Читать книгу Murder in the Mews - Agatha Christie, Georgette Heyer, Mary Westmacott - Страница 12

On re-entering the sitting-room of No. 14, Japp wasted no time in beating about the bush. He came straight to the point.

‘Now look here, Miss Plenderleith, don’t you think it’s better to spill the beans here and now. It’s going to come to that in the end.’

Jane Plenderleith raised her eyebrows. She was standing by the mantelpiece, gently warming one foot at the fire.

‘I really don’t know what you mean.’

‘Is that quite true, Miss Plenderleith?’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘I’ve answered all your questions. I don’t see what more I can do.’

‘Well, it’s my opinion you could do a lot more—if you chose.’

‘That’s only an opinion, though, isn’t it, Chief Inspector?’

Japp grew rather red in the face.

‘I think,’ said Poirot, ‘that mademoiselle would appreciate better the reason for your questions if you told her just how the case stands.’

‘That’s very simple. Now then, Miss Plenderleith, the facts are as follows. Your friend was found shot through the head with a pistol in her hand and the door and the window fastened. That looked like a plain case of suicide. But it wasn’t suicide. The medical evidence alone proves that.’

‘How?’

All her ironic coolness had disappeared. She leaned forward—intent—watching his face.

‘The pistol was in her hand—but the fingers weren’t grasping it. Moreover there were no fingerprints at all on the pistol. And the angle of the wound makes it impossible that the wound should have been self-inflicted. Then again, she left no letter—rather an unusual thing for a suicide. And though the door was locked the key has not been found.’

Jane Plenderleith turned slowly and sat down in a chair facing them.

‘So that’s it!’ she said. ‘All along I’ve felt it was impossible that she should have killed herself! I was right! She didn’t kill herself. Someone else killed her.’

For a moment or two she remained lost in thought. Then she raised her head brusquely.

‘Ask me any questions you like,’ she said. ‘I will answer them to the best of my ability.’

Japp began:

‘Last night Mrs Allen had a visitor. He is described as a man of forty-five, military bearing, toothbrush moustache, smartly dressed and driving a Standard Swallow saloon car. Do you know who that is?’

‘I can’t be sure, of course, but it sounds like Major Eustace.’

‘Who is Major Eustace? Tell me all you can about him?’

‘He was a man Barbara had known abroad—in India. He turned up about a year ago, and we’ve seen him on and off since.’

‘He was a friend of Mrs Allen’s?’

‘He behaved like one,’ said Jane dryly.

‘What was her attitude to him?’

‘I don’t think she really liked him—in fact, I’m sure she didn’t.’

‘But she treated him with outward friendliness?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she ever seem—think carefully, Miss Plenderleith—afraid of him?’

Jane Plenderleith considered this thoughtfully for a minute or two. Then she said:

‘Yes—I think she was. She was always nervous when he was about.’

‘Did he and Mr Laverton-West meet at all?’

‘Only once, I think. They didn’t take to each other much. That is to say, Major Eustace made himself as agreeable as he could to Charles, but Charles wasn’t having any. Charles has got a very good nose for anybody who isn’t well—quite—quite.’

‘And Major Eustace was not—what you call—quite—quite?’ asked Poirot.

The girl said dryly:

‘No, he wasn’t. Bit hairy at the heel. Definitely not out of the top drawer.’

‘Alas—I do not know those two expressions. You mean to say he was not the pukka sahib?’

A fleeting smile passed across Jane Plenderleith’s face, but she replied gravely, ‘No.’

‘Would it come as a great surprise to you, Miss Plenderleith, if I suggested that this man was blackmailing Mrs Allen?’

Japp sat forward to observe the result of his suggestion.

He was well satisfied. The girl started forward, the colour rose in her cheeks, she brought down her hand sharply on the arm of her chair.

‘So that was it! What a fool I was not to have guessed. Of course!’

‘You think the suggestion feasible, mademoiselle?’ asked Poirot.

‘I was a fool not to have thought of it! Barbara’s borrowed small sums off me several times during the last six months. And I’ve seen her sitting poring over her passbook. I knew she was living well within her income, so I didn’t bother, but, of course, if she was paying out sums of money—’

‘And it would accord with her general demeanour—yes?’ asked Poirot.

