Murder in the Mews (Hercule Poirot 18)

“The front door?”

“The front door, naturally.”

The child reflected. His eyes screwed themselves up in an effort of remembrance.

“Think the lady probably did—No, she didn’t. He did. Pulled it to with a bit of a bang and jumped into the car quick. Looked as though he had a date somewhere.”

“Right. Well, young man, you seem a bright kind of shaver. Here’s sixpence for you.”

Dismissing Master Hogg, Japp turned to his friend. Slowly with one accord they nodded.

“Could be!” said Japp.

“There are possibilities,” agreed Poirot.

His eyes shone with a green light. They looked like a cat’s.

Six

On reentering the sitting room of No. 14, Japp wasted no time in beating about the bush. He came straight to the point.

“Now look here, Miss Plenderleith, don’t you think it’s better to spill the beans here and now. It’s going to come to that in the end.”

Jane Plenderleith raised her eyebrows. She was standing by the mantelpiece, gently warming one foot at the fire.

“I really don’t know what you mean.”

“Is that quite true, Miss Plenderleith?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I’ve answered all your questions. I don’t see what more I can do.”

“Well, it’s my opinion you could do a lot more—if you chose.”

“That’s only an opinion, though, isn’t it, Chief Inspector?”

Japp grew rather red in the face.

“I think,” said Poirot, “that mademoiselle would appreciate better the reason for your questions if you told her just how the case stands.”

“That’s very simple. Now then, Miss Plenderleith, the facts are as follows. Your friend was found shot through the head with a pistol in her hand and the door and the window fastened. That looked like a plain case of suicide. But it wasn’t suicide. The medical evidence alone proves that.”

“How?”

All her ironic coolness had disappeared. She leaned forward—intent—watching his face.

“The pistol was in her hand—but the fingers weren’t grasping it. Moreover there were no fingerprints at all on the pistol. And the angle of the wound makes it impossible that the wound should have been self-inflicted. Then again, she left no letter—rather an unusual thing for a suicide. And though the door was locked the key has not been found.”

Jane Plenderleith turned slowly and sat down in a chair facing them.

“So that’s it!” she said. “All along I’ve felt it was impossible that she should have killed herself! I was right! She didn’t kill herself. Someone else killed her.”

For a moment or two she remained lost in thought. Then she raised her head brusquely.

“Ask me any questions you like,” she said. “I will answer them to the best of my ability.”

Japp began: