Two elderly men sat together in a room whose furnishings were of the most modern kind. There were no curves in the room. Everything was square. Almost the only exception was Hercule Poirot himself who was full of curves.
His stomach was pleasantly rounded, his head resembled an egg in shape, and his moustaches curved upwards in a flamboyant flourish.
He was sipping a glass of sirop and looking thoughtfully at Mr. Goby.
Mr. Goby was small and spare and shrunken. He had always been refreshingly nondescript in appearance and he was now so nondescript as practically not to be there at all. He was not looking at Poirot because Mr. Goby never looked at anybody.
Such remarks as he was now making seemed to be addressed to the left-hand corner of the chromium-plated fireplace curb.
Mr. Goby was famous for the acquiring of information. Very few people knew about him and very few employed his services—but those few were usually extremely rich. They had to be, for Mr. Goby was very expensive. His speciality was the acquiring of information quickly. At the flick of Mr. Goby’s double-jointed thumb, hundreds of patient questioning plodding men and women, old and young, of all apparent stations in life, were despatched to question, and probe, and achieve results.
Mr. Goby had now practically retired from business. But he occasionally “obliged” a few old patrons. Hercule Poirot was one of these.
“I’ve got what I could for you,” Mr. Goby told the fire curb in a soft confidential whisper. “I sent the boys out. They do what they can—good lads—good lads all of them, but not what they used to be in the old days. They don’t come that way nowadays. Not willing to learn, that’s what it is. Think they know everything after they’ve only been a couple of years on the job. And they work to time. Shocking the way they work to time.”
He shook his head sadly and shifted his gaze to an electric plug socket.
“It’s the Government,” he told it. “And all this education racket. It gives them ideas. They come back and tell us what they think. They can’t think, most of them, anyway. All they know is things out of books. That’s no good in our business. Bring in the answers—that’s all that’s needed—no thinking.”
Mr. Goby flung himself back in his chair and winked at a lampshade.
“Mustn’t crab the Government, though! Don’t know really what we’d do without it. I can tell you that nowadays you can walk in most anywhere with a notebook and pencil, dressed right, and speaking B.B.C., and ask people all the most intimate details of their daily lives and all their back history, and what they had for dinner on November 23rd because that was a test day for middleclass incomes—or whatever it happens to be (making it a grade above to butter them up!)—ask ’em any mortal thing you can; and nine times out of ten they’ll come across pat, and even the tenth time though they may cut up rough, they won’t doubt for a minute that you’re what you say you are—and that the Government really wants to know—for some completely unfathomable reason! I can tell you, M. Poirot,” said Mr. Goby, still talking to the lampshade, “that it’s the best line we’ve ever had; much better than reading the electric meter or tracing a fault in the telephone—yes, or than calling as nuns, or the Girl Guides or Boy Scouts asking for subscriptions—though we use all those too. Yes, Government snooping is God’s gift to investigators and long may it continue!”
Poirot did not speak. Mr. Goby had grown a little garrulous with advancing years, but he would come to the point in his own good time.
“Ar,” said Mr. Goby, and took out a very scrubby little notebook. He licked his finger and flicked over the pages. “Here we are. Mr. George Crossfield. We’ll take him first. Just the plain facts. You won’t want to know how I got them. He’s been in Queer Street for quite a while now. Horses, mostly, and gambling—he’s not a great one for women. Goes over to France now and then, and Monte too. Spends a lot of time at the Casino. Too downy to cash cheques there, but gets hold of a lot more money than his travelling allowance would account for. I didn’t go into that, because it wasn’t what you want to know. But he’s not scrupulous about evading the law—and being a lawyer he knows how to do it. Some reason to believe he’s been using trust funds entrusted to him to invest. Plunging pretty wildly of late—on the Stock Exchange and on the gee-gees! Bad judgement and bad luck. Been off his feed badly for three months. Worried, bad-tempered and irritable in the office. But since his uncle’s death that’s all changed. He’s like the breakfast eggs (if we had ’em). Sunny side up!
“Now, as to particular information asked for. Statement that he was at Hurst Park races on the day in question almost certainly untrue. Almost invariably places bets with one or other of two bookies on the course. They didn’t see him that day. Possible that he left Paddington by train for destination unknown. Taxi driver who took fare to Paddington made doubtful identification of his photograph. But I wouldn’t bank on it. He’s a very common type—nothing outstanding about him. No success with porters, etc., at Paddington. Certainly didn’t arrive at Cholsey station—which is nearest for Lytchett St. Mary. Small station, strangers noticeable. Could have got out at Reading and taken bus. Buses there crowded, frequent and several routes go within a mile or so of Lytchett St. Mary as well as the bus service that goes right into the village. He wouldn’t take that—not if he meant business. All in all, he’s a downy card. Wasn’t seen in Lytchett St. Mary but he needn’t have been. Other ways of approach than through the village. Was in the OUDS at Oxford, by the way. If he went to the cottage that day he mayn’t have looked quite like the usual George Crossfield. I’ll keep him in my book, shall I? There’s a black market angle I’d like to play up.”