‘Absolutely. She was nervous. Quite jumpy sometimes. Altogether different from what she used to be.’

Poirot said gently:

‘Excuse me, but that is not just what you told us before.’

‘That was different,’ Jane Plenderleith waved an impatient hand. ‘She wasn’t depressed. I mean she wasn’t feeling suicidal or anything like that. But blackmail—yes. I wish she’d told me. I’d have sent him to the devil.’

‘But he might have gone—not to the devil, but to Mr Charles Laverton-West?’ observed Poirot.

‘Yes,’ said Jane Plenderleith slowly. ‘Yes … that’s true …’

‘You’ve no idea of what this man’s hold over her may have been?’ asked Japp.

The girl shook her head.

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. I can’t believe, knowing Barbara, that it could have been anything really serious. On the other hand—’ she paused, then went on. ‘What I mean is, Barbara was a bit of a simpleton in some ways. She’d be very easily frightened. In fact, she was the kind of girl who would be a positive gift to a blackmailer! The nasty brute!’

She snapped out the last three words with real venom.

‘Unfortunately,’ said Poirot, ‘the crime seems to have taken place the wrong way round. It is the victim who should kill the blackmailer, not the blackmailer his victim.’

Jane Plenderleith frowned a little.

‘No—that is true—but I can imagine circumstances—’

‘Such as?’

‘Supposing Barbara got desperate. She may have threatened him with that silly little pistol of hers. He tries to wrench it away from her and in the struggle he fires it and kills her. Then he’s horrified at what he’s done and tries to pretend it was suicide.’

‘Might be,’ said Japp. ‘But there’s a difficulty.’

She looked at him inquiringly.

‘Major Eustace (if it was him) left here last night at ten-twenty and said goodbye to Mrs Allen on the doorstep.’

‘Oh,’ the girl’s face fell. ‘I see.’ She paused a minute or two. ‘But he might have come back later,’ she said slowly.

‘Yes, that is possible,’ said Poirot.

Japp continued:

‘Tell me, Miss Plenderleith, where was Mrs Allen in the habit of receiving guests, here or in the room upstairs?’

‘Both. But this room was used for more communal parties or for my own special friends. You see, the arrangement was that Barbara had the big bedroom and used it as a sitting-room as well, and I had the little bedroom and used this room.’

‘If Major Eustace came by appointment last night, in which room do you think Mrs Allen would have received him?’

‘I think she would probably bring him in here.’ The girl sounded a little doubtful. ‘It would be less intimate. On the other hand, if she wanted to write a cheque or anything of that kind, she would probably take him upstairs. There are no writing materials down here.’

Japp shook his head.

‘There was no question of a cheque. Mrs Allen drew out two hundred pounds in cash yesterday. And so far we’ve not been able to find any trace of it in the house.’

‘And she gave it to that brute? Oh, poor Barbara! Poor, poor Barbara!’

Poirot coughed.

‘Unless, as you suggest, it was more or less an accident, it still seems a remarkable fact that he should kill an apparently regular source of income.’

‘Accident? It wasn’t an accident. He lost his temper and saw red and shot her.’

‘That is how you think it happened?’

‘Yes.’ She added vehemently, ‘It was murder—murder!’

Poirot said gravely:

‘I will not say that you are wrong, mademoiselle.’

Japp said:

‘What cigarettes did Mrs Allen smoke?’

‘Gaspers. There are some in that box.’

Japp opened the box, took out a cigarette and nodded. He slipped the cigarette into his pocket.

‘And you, mademoiselle?’ asked Poirot.

‘The same.’

‘You do not smoke Turkish?’

‘Never.’

‘Nor Mrs Allen?’

‘No. She didn’t like them.’

Poirot asked:

‘And Mr Laverton-West. What did he smoke?’

She stared hard at him.

‘Charles? What does it matter what he smoked? You’re not going to pretend that he killed her?’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘A man has killed the woman he loved before now, mademoiselle.’

Jane shook her head impatiently.

‘Charles wouldn’t kill anybody. He’s a very careful man.’

‘All the same, mademoiselle, it is the careful men who commit the cleverest murders.’

She stared at him.

