One, Two, Buckle My Shoe (Hercule Poirot 23)

Hercule Poirot said slowly:

“Yes. The evidence of my own eyes….”

VII

Japp came into Poirot’s sitting room and slammed down his bowler hat with such force that the table rocked.

He said:

“What the devil made you think of it?”

“My good Japp, I do not know what you are talking about.”

Japp said slowly and forcefully:

“What gave you the idea that the body wasn’t Miss Sainsbury Seale’s body?”

Poirot looked worried. He said:

“It was the face that worried me. Why smash up a dead woman’s face?”

Japp said:

“My word, I hope old Morley’s somewhere where he can know about it. It’s just possible, you know, that he was put out of the way on purpose—so that he couldn’t give evidence.”

“It would certainly be better if he could have given evidence himself.”

“Leatheran will be all right. Morley’s successor. He’s a thoroughly capable man with a good manner and the evidence is unmistakable.”

The evening papers came out with a sensation the next day. The dead body found in the Battersea flat, believed to be that of Miss Sainsbury Seale, was positively identified as that of Mrs. Albert Chapman.

Mr. Leatheran, of 58, Queen Charlotte Street, unhesitatingly pronounced it to be Mrs. Chapman on the evidence of the teeth and jaw, full particulars of which were recorded in the late Mr. Morley’s professional chart.

Miss Sainsbury Seale’s clothes had been found on the body and Miss Sainsbury Seale’s handbag with the body—but where was Miss Sainsbury Seale herself?

NINE, TEN, A GOOD FAT HEN

I

As they came away from the inquest Japp said jubilantly to Poirot:

“A smart piece of work, that. Gave ’em a sensation!”

Poirot nodded.

“You tumbled to it first,” said Japp, “but, you know, I wasn’t happy about that body myself. After all, you don’t go smashing a dead person’s face and head about for nothing. It’s messy, unpleasant work, and it was pretty plain there must be some reason for it. And there’s only one reason there could be—to confuse the identity.” He added generously: “But I shouldn’t have tumbled so quickly to the fact that it actually was the other woman.”

Poirot said with a smile:

“And yet, my friend, the actual descriptions of the women were not unlike as regards fundamentals. Mrs. Chapman was a smart, good-looking woman, well made up and fashionably turned out. Miss Sainsbury Seale was dowdy and innocent of lipstick or rouge. But the essentials were the same. Both were women of forty odd. Both were roughly about the same height and build. Both had hair turning grey which they touched up to make it appear golden.”

“Yes, of course, when you put it like that. One thing we’ve got to admit—the fair Mabelle put it over on both of us, good and proper. I’d have sworn she was the genuine article.”

“But, my friend, she was the genuine article. We know all about her past life.”

“We didn’t know she was capable of murder—and that’s what it looks like now. Sylvia didn’t murder Mabelle. Mabelle murdered Sylvia.”

Hercule Poirot shook his head in a worried fashion. He still found it difficult