a small pistol. The woman was dressed in a simple frock of dark green high to the neck.