Murder in the Mews: A Hercule Poirot Short Story. Agatha Christie

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      Hercule Poirot shook his head slowly.

      ‘I was looking at her wrist-watch.’

      He bent over and just touched it with a finger-tip. It was a dainty jewelled affair on a black moiré strap on the wrist of the hand that held the pistol.

      ‘Rather a swell piece that,’ observed Japp. ‘Must have cost money!’ He cocked his head inquiringly at Poirot. ‘Something in that maybe?’

      ‘It is possible – yes.’

      Poirot strayed across to the writing-bureau. It was the kind that has a front flap that lets down. This was daintily set out to match the general colour scheme.

      There was a somewhat massive silver inkstand in the centre, in front of it a handsome green lacquer blotter. To the left of the blotter was an emerald glass pen-tray containing a silver penholder – a stick of green sealing-wax, a pencil and two stamps. On the right of the blotter was a movable calendar giving the day of the week, date and month. There was also a little glass jar of shot and standing in it a flamboyant green quill pen. Poirot seemed interested in the pen. He took it out and looked at it but the quill was innocent of ink. It was clearly a decoration – nothing more. The silver penholder with the ink-stained nib was the one in use. His eyes strayed to the calendar.

      ‘Tuesday, November fifth,’ said Japp. ‘Yesterday. That’s all correct.’

      He turned to Brett.

      ‘How long has she been dead?’

      ‘She was killed at eleven thirty-three yesterday evening,’ said Brett promptly.

      Then he grinned as he saw Japp’s surprised face.

      ‘Sorry, old boy,’ he said. ‘Had to do the super doctor of fiction! As a matter of fact eleven is about as near as I can put it – with a margin of about an hour either way.’

      ‘Oh, I thought the wrist-watch might have stopped – or something.’

      ‘It’s stopped all right, but it’s stopped at a quarter past four.’

      ‘And I suppose she couldn’t have been killed possibly at a quarter past four.’

      ‘You can put that right out of your mind.’

      Poirot had turned back the cover of the blotter.

      ‘Good idea,’ said Japp. ‘But no luck.’

      The blotter showed an innocent white sheet of blotting-paper. Poirot turned over the leaves but they were all the same.

      He turned his attention to the waste-paper basket.

      It contained two or three torn-up letters and circulars. They were only torn once and were easily reconstructed. An appeal for money from some society for assisting ex-service men, an invitation to a cocktail party on November 3rd, an appointment with a dressmaker. The circulars were an announcement of a furrier’s sale and a catalogue from a department store.

      ‘Nothing there,’ said Japp.

      ‘No, it is odd …’ said Poirot.

      ‘You mean they usually leave a letter when it’s suicide?’

      ‘Exactly.’

      ‘In fact, one more proof that it isn’t suicide.’

      He moved away.

      ‘I’ll have my men get to work now. We’d better go down and interview this Miss Plenderleith. Coming, Poirot?’

      Poirot still seemed fascinated by the writing-bureau and its appointments.

      He left the room, but at the door his eyes went back once more to the flaunting emerald quill pen.

      At the foot of the narrow flight of stairs a door gave admission to a large-sized living-room – actually the converted stable. In this room, the walls of which were finished in a roughened plaster effect and on which hung etchings and woodcuts, two people were sitting.

      One, in a chair near the fireplace, her hand stretched out to the blaze, was a dark efficient-looking young woman of twenty-seven or eight. The other, an elderly woman of ample proportions who carried a string bag, was panting and talking when the two men entered the room.

      ‘– and as I said, Miss, such a turn it gave me I nearly dropped down where I stood. And to think that this morning of all mornings –’

      The other cut her short.

      ‘That will do, Mrs Pierce. These gentlemen are police officers, I think.’

      ‘Miss Plenderleith?’ asked Japp, advancing.

      The girl nodded.

      ‘That is my name. This is Mrs Pierce who comes in to work for us every day.’

      The irrepressible Mrs Pierce broke out again.

      ‘And as I was saying to Miss Plenderleith, to think that this morning of all mornings, my sister’s Louisa Maud should have been took with a fit and me the only one handy and as I say flesh and blood is flesh and blood, and I didn’t think Mrs Allen would mind, though I never likes to disappoint my ladies –’

      Japp broke in with some dexterity.

      ‘Quite so, Mrs Pierce. Now perhaps you would take Inspector Jameson into the kitchen and give him a brief statement.’

      Having then got rid of the voluble Mrs Pierce, who departed with Jameson talking thirteen to the dozen, Japp turned his attention once more to the girl.

      ‘I am Chief Inspector Japp. Now, Miss Plenderleith, I should like to know all you can tell me about this business.’

      ‘Certainly. Where shall I begin?’

      Her self-possession was admirable. There were no signs of grief or shock save for an almost unnatural rigidity of manner.

      ‘You arrived this morning at what time?’

      ‘I think it was just before half-past ten. Mrs Pierce, the old liar, wasn’t here, I found –’

      ‘Is that a frequent occurrence?’

      Jane Plenderleith shrugged her shoulders.

      ‘About twice a week she turns up at twelve – or not at all. She’s supposed to come at nine. Actually, as I say, twice a week she either “comes over queer”, or else some member of her family is overtaken by sickness. All these daily women are like that – fail you now and again. She’s not bad as they go.’

      ‘You’ve had her long?’

      ‘Just over a month. Our last one pinched things.’

      ‘Please go on, Miss Plenderleith.’

      ‘I paid off the taxi, СКАЧАТЬ