“You may keep him in,” said Hercule Poirot.
Mr. Goby licked his finger and turned another page of his notebook.
“Mr. Michael Shane. He’s thought quite a lot of in the profession. Has an even better idea of himself than other people have. Wants to star and wants to star quickly. Fond of money and doing himself well. Very attractive to women. They fall for him right and left. He’s partial to them himself—but business comes first, as you might say. He’s been running around with Sorrel Dainton who was playing the lead in the last show he was in. He only had a minor part but made quite a hit in it, and Miss Dainton’s husband doesn’t like him. His wife doesn’t know about him and Miss Dainton. Doesn’t know much about anything, it seems. Not much of an actress I gather, but easy on the eye. Crazy about her husband. Some rumour of a bust-up likely between them not long ago, but that seems out now. Out since Mr. Richard Abernethie’s death.”
Mr. Goby emphasised the last point by nodding his head at a cushion on the sofa.
“On the day in question, Mr. Shane says he was meeting a Mr. Rosenheim and a Mr. Oscar Lewis to fix up some stage business. He didn’t meet them. Sent them a wire to say he was terribly sorry he couldn’t make it. What he did do was to go to the Emeraldo Car people, who hire out ‘drive yourself ’ cars. He hired a car about twelve o’clock and drove away in it. He returned it about six in the evening. According to the speedometer it had been driven just about the right number of miles for what we’re after. No confirmation from Lytchett St. Mary. No strange car seems to have been observed there that day. Lots of places it could be left unnoticed a mile or so away. And there’s even a disused quarry a few hundred yards down the lane from the cottage. Three market towns within walking distance where you can park in side streets, without the police bothering about you. All right, we keep Mr. Shane in?”
“Most certainly.”
“Now Mrs. Shane.” Mr. Goby rubbed his nose and told his left cuff about Mrs. Shane. “She says she was shopping. Just shopping…” Mr. Goby raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Women who are shopping—just scatty, that’s what they are. And she’d heard she’d come into money the day before. Naturally there’d be no holding her. She has one or two charge accounts but they’re overdrawn and they’ve been pressing her for payment and she didn’t put any more on the sheet. It’s quite on the cards that she went in here and there and everywhere, trying on clothes, looking at jewellery, pricing this, that, and the other—and as likely as not, not buying anything! She’s easy to approach—I’ll say that. I had one of my young ladies who’s knowledgeable on the theatrical line to do a hook up. Stopped by her table in a restaurant and exclaimed the way they do: ‘Darling, I haven’t seen you since Way Down Under. You were wonderful in that! Have you seen Hubert lately?’ That was the producer and Mrs. Shane was a bit of a flop in the play—but that makes it go all the better. They’re chatting theatrical stuff at once, and my girl throws the right names about, and then she says, ‘I believe I caught a glimpse of you at so and so, on so and so,’ giving the day—and most ladies fall for it and say, ‘Oh no, I was—’ whatever it may be. But not Mrs. Shane. Just looks vacant and says, ‘Oh, I dare say.’ What can you do with a lady like that?” Mr. Goby shook his head severely at the radiator.
“Nothing,” said Hercule Poirot with feeling. “Do I not have cause to know it? Never shall I forget the killing of Lord Edgware. I was nearly defeated—yes, I, Hercule Poirot—by the extremely simple cunning of a vacant brain. The very simple-minded have often the genius to commit an uncomplicated crime and then leave it alone. Let us hope that our murderer—if there is a murderer in this affair—is intelligent and superior and thoroughly pleased with himself and unable to resist painting the lily. Enfin—but continue.”
Once more Mr. Goby applied himself to his little book.
“Mr. and Mrs. Banks—who said they were at home all day. She wasn’t, anyway! Went round to the garage, got out her car, and drove off in it about 1 o’clock. Destination unknown. Back about five. Can’t tell about mileage because she’s had it out every day since and it’s been nobody’s business to check.
“As to Mr. Banks, we’ve dug up something curious. To begin with, I’ll mention that on the day in question we don’t know what he did. He didn’t go to work. Seems he’d already asked for a couple of days off on account of the funeral. And since then he’s chucked his job—with no consideration for the firm. Nice, well-established pharmacy it is. They’re not too keen on Master Banks. Seems he used to get into rather queer excitable states.
“Well, as I say, we don’t know what he was doing on the day of Mrs. L.’s death. He didn’t go with his wife. It could be that he stopped in their little flat all day. There’s no porter there, and nobody knows whether tenants are in or out. But his back history is interesting. Up till about four months ago—just before he met his wife, he was in a Mental Home. Not certified—just what they call a mental breakdown. Seems he made some slip up in dispensing a medicine. (He was working with a Mayfair firm then.) The woman recovered, and the firm were all over themselves apologizing, and there was no prosecution. After all, these accidental slips do occur, and most decent people are sorry for a poor young chap who’s done it—so long as there’s no permanent harm done, that is. The firm didn’t sack him, but he resigned—said it had shaken his nerve. But afterwards, it seems, he got into a very low state and told the doctor he was obsessed by guilt—that it had all been deliberate—the woman had been overbearing and rude to him when she came into the shop, had complained that her last prescription had been badly made up—and that he had resented this and had deliberately added a near lethal dose of some drug or other. He said, ‘She had to be punished for daring to speak to me like that!’ And then wept and said he was too wicked to live and a lot of things like that. The medicos have a long word for that sort of thing—guilt complex or something—and don’t believe it was deliberate at all, just carelessness, but that he wanted to make it important and serious.”