‘But not for the motive you have just advanced, M. Poirot.’

He bowed his head.

‘No, that is true.’

Japp rose.

‘Well, I don’t think that there’s much more I can do here. I’d like to have one more look round.’

‘In case that money should be tucked away somewhere? Certainly. Look anywhere you like. And in my room too—although it isn’t likely Barbara would hide it there.’

Japp’s search was quick but efficient. The living-room had given up all its secrets in a very few minutes. Then he went upstairs. Jane Plenderleith sat on the arm of a chair, smoking a cigarette and frowning at the fire. Poirot watched her.

After some minutes, he said quietly:

‘Do you know if Mr Laverton-West is in London at present?’

‘I don’t know at all. I rather fancy he’s in Hampshire with his people. I suppose I ought to have wired him. How dreadful. I forgot.’

‘It is not easy to remember everything, mademoiselle, when a catastrophe occurs. And after all, the bad news, it will keep. One hears it only too soon.’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ the girl said absently.

Japp’s footsteps were heard descending the stairs. Jane went out to meet him.

‘Well?’

Japp shook his head.

‘Nothing helpful, I’m afraid, Miss Plenderleith. I’ve been over the whole house now. Oh, I suppose I’d better just have a look in this cupboard under the stairs.’

He caught hold of the handle as he spoke, and pulled.

Jane Plenderleith said:

‘It’s locked.’

Something in her voice made both men look at her sharply.

‘Yes,’ said Japp pleasantly. ‘I can see it’s locked. Perhaps you’ll get the key.’

The girl was standing as though carved in stone.

‘I—I’m not sure where it is.’

Japp shot a quick glance at her. His voice continued resolutely pleasant and off-hand.

‘Dear me, that’s too bad. Don’t want to splinter the wood, opening it by force. I’ll send Jameson out to get an assortment of keys.’

She moved forward stiffly.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘One minute. It might be—’

She went back into the living-room and reappeared a moment later holding a fair-sized key in her hand.

‘We keep it locked,’ she explained, ‘because one’s umbrellas and things have a habit of getting pinched.’

‘Very wise precaution,’ said Japp, cheerfully accepting the key.

He turned it in the lock and threw the door open. It was dark inside the cupboard. Japp took out his pocket flashlight and let it play round the inside.

Poirot felt the girl at his side stiffen and stop breathing for a second. His eyes followed the sweep of Japp’s torch.

There was not very much in the cupboard. Three umbrellas—one broken, four walking sticks, a set of golf clubs, two tennis racquets, a neatly-folded rug and several sofa cushions in various stages of dilapidation. On the top of these last reposed a small, smart-looking attaché-case.

As Japp stretched out a hand towards it, Jane Plenderleith said quickly:

‘That’s mine. I—it came back with me this morning. So there can’t be anything there.’

‘Just as well to make quite sure,’ said Japp, his cheery friendliness increasing slightly.

The case was unlocked. Inside it was fitted with shagreen brushes and toilet bottles. There were two magazines in it but nothing else.

Japp examined the whole outfit with meticulous attention. When at last he shut the lid and began a cursory examination of the cushions, the girl gave an audible sigh of relief.

There was nothing else in the cupboard beyond what was plainly to be seen. Japp’s examination was soon finished.

He relocked the door and handed the key to Jane Plenderleith.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘that concludes matters. Can you give me Mr Laverton-West’s address?’

‘Farlescombe Hall, Little Ledbury, Hampshire.’

‘Thank you, Miss Plenderleith. That’s all for the present. I may be round again later. By the way, mum’s the word. Leave it at suicide as far as the general public’s concerned.’

‘Of course, I quite understand.’

She shook hands with them both.

As they walked away down the mews, Japp exploded:

‘What the—the hell was there in that cupboard? There was something.’

‘Yes, there was something.’

‘And I’ll bet ten to one it was something to do with the attaché-case! But like the double-dyed mutt I must be, I couldn’t find anything. Looked in all the bottles—felt the lining—what the devil could it be?’

Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.

‘That girl’s in it somehow,’ Japp went on. ‘Brought that case back this morning? Not on your life, she didn’t! Notice that there were two magazines in it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, one of them was for last July!’