Murder in the Mews (Hercule Poirot 18)

“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?”