Agatha Christie - One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

He had come, he explained, to return M. Hercule Poirot's visit.

Poirot professed himself delighted to see Mr. Barnes.

George was instructed to bring some coffee unless his visitor preferred tea or whisky and soda?

"Coffee will be admirable," said Mr. Barnes. "I imagine that your manservant prepares it well. Most English servants do not."

Presently, after a few interchanges of polite remarks, Mr. Barnes gave a little cough and said:

"I will be frank with you, M. Poirot. It was sheer curiosity that brought me here. You, I imagined, would be well posted in all the details of this rather curious case. I see by the papers that the missing Miss Sainsbury Seale has been found, that an inquest was held and adjourned for further evidence. Cause of death was stated to have been an overdose of medinal."

"That is quite correct," said Poirot.

There was a pause and then Poirot said:

"Have you ever heard of Albert Chapman, Mr. Barnes?"

"Ah, the husband of the lady in whose flat Miss Sainsbury Seale came to die? Rather an elusive person, it would seem."

"But hardly nonexistent?"

"Oh, no," said Mr. Barnes. "He exists. Oh, yes, he exists – or did exist. I had heard he was dead. But you can't trust these rumors."

"Who was he, Mr. Barnes?"

"I don't suppose they'll say at the inquest. Not if they can help it. They'll trot out the armaments firm traveller story."

"He was in the Secret Service then?"

"Of course he was. But he had no business to tell his wife so – no business at all. In fact, he ought not to have continued in the Service after his marriage. It isn't usually done – not, that is, when you're one of the really hush-hush people."

"And Albert Chapman was?"

"Yes. Q.X.912. That's what he was known as. Using a name is most irregular. Oh, I don't mean that Q.X.912 was specially important – or anything of that kind. But he was useful because he was an insignificant sort of chap – the kind whose face isn't easily remembered. He was used a lot as a messenger up and down Europe. You know the sort of thing. One dignified letter sent via our Ambassador in Ruritania – one unofficial ditto containing the dirt per Q.X.912 – that is to say: Mr. Albert Chapman."

"Then he knew a lot of useful information?"

"Probably didn't know a thing," said Mr. Barnes cheerfully. "His job was just hopping in and out of trains and boats and aeroplanes and having the right story to explain why he was going where he was going!"

"And you heard he was dead?"

"That's what I heard," said Mr. Barnes. "But you can't believe all you hear. I never do."

Looking at Mr. Barnes intently, Poirot asked: "What do you think has happened to his wife?"

"I can't imagine," said Mr. Barnes. He looked, wide-eyed, at Poirot. "Can you?"

Poirot said:

"I had an idea -" He stopped.

He said slowly:

"It is very confusing."

Mr. Barnes murmured sympathetically:

"Anything worrying you in particular?"

Hercule Poirot said slowly:

"Yes. The evidence of my own eyes… "

Japp came into Poirot's sitting room and slammed down his bowler hat with such force that the table rocked.

He said:

"What the devil made you think of it?"

"My good Japp, I do not know what you are talking about."

Japp said slowly and forcefully:

"What gave you the idea that that body wasn't Miss Sainsbury Seale's body?"

Poirot looked worried. He said:

"It was the face that worried me. Why smash up a dead woman's face?"

Japp said:

"My word, I hope old Morley's somewhere where he can know about it. It's just possible, you know, that he was put out of the way on purpose – so that he couldn't give evidence."

"It would certainly be better if he could have given evidence himself."

"Leatheran will be all right. Morley's successor. He's a thoroughly capable man with a good manner and the evidence is unmistakable."

The evening papers came out with a sensation the next day. The dead body found in the Battersea flat, believed to be that of Miss Sainsbury Seale, was positively identified as that of Mrs. Albert Chapman.

Mr. Leatheran, of 58 Queen Charlotte Street, unhesitatingly pronounced it to be Mrs. Chapman on the evidence of the teeth and jaw, full particulars of which were recorded in the late Mr. Morley's professional chart.

Miss Sainsbury Seale's clothes had been found on the body and Miss Sainsbury Seale's handbag with the body – but where was Miss Sainsbury Seale herself?

As they came away from the inquest Japp said jubilantly to Poirot:

"A smart piece of work, that. Gave 'em a sensation!"

Poirot nodded.

"You tumbled to it first," said Japp, "but, you know, I wasn't happy about that body myself. After all, you don't go smashing a dead person's face and head about for nothing. It's messy, unpleasant work, and it was pretty plain there must be some reason for it. And there's only one reason there could be – to confuse the identity."

He added generously: "But I shouldn't have tumbled so quickly to the fact that it actually was the other woman."

Poirot said with a smile:

"And yet, my friend, the actual descriptions of the women were not unlike as regards fundamentals. Mrs. Chapman was a smart, good looking woman, well made up and fashionably turned out. Miss Sainsbury Seale was dowdy and innocent of lipstick or rouge. But the essentials were the same. Both were women of forty odd. Both were roughly about the same height and build. Both had hair turning grey which they touched up to make it appear golden."

"Yes, of course, when you put it like that. One thing we've got to admit – the fair Mabelle put it over on both of us, good and proper. I'd have sworn she was the genuine article."

"But, my friend, she was the genuine article. We know all about her past life."

"We didn't know she was capable of murder – and that's what it looks like now. Sylvia didn't murder Mabelle. Mabelle murdered Sylvia."

Hercule Poirot shook his head in a worried fashion. He still found it difficult to reconcile Mabelle Sainsbury Seale with murder. Yet in his ears he heard the small, ironic voice of Mr. Barnes:

"Look among the respectable people…"

Mabelle Sainsbury Seale had been eminently respectable.

Japp said with emphasis:

"I'm going to get to the bottom of this case, Poirot. That woman isn't going to put it over on me."

The following day Japp rang up. His voice held a curious note.

He said:

"Poirot, do you want to hear a piece of news? It's Na Poo, my lad. Na Poo!"

"Pardon? – the line is perhaps not very clear. I did not quite catch -"

"It's off, my boy. O.F.F. Call it a day! Sit down and twiddle our thumbs!"

There was no mistaking the bitterness now. Poirot was startled.

"What is off?"

"The whole ruddy blinking thing! The hue and cry! The publicity! The whole bag of tricks!"

"But I still do not understand."

"Well, listen. Listen carefully, because I can't mention names very well. You know our inquiry? You know we're combing the country for a performing fish?"

"Yes, yes, perfectly. I comprehend now."

"Well, that's been called off. Hushed up – kept mum. Now do you understand?"

"Yes, yes. But why?"

"Orders from the ruddy Foreign Office."

"Is not that very extraordinary?"

"Well, it does happen now and again."

"Why should they be so forbearing to Miss – to the performing fish?"

"They're not. They don't care tuppence about her. It's the publicity – if she's brought to trial too much might come out about Mrs. A.C. The corpse. That's the hush-hush side! I can only suppose that the ruddy husband – Mr. A.C. – Get me?"