Murder in the Mews. Агата Кристи
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held up a well-manicured hand.
‘No, no, not quite that. As a matter of fact, Mrs Allen’s mother was a distant relation of my own family. She was fully my equal in birth. But of course, in my position, I have to be especially careful in choosing my friends—and my wife in choosing hers. One is to a certain extent in the limelight.’
‘Oh, quite,’ said Japp dryly. He went on, ‘So you can’t help us in any way?’
‘No indeed. I am utterly at sea. Barbara! Murdered! It seems incredible.’
‘Now, Mr Laverton-West, can you tell me what your own movements were on the night of November fifth?’
‘My movements? My movements?’
Laverton-West’s voice rose in shrill protest.
‘Purely a matter of routine,’ explained Japp. ‘We—er—have to ask everybody.’
Charles Laverton-West looked at him with dignity.
‘I should hope that a man in my position might be exempt.’
Japp merely waited.
‘I was—now let me see … Ah, yes. I was at the House. Left at half-past ten. Went for a walk along the Embankment. Watched some of the fireworks.’
‘Nice to think there aren’t any plots of that kind nowadays,’ said Japp cheerily.
Laverton-West gave him a fish-like stare.
‘Then I—er—walked home.’
‘Reaching home—your London address is Onslow Square, I think—at what time?’
‘I hardly know exactly.’
‘Eleven? Half-past?’
‘Somewhere about then.’
‘Perhaps someone let you in.’
‘No, I have my key.’
‘Meet anybody whilst you were walking?’
‘No—er—really, Chief Inspector, I resent these questions very much!’
‘I assure you, it’s just a matter of routine, Mr Laverton-West. They aren’t personal, you know.’
The reply seemed to soothe the irate M.P.
‘If that is all—’
‘That is all for the present, Mr Laverton-West.’
‘You will keep me informed—’
‘Naturally, sir. By the way, let me introduce M. Hercule Poirot. You may have heard of him.’
Mr Laverton-West’s eye fastened itself interestedly on the little Belgian.
‘Yes—yes—I have heard the name.’
‘Monsieur,’ said Poirot, his manner suddenly very foreign. ‘Believe me, my heart bleeds for you. Such a loss! Such agony as you must be enduring! Ah, but I will say no more. How magnificently the English hide their emotions.’ He whipped out his cigarette case. ‘Permit me—Ah, it is empty. Japp?’
Japp slapped his pockets and shook his head.
Laverton-West produced his own cigarette case, murmured, ‘Er—have one of mine, M. Poirot.’
‘Thank you—thank you.’ The little man helped himself.
‘As you say, M. Poirot,’ resumed the other, ‘we English do not parade our emotions. A stiff upper lip—that is our motto.’
He bowed to the two men and went out.
‘Bit of a stuffed fish,’ said Japp disgustedly. ‘And a boiled owl! The Plenderleith girl was quite right about him. Yet he’s a good-looking sort of chap—might go down well with some woman who had no sense of humour. What about that cigarette?’
Poirot handed it over, shaking his head.
‘Egyptian. An expensive variety.’
‘No, that’s no good. A pity, for I’ve never heard a weaker alibi! In fact, it wasn’t an alibi at all … You know, Poirot, it’s a pity the boot wasn’t on the other leg. If she’d been blackmailing him … He’s a lovely type for blackmail—would pay out like a lamb! Anything to avoid a scandal.’
‘My friend, it is very pretty to reconstruct the case as you would like it to be, but that is not strictly our affair.’
‘No, Eustace is our affair. I’ve got a few lines on him. Definitely a nasty fellow.’
‘By the way, did you do as I suggested about Miss Plenderleith?’
‘Yes. Wait a sec, I’ll ring through and get the latest.’
He picked up the telephone receiver and spoke through it.
After a brief interchange he replaced it and looked up at Poirot.
‘Pretty heartless piece of goods. Gone off to play golf. That’s a nice thing to do when your friend’s been murdered only the day before.’
Poirot uttered an exclamation.
‘What’s the matter now?’ asked Japp.
But Poirot was murmuring to himself.
‘Of course … of course … but naturally … What an imbecile I am—why, it leapt to the eye!’
Japp said rudely:
‘Stop jabbering to yourself and let’s go and tackle Eustace.’
He was amazed to see the radiant smile that spread over Poirot’s face.
‘But—yes—most certainly let us tackle him. For now, see you, I know everything—but everything!’
Major Eustace received the two men with the easy assurance of a man of the world.
His flat was small, a mere pied à terre, as he explained. He offered the two men a drink and when that was refused he took out his cigarette case.
Both Japp and Poirot accepted a cigarette. A quick glance passed between them.
‘You smoke Turkish, I see,’ said Japp as he twirled the cigarette between his fingers.
‘Yes. I’m sorry, do you prefer a gasper? I’ve got one somewhere about.’
‘No, no, this will do me very well.’ Then he leaned forward—his tone changed. ‘Perhaps you can guess, Major Eustace, what it was I came to see you about?’
The other shook his head. His manner was nonchalant. Major Eustace was a tall man, good-looking in a somewhat coarse fashion. There was a puffiness round the eyes—small, crafty eyes that belied the good-humoured geniality of his manner.
He said:
‘No—I’ve no idea what brings such a big gun as a chief inspector to see me. Anything to do with my car?’
‘No, it is not your car. I think you knew a Mrs Barbara Allen, Major Eustace?’
The major leant back, puffed out a cloud of smoke, and said in an enlightened voice:
‘Oh, so that’s it! Of course, I might have guessed. Very sad business.’
‘You know about it?’
‘Saw it in the paper last night. Too bad.’
‘You knew Mrs Allen out in India, I think.’
‘Yes, that’s some years ago now.’
‘Did you also know her husband?’
There