Agatha Christie - One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

"Yes."

Poirot's eyes swept slowly round the room. Like the sitting room it was furnished in the modern style – and furnished, so he thought, by someone with a moderate income. The articles in it were expensive but not ultra-expensive. They were showy but not first class. The color scheme was rose pink. He looked into the built-in wardrobe and handled the clothes – smart clothes but again not of first class quality. His eyes fell to the shoes – they were largely of the sandal variety popular at the moment; some had exaggerated cork soles. He balanced one in his hand, registered the fact that Mrs. Chapman had taken a size five in shoes and put it down again. In another cupboard he found a pile of furs, shoved in in a heap. Japp said:

"Came out of the fur chest."

Poirot nodded.

He was handling a grey squirrel coat. He remarked appreciatively: "First class skins."

He went on into the bathroom.

There was a lavish display of cosmetics. Poirot looked at them with interest. Powder, rouge, vanishing cream, skin food, two bottles of hair application.

Japp said:

"Not one of our natural platinum blondes, I gather."

Poirot murmured:

"At forty, mon ami, the hair of most women has begun to go grey but Mrs. Chapman was not one to yield to nature."

"She's probably gone henna red by now for a change."

"I wonder?"

Japp said:

"There's something worrying you, Poirot. What is it?"

Poirot said:

"But yes, I am worried. I am very seriously worried. There is here, you see, for me an insoluble problem."

Resolutely he went once more into the box room.

He took hold of the shoe on the dead woman's foot. It resisted and came off with difficulty.

He examined the buckle. It had been clumsily sewn on by hand.

Hercule Poirot sighed.

He said: "It is that I am dreaming!"

Japp said curiously:

"What are you trying to do – make the thing more difficult?"

"Exactly that."

Japp said:

"One patent leather shoe, complete with buckle. What's wrong with that?"

Hercule Poirot said:

"Nothing – absolutely nothing. But all the same – I do not understand."

Mrs. Merton of 82 King Leopold Mansions had been designated by the porter as Mrs. Chapman's closest friend in the Mansions.

It was, therefore, to 82 that Japp and Poirot betook themselves next.

Mrs. Merton was a loquacious lady, with snapping black eyes, and an elaborate coiffure.

It needed no pressure to make her talk. She was only too ready to rise to a dramatic situation.

"Sylvia Chapman – well, of course, I don't know her really well – not intimately, so to speak. We had a few bridge evenings occasionally and we went to the pictures together, and, of course, shopping sometimes. But, oh, do tell me – she isn't dead, is she?"

Japp reassured her.

"Well, I'm sure I'm thankful to hear it! But the postman just now was all agog about a body having been found in one of the flats – but then one really can't believe half one hears, can one? I never do."

Japp asked a further question.

"No, I haven't heard anything of Mrs. Chapman – not since she went away. She must have gone away rather suddenly, because we had spoken about going to see the new Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire the following week, and she said nothing about going away then."

Mrs. Merton had never heard a Miss Sainsbury Seale mentioned. Mrs. Chapman had never spoken of anyone of that name.

"And yet, you know, the name is familiar to me, distinctly familiar. I seem to have seen it somewhere quite lately."

Japp said drily:

"It's been in all the papers for some weeks -"

"Of course – some missing person, wasn't it? And you thought Mrs. Chapman might have known her? No, I'm sure I've never heard Sylvia mention that name."

"Can you tell me anything about Mr. Chapman, Mrs. Merton?"

A rather curious expression came over Mrs. Merton's face. She said:

"He was a commercial traveller, I believe, so Mrs. Chapman told me. He travelled abroad for his firm – armaments, I believe. He went all over Europe."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"No, never. He was at home so seldom, and when he was at home, he and Mrs. Chapman didn't want to bother with outsiders. Very naturally."

"Do you know if Mrs. Chapman had any near relations or friends?"

"I don't know about friends. I don't think she had any near relations. She never spoke of any."

"Was she ever in India?"

"Not that I know of."

Mrs. Merton paused, and then broke out:

"But please tell me – why are you asking all these questions? I quite understand that you come from Scotland Yard and all that, but there must be some special reason?"

"Well, Mrs. Merton, you are bound to know some time. As a matter of fact, a dead body has been found in Mrs. Chapman's flat."

"Oh -!" Mrs. Merton looked for a moment like the dog whose eyes were as big as saucers.

"A dead body! It wasn't Mr. Chapman, was it? Or perhaps some foreigner?"

Japp said:

"It wasn't a man at all – it was a woman."

"A woman?" Mrs. Merton seemed even more surprised.

Poirot said gently:

"Why should you think it was a man?"

"Oh, I don't know. It seemed more likely somehow."

"But why? Was it because Mrs. Chapman was in the habit of receiving gentlemen visitors?"

"Oh, no – oh, no, indeed." Mrs. Merton was indignant. "I never meant anything of that kind. Sylvia Chapman wasn't in the least that kind of a woman – not at all! It was just that, with Mr. Chapman – I mean -"

She came to a stop.

Poirot said:

"I think, Madame, that you know a little more than you have told us."

Mrs. Morton said uncertainly:

"I don't know, I'm sure – what I ought to do! I mean, I don't exactly want to betray a confidence and of course I never have repeated what Sylvia told me – except just to one or two intimates whom I knew were really safe -"

Mrs. Morton paused to draw breath.

Japp said:

"What did Mrs. Chapman tell you?"

Mrs. Morton leaned forward and lowered her voice:

"It just – slipped out, as it were, one day. When we were seeing a film – about the Secret Service and Mrs. Chapman said you could see that whoever had written it didn't know much about their subject, and then it came out – only she swore me to secrecy. Mr. Chapman was in the Secret Service, I mean. That was the real reason he had to go abroad so much. The armament firm was only a blind. And it was terribly worrying for Mrs. Chapman because she couldn't write to him or get letters from him while he was away. And of course it was terribly dangerous!"

As they went down the stairs again to Number 42, Japp ejaculated with feeling:

"Shades of Phillips Oppenheim, Valentine Williams and William le Quex! I think I'm going mad!"

That smart young man, Sergeant Beddoes, was awaiting 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 had only worked for her a month or two. She says Mrs. Chapman was a nice lady, fond of the radio and pleasant spoken. Girl was of 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?"