“Ça se peut,” said Hercule Poirot.
“Pardon? Anyway, he went into this Sanatorium and they treated him and discharged him as cured, and he met Miss Abernethie as she was then. And he got a job in this respectable but rather obscure little chemist’s shop. Told them he’d been out of England for a year and a half, and gave them his former reference from some shop in Eastbourne. Nothing against him in that shop, but a fellow dispenser said he had a very queer temper and was odd in his manner sometimes. There’s a story about a customer saying once as a joke, ‘Wish you’d sell me something to poison my wife, ha ha!’ And Banks says to him, very soft and quiet: ‘I could… It would cost you two hundred pounds.’ The man felt uneasy and laughed it off. May have been all a joke, but it doesn’t seem to me that Banks is the joking kind.”
“Mon ami,” said Hercule Poirot. “It really amazes me how you get your information! Medical and highly confidential most of it!”
Mr. Goby’s eyes swivelled right round the room and he murmured, looking expectantly at the door, that there were ways….
“Now we come to the country department. Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Abernethie. Very nice place they’ve got, but sadly needing money spent on it. Very straitened they seem to be, very straitened. Taxation and unfortunate investments. Mr. Abernethie enjoys ill health and the emphasis is on the enjoyment. Complains a lot and has everyone running and fetching and carrying. Eats hearty meals, and seems quite strong physically if he likes to make the effort. There’s no one in the house after the daily woman goes and no one’s allowed into Mr. Abernethie’s room unless he rings the bell. He was in a very bad temper the morning of the day after the funeral. Swore at Mrs. Jones. Ate only a little of his breakfast and said he wouldn’t have any lunch—he’d had a bad night. He said the supper she had left out for him was unfit to eat and a good deal more. He was alone in the house and unseen by anybody from 9:30 that morning until the following morning.”
“And Mrs. Abernethie?”
“She started off from Enderby by car at the time you mentioned. Arrived on foot at a small local garage in a place called Cathstone and explained her car had broken down a couple of miles away.
“A mechanic drove her out to it, made an investigation and said they’d have to tow it in and it would be a long job—couldn’t promise to finish it that day. The lady was very put out, but went to a small inn, arranged to stay the night, and asked for some sandwiches as she said she’d like to see something of the countryside—it’s on the edge of the moorland country. She didn’t come back to the inn till quite late that evening. My informant said he didn’t wonder. It’s a sordid little place!”
“And the times?”
“She got the sandwiches at eleven. If she’d walked to the main road, a mile, she could have hitchhiked into Wallcaster and caught a special South Coast express which stops at Reading West. I won’t go into details of buses etcetera. It could just have been done if you could make the—er—attack fairly late in the afternoon.”
“I understand the doctor stretched the time limit to possibly 4:30.”
“Mind you,” said Mr. Goby, “I shouldn’t say it was likely. She seems to be a nice lady, liked by everybody. She’s devoted to her husband, treats him like a child.”
“Yes, yes, the maternal complex.”
“She’s strong and hefty, chops the wood and often hauls in great baskets of logs. Pretty good with the inside of a car, too.”
“I was coming to that. What exactly was wrong with the car?”
“Do you want the exact details, M. Poirot?”
“Heaven forbid. I have no mechanical knowledge.”
“It was a difficult thing to spot. And also to put right. And it could have been done maliciously by someone without very much trouble. By someone who was familiar with the insides of a car.”
“C’est magnifique!” said Poirot with bitter enthusiasm. “All so convenient, all so possible. Bon dieu, can we eliminate nobody? And Mrs. Leo Abernethie?”
“She’s a very nice lady, too. Mr. Abernethie deceased was very fond of her. She came there to stay about a fortnight before he died.”
“After he had been to Lytchett St. Mary to see his sister?”
“No, just before. Her income is a good deal reduced since the war. She gave up her house in England and took a small flat in London. She has a villa in Cyprus and spends part of the year there. She has a young nephew whom she is helping to educate, and there seems to be one or two young artists whom she helps financially from time to time.”
“St. Helen of the blameless life,” said Poirot, shutting his eyes. “And it was quite impossible for her to have left Enderby that day without the servants knowing? Say that is so, I implore you!”
Mr. Goby brought his glance across to rest apologetically on Poirot’s polished patent leather shoe, the nearest he had come to a direct encounter, and murmured:
“I’m afraid I can’t say that, M. Poirot. Mrs. Abernethie went to London to fetch some extra clothes and belongings as she had agreed with Mr. Entwhistle to stay on and see to things.”
“Il ne manquait ça!” said Poirot with strong feeling.
Chapter Twelve