Murder in the Mews. Agatha Christie

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.’