Murder in the Mews. Agatha Christie

and he’d turned her down. She’s the kind that would bump anyone off if she felt like it, and keep her head while she was doing it, too. Yes, we’ll have to look into that alibi. She had it very pat and after all Essex isn’t very far away. Plenty of trains. Or a fast car. It’s worth while finding out if she went to bed with a headache for instance last night.’

      ‘You are right,’ agreed Poirot.

      ‘In any case,’ continued Japp, ‘she’s holding out on us. Eh? Didn’t you feel that too? That young woman knows something.’

      Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

      ‘Yes, that could be clearly seen.’

      ‘That’s always a difficulty in these cases,’ Japp complained. ‘People will hold their tongues—sometimes out of the most honourable motives.’

      ‘For which one can hardly blame them, my friend.’

      ‘No, but it makes it much harder for us,’ Japp grumbled.

      ‘It merely displays to its full advantage your ingenuity,’ Poirot consoled him. ‘What about fingerprints, by the way?’

      ‘Well, it’s murder all right. No prints whatever on the pistol. Wiped clean before being placed in her hand. Even if she managed to wind her arm round her head in some marvellous acrobatic fashion she could hardly fire off a pistol without hanging on to it and she couldn’t wipe it after she was dead.’

      ‘No, no, an outside agency is clearly indicated.’

      ‘Otherwise the prints are disappointing. None on the door-handle. None on the window. Suggestive, eh? Plenty of Mrs Allen’s all over the place.’

      ‘Did Jameson get anything?’

      ‘Out of the daily woman? No. She talked a lot but she didn’t really know much. Confirmed the fact that Allen and Plenderleith were on good terms. I’ve sent Jameson out to make inquiries in the mews. We’ll have to have a word with Mr Laverton-West too. Find out where he was and what he was doing last night. In the meantime we’ll have a look through her papers.’

      He set to without more ado. Occasionally he grunted and tossed something over to Poirot. The search did not take long. There were not many papers in the desk and what there were were neatly arranged and docketed.

      Finally Japp leant back and uttered a sigh.

      ‘Not very much, is there?’

      ‘As you say.’

      ‘Most of it quite straightforward—receipted bills, a few bills as yet unpaid—nothing particularly outstanding. Social stuff—invitations. Notes from friends. These—’ he laid his hand on a pile of seven or eight letters—‘and her cheque book and passbook. Anything strike you there?’

      ‘Yes, she was overdrawn.’

      ‘Anything else?’

      Poirot smiled.

      ‘Is it an examination that you put me through? But yes, I noticed what you are thinking of. Two hundred pounds drawn to self three months ago—and two hundred pounds drawn out yesterday—’

      ‘And nothing on the counterfoil of the cheque book. No other cheques to self except small sums—fifteen pounds the highest. And I’ll tell you this—there’s no such sum of money in the house. Four pounds ten in a handbag and an odd shilling or two in another bag. That’s pretty clear, I think.’

      ‘Meaning that she paid that sum away yesterday.’

      ‘Yes. Now who did she pay it to?’

      The door opened and Inspector Jameson entered.

      ‘Well, Jameson, get anything?’

      ‘Yes, sir, several things. To begin with, nobody actually heard the shot. Two or three women say they did because they want to think they did—but that’s all there is to it. With all those fireworks going off there isn’t a dog’s chance.’

      Japp grunted.

      ‘Don’t suppose there is. Go on.’

      ‘Mrs Allen was at home most of yesterday afternoon and evening. Came in about five o’clock. Then she went out again about six but only to the post box at the end of the mews. At about nine-thirty a car drove up—Standard Swallow saloon—and a man got out. Description about forty-five, well set up military-looking gent, dark blue overcoat, bowler hat, toothbrush moustache. James Hogg, chauffeur from No. 18 says he’s seen him calling on Mrs Allen before.’

      ‘Forty-five,’ said Japp. ‘Can’t very well be Laverton-West.’

      ‘This man, whoever he was, stayed here for just under an hour. Left at about ten-twenty. Stopped in the doorway to speak to Mrs Allen. Small boy, Frederick Hogg, was hanging about quite near and heard what he said.’

      ‘And what did he say?’

      ‘“Well, think it over and let me know.” And then she said something and he answered: “All right. So long.” After that he got in his car and drove away.’

      ‘That was at ten-twenty,’ said Poirot thoughtfully.

      Japp rubbed his nose.

      ‘Then at ten-twenty Mrs Allen was still alive,’ he said. ‘What next?’

      ‘Nothing more, sir, as far as I can learn. The chauffeur at No. 22 got in at half-past ten and he’d promised his kids to let off some fireworks for them. They’d been waiting for him—and all the other kids in the mews too. He let ’em off and everybody around about was busy watching them. After that everyone went to bed.’

      ‘And nobody else was seen to enter No. 14?’

      ‘No—but that’s not to say they didn’t. Nobody would have noticed.’

      ‘H’m,’ said Japp. ‘That’s true. Well, we’ll have to get hold of this “military gentleman with the toothbrush moustache.” It’s pretty clear that he was the last person to see her alive. I wonder who he was?’

      ‘Miss Plenderleith might tell us,’ suggested Poirot.

      ‘She might,’ said Japp gloomily. ‘On the other hand she might not. I’ve no doubt she could tell us a good deal if she liked. What about you, Poirot, old boy? You were alone with her for a bit. Didn’t you trot out that Father Confessor manner of yours that sometimes makes such a hit?’

      Poirot spread out his hands.

      ‘Alas, we talked only of gas fires.’

      ‘Gas fires—gas fires.’ Japp sounded disgusted. ‘What’s the matter with you, old cock? Ever since you’ve been here the only things you’ve taken an interest in are quill pens and waste-paper baskets. Oh, yes, I saw you having a quiet look into the one downstairs. Anything in it?’

      Poirot sighed.

      ‘A catalogue of bulbs and an old magazine.’

      ‘What’s the idea, anyway? If anyone wants to throw away an incriminating document or whatever it is you have in mind they’re not likely just to pitch it into a waste-paper basket.’

      ‘That is very true what you say there. Only something quite unimportant would be thrown away like that.’

      Poirot spoke meekly. Nevertheless Japp looked at him suspiciously.

      ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I know what I’m going to do next. What about you?’

      ‘Eh bien,’ said Poirot. ‘I shall complete my search for the unimportant. There is still the dustbin.’

      He skipped nimbly out of the room. Japp looked after him with an air of disgust.

      ‘Potty,’ he said. ‘Absolutely potty.’

      Inspector Jameson preserved a respectful silence. His face said with British superiority: