Murder in the Mews. Agatha Christie

6

      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