Murder in the Mews (Hercule Poirot 18)

Japp examined the whole outfit with meticulous attention. When at last he shut the lid and began a cursory examination of the cushions, the girl gave an audible sigh of relief.

There was nothing else in the cupboard beyond what was plainly to be seen. Japp’s examination was soon finished.

He relocked the door and handed the key to Jane Plenderleith.

“Well,” he said, “that concludes matters. Can you give me Mr. Laverton-West’s address?”

“Farlescombe Hall, Little Ledbury, Hampshire.”

“Thank you, Miss Plenderleith. That’s all for the present. I may be round again later. By the way, mum’s the word. Leave it at suicide as far as the general public’s concerned.”

“Of course, I quite understand.”

She shook hands with them both.

As they walked away down the mews, Japp exploded:

“What the—the hell was there in that cupboard? There was something.”

“Yes, there was something.”

“And I’ll bet ten to one it was something to do with the attaché case! But like the double-dyed mutt I must be, I couldn’t find anything. Looked in all the bottles—felt the lining—what the devil could it be?”

Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.

“That girl’s in it somehow,” Japp went on. “Brought that case back this morning? Not on your life, she didn

’t! Notice that there were two magazines in it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, one of them was for last July!”

Seven

I

It was the following day when Japp walked into Poirot’s flat, flung his hat on the table in deep disgust and dropped into a chair.

“Well,” he growled. “She’s out of it!”

“Who is out of it?”

“Plenderleith. Was playing bridge up to midnight. Host, hostess, naval commander guest and two servants can all swear to that. No doubt about it, we’ve got to give up any idea of her being concerned in the business. All the same, I’d like to know why she went all hot and bothered about that little attaché case under the stairs. That’s something in your line, Poirot. You like solving the kind of triviality that leads nowhere. The Mystery of the Small Attaché Case. Sounds quite promising!”

“I will give you yet another suggestion for a title. The Mystery of the Smell of Cigarette Smoke.”

“A bit clumsy for a title. Smell—eh? Was that why you were sniffing so when we first examined the body? I saw you—and heard you! Sniff—sniff—sniff. Thought you had a cold in your head.”

“You were entirely in error.”

Japp sighed.

“I always thought it was the little grey cells of the brain. Don’t tell me the cells of your nose are equally superior to anyone else’s.”

“No, no, calm yourself.”

“I didn’t smell any cigarette smoke,” went on Japp suspiciously.