Agatha Christie - Mrs McGinty's Dead

So Joe Burch was anxious to stand in well with the police? Was it that he couldn't afford, as his wife could, to be critical of the police?

A man, perhaps, with an uneasy conscience. Why was that conscience uneasy? There could be so many reasons – none of them connected with Mrs McGinty's death. Or was it that, somehow or other, the cinema alibi had been cleverly faked, and that it was Joe Burch who had knocked on the door of the cottage, had been admitted by Auntie and who had struck down the unsuspecting old woman. He would pull out the drawers and ransack the rooms to give the appearance of robbery, he might hide the money outside, cunningly, to incriminate James Bentley, the money that was in the Savings Bank was what he was after. Two hundred pounds coming to his wife which, for some reason unknown, he badly needed. The weapon, Poirot remembered, had never been found. Why had that not also been left on the scene of the crime? Any moron knew enough to wear gloves or rub off fingerprints. Why then had the weapon, which must have been a heavy one with a sharp edge, been removed? Was it because it could easily be identified as belonging to the Burch ménage? Was that same weapon, washed and polished, here in the house now? Something in the nature of a meat chopper, the police surgeon had said – but not, it seemed, actually a meat chopper. Something, perhaps a little unusual… a little out of the ordinary, easily identified. The police had hunted for it, but not found it. They had searched woods, dragged ponds. There was nothing missing from Mrs McGinty's kitchen, and nobody could say that James Bentley had had anything of that kind in his possession. They had never traced any purchase of a meat chopper or any such implement to him. A small, but negative point in his favour. Ignored in the weight of other evidence. But still a point…

Poirot cast a swift glance round the rather overcrowded little sitting-room in which he was sitting.

Was the weapon here, somewhere, in this house? Was that why Joe Butch was uneasy and conciliatory?

Poirot did not know. He did not really think so. But he was not absolutely sure…

In the offices of Messrs. Breather Scuttle, Poirot was shown, after some demur, into the room of Mr Scuttle himself.

Mr Scuttle was a brisk, bustling man, with a hearty manner.

"Good morning. Good morning." He rubbed his hands. "Now, what can we do for you?"

His professional eye shot over Poirot, trying to place him, making, as it were, a series of marginal notes.

Foreign. Good quality clothes. Probably rich. Restaurant proprietor? Hotel manager? Films?

"I hope not to trespass on your time unduly. I wanted to talk to you about your former employee, James Bentley."

Mr Scuttle's expressive eyebrows shot up an inch and dropped.

"James Bentley. James Bentley?" He shot out a question. "Press?"

"No."

"And you wouldn't be police?"

"No. At least – not of this country."

"Not of this country." Mr Scuttle filed this away rapidly as though for future reference. What's it all about?"

Poirot, never hindered by a pedantic regard for truth, launched out into speech.

"I am opening a further inquiry into James Bentley's case – at the request of certain relatives of his."

"Didn't know he had any. Anyway, he's been found guilty, you know, and condemned to death."

"But not yet executed."

"While there's life, there's hope, eh?" Mr Scuttle shook his head. "Should doubt it, though. Evidence was strong. Who are these relations of his?"

"I can tell you only this, they are both rich and powerful. Immensely rich."

"You surprise me." Mr Scuttle was unable to help thawing slightly. The words "immensely rich" had an attractive and hypnotic quality. "Yes, you really do surprise me."

"Bentley's mother, the late Mrs Bentley," explained Poirot, "cut herself and her son off completely from her family."

"One of these family feuds, eh? Well, well. And young Bentley without a farthing to bless himself with. Pity these relations didn't come to the rescue before."

"They have only just become aware of the facts," explained Poirot. "They have engaged me to come with all speed to this country and do everything possible."

Mr Scuttle leaned back, relaxing his business manner.

"Don't know what you can do. I suppose there's insanity? A bit late in the day – but if you got hold of the big medicos. Of course I'm not up in these things myself."

Poirot leaned forward.

"Monsieur, James Bentley worked here. You can tell me about him."

"Precious little to tell – precious little. He was one of our junior clerks. Nothing against him. Seemed a perfectly decent young fellow, quite conscientious and all that. But no idea of salesmanship. He just couldn't put a project over. That's no good in this job. If a client comes to us with a house he wants to sell, we're there to sell it for him. And if a client wants a house, we find him one. If it's a house in a lonely place with no amenities, we stress its antiquity, call it a period piece – and don't mention the plumbing! And if a house looks straight into the gasworks, we talk about amenities and facilities and don't mention the view. Hustle your client into it – that's what you're here to do. All sorts of little tricks there are. 'We advise you, madam, to make an immediate offer. There's a Member of Parliament who's very keen on it – very keen indeed. Going out to see it again this afternoon.' They fall for that every time – a Member of Parliament is always a good touch. Can't think why! No member ever lives away from his constituency. It's just the good solid sound of it." He laughed suddenly, displayed gleaming dentures. "Psychology – that's what it is – just psychology."

Poirot leaped at the word.

"Psychology. How right you are. I see that you are a judge of men."

"Not too bad. Not too bad," said Mr Scuttle modestly.

"So I ask you again what was your impression of James Bentley? Between ourselves – strictly between ourselves – you think he killed the old woman?"

Scuttle stared.

"Of course."

"And you think, too, that it was a likely thing for him to do – psychologically speaking?"

"Well – if you put it like that – no, not really. Shouldn't have thought he had the guts. Tell you what, if you ask me, he was barmy. Put it that way, and it works. Always a bit soft in the head, and what with being out of a job and worrying and all that, he just went right over the edge."

"You had no special reason for discharging him?"

Scuttle shook his head.

"Bad time of year. Staff hadn't enough to do. We sacked the one who was less competent. That was Bentley. Always would be, I expect. Gave him a good reference and all that. He didn't get another job, though. No pep. Made bad impression on people."

It always came back to that, Poirot thought, as he left the office. James Bentley made a bad impression on people. He took comfort in considering various murderers he had known whom most people had found full of charm.

"Excuse me, do you mind if I sit down here and talk to you for a moment?"

Poirot, ensconced at a small table in the Blue Cat, looked up from the menu he was studying with a start. It was rather dark in the Blue Cat, which specialised in an old-world effect of oak and leaded panes, but the young woman who had just sat down opposite to him stood out brightly from her dark background.

She had determinedly golden hair, and was wearing an electric blue jumper suit. Moreover, Hercule Poirot was conscious of having noticed her somewhere only a short time previously.

She went on:

"I couldn't help, you see, hearing something of what you were saying to Mr Scuttle."