Murder in the Mews (Hercule Poirot 18)

“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 postbox 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 wastepaper 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 wastepaper 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.”