Murder in the Mews. Agatha Christie
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at the foot of a ladder-like flight of stairs.
A man came to the top of the staircase, recognized Japp and said:
‘Up here, sir.’
Japp and Poirot mounted the stairs.
The man at the stairhead opened a door on the left and they found themselves in a small bedroom.
‘Thought you’d like me to run over the chief points, sir.’
‘Quite right, Jameson,’ said Japp. ‘What about it?’
Divisional Inspector Jameson took up the tale.
‘Deceased’s a Mrs Allen, sir. Lived here with a friend—a Miss Plenderleith. Miss Plenderleith was away staying in the country and returned this morning. She let herself in with her key, was surprised to find no one about. A woman usually comes in at nine o’clock to do for them. She went upstairs first into her own room (that’s this room) then across the landing to her friend’s room. Door was locked on the inside. She rattled the handle, knocked and called, but couldn’t get any answer. In the end getting alarmed she rang up the police station. That was at ten forty-five. We came along at once and forced the door open. Mrs Allen was lying in a heap on the ground shot through the head. There was an automatic in her hand—a Webley .25—and it looked a clear case of suicide.’
‘Where is Miss Plenderleith now?’
‘She’s downstairs in the sitting-room, sir. A very cool, efficient young lady, I should say. Got a head on her.’
‘I’ll talk to her presently. I’d better see Brett now.’
Accompanied by Poirot he crossed the landing and entered the opposite room. A tall, elderly man looked up and nodded.
‘Hallo, Japp, glad you’ve got here. Funny business, this.’
Japp advanced towards him. Hercule Poirot sent a quick searching glance round the room.
It was much larger than the room they had just quitted. It had a built-out bay window, and whereas the other room had been a bedroom pure and simple, this was emphatically a bedroom disguised as a sitting-room.
The walls were silver and the ceiling emerald green. There were curtains of a modernistic pattern in silver and green. There was a divan covered with a shimmering emerald green silk quilt and numbers of gold and silver cushions. There was a tall antique walnut bureau, a walnut tallboy, and several modern chairs of gleaming chromium. On a low glass table there was a big ashtray full of cigarette stubs.
Delicately Hercule Poirot sniffed the air. Then he joined Japp where the latter stood looking down at the body.
In a heap on the floor, lying as she had fallen from one of the chromium chairs, was the body of a young woman of perhaps twenty-seven. She had fair hair and delicate features. There was very little make-up on the face. It was a pretty, wistful, perhaps slightly stupid face. On the left side of the head was a mass of congealed blood. The fingers of the right hand were clasped round a small pistol. The woman was dressed in a simple frock of dark green high to the neck.
‘Well, Brett, what’s the trouble?’
Japp was looking down also at the huddled figure.
‘Position’s all right,’ said the doctor. ‘If she shot herself she’d probably have slipped from the chair into just that position. The door was locked and the window was fastened on the inside.’
‘That’s all right, you say. Then what’s wrong?’
‘Take a look at the pistol. I haven’t handled it—waiting for the fingerprint men. But you can see quite well what I mean.’
Together Poirot and Japp knelt down and examined the pistol closely.
‘I see what you mean,’ said Japp rising. ‘It’s in the curve of her hand. It looks as though she’s holding it—but as a matter of fact she isn’t holding it. Anything else?’
‘Plenty. She’s got the pistol in her right hand. Now take a look at the wound. The pistol was held close to the head just above the left ear—the left ear, mark you.’
‘H’m,’ said Japp. ‘That does seem to settle it. She couldn’t hold a pistol and fire it in that position with her right hand?’
‘Plumb impossible, I should say. You might get your arm round but I doubt if you could fire the shot.’
‘That seems pretty obvious then. Someone else shot her and tried to make it look like suicide. What about the locked door and window, though?’
Inspector Jameson answered this.
‘Window was closed and bolted, sir, but although the door was locked we haven’t been able to find the key.’
Japp nodded.
‘Yes, that was a bad break. Whoever did it locked the door when he left and hoped the absence of the key wouldn’t be noticed.’
Poirot murmured:
‘C’est bête, ça!’
‘Oh, come now, Poirot, old man, you mustn’t judge everybody else by the light of your shining intellect! As a matter of fact that’s the sort of little detail that’s quite apt to be overlooked. Door’s locked. People break in. Woman found dead—pistol in her hand—clear case of suicide—she locked herself in to do it. They don’t go hunting about for keys. As a matter of fact, Miss Plenderleith’s sending for the police was lucky. She might have got one or two of the chauffeurs to come and burst in the door—and then the key question would have been overlooked altogether.’
‘Yes, I suppose that is true,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘It would have been many people’s natural reaction. The police, they are the last resource, are they not?’
He was still staring down at the body.
‘Anything strike you?’ Japp asked.
The question was careless but his eyes were keen and attentive.
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.’