Murder in the Mews (Hercule Poirot 18)

He skipped nimbly out of the room. Japp looked after him with an air of disgust.

“Potty,” he said. “Absolutely potty.”

Inspector Jameson preserved a respectful silence. His face said with British superiority: “Foreigners!”

Aloud he said:

“So that’s Mr. Hercule Poirot! I’ve heard of him.”

“Old friend of mine,” explained Japp. “Not half as balmy as he looks, mind you. All the same he’s getting on now.”

“Gone a bit gaga as they say, sir,” suggested Inspector Jameson. “Ah well, age will tell.”

“All the same,” said Japp, “I wish I knew what he was up to.”

He walked over to the writing table and stared uneasily at an emerald green quill pen.

Five

Japp was just engaging his third chauffeur’s wife in conversation when Poirot, walking noiselessly as a cat, suddenly appeared at his elbow.

“Whew, you made me jump,” said Japp. “Got anything?”

“Not what I was looking for.”

Japp turned back to Mrs. James Hogg.

“And you say you’ve seen this gentleman before?”

“Oh, yes sir. And my husband too. We knew him at once.”

“Now look here, Mrs. Hogg, you’re a shrewd woman, I can see. I’ve no doubt that you know all about everyone in the mews. And you’re a woman of judgment—unusually good judgment, I can tell that—” Unblushingly he repeated this remark for the third time. Mrs. Hogg bridled slightly and assumed an expression of superhuman intelligence. “Give me a line on those two young women—Mrs. Allen and Miss Plenderleith. What were they like? Gay? Lots of parties? That sort of thing?”

“Oh, no sir, nothing of the kind. They went out a good bit—Mrs. Allen especially—but they’re class, if you know what I mean. Not like some as I could name down the other end. I’m sure the way that Mrs. Stevens goes on—if she is a Mrs. at all which I doubt—well I shouldn’t like to tell you what goes on there—I. . . .”

“Quite so,” said Japp, dexterously stopping the flow. “Now that’s very important what you’ve told me. Mrs. Allen and Miss Plenderleith were well liked, then?”

“Oh yes, sir, very nice ladies, both of them—especially Mrs. Allen. Always spoke a nice word to the children, she did. Lost her own little girl, I believe, poor dear. Ah well, I’ve buried three myself. And what I say is . . .”

“Yes, yes, very sad. And Miss Plenderleith?”

“Well, of course she was a nice lady too, but much more abrupt if you know what I mean. Just go by with a nod, she would, and not stop to pass the time of day. But I’ve nothing against her—nothing at all.”

“She and Mrs. Allen got on well together?”

“Oh, yes sir. No quarrelling—nothing like that. Very happy and contented they were—I’m sure Mrs. Pierce will bear me out.”

“Yes, we’ve talked to her. Do you know Mrs. Allen’s fiancé by sight?”

“The gentleman she’s going to marry? Oh, yes. He’s been here quite a bit off and on. Member of Parliament, they do say.”

“It wasn’t he who came last night?”

“No, sir, it was not.” Mrs. Hogg drew herself up. A note of excitement disguised beneath intense primness came into her voice. “And if you ask me, sir, what you are thinking is all wrong. Mrs. Allen wasn’t that kind of lady, I’m sure. It’s true there was no one in the house, but I do not believe anything of the kind—I said so to Hogg only this morning. ‘No, Hogg,’ I said, ‘Mrs. Allen was a lady—a real lady—so don’t go suggesting things’—knowing what a man’s mind is, if you’ll excuse my mentioning it. Always coarse in their ideas.”

Passing this insult by, Japp proceeded:

“You saw him arrive and you saw him leave—that’s so, isn’t it?”