Murder in the Mews (Hercule Poirot 18)

“Hallo, that you, Poirot?”

“Oui, c’est moi.”

“Japp speaking here. Remember we came home last night through Bardsley Gardens Mews?”

“Yes?”

“And that we talked about how easy it would be to shoot a person with all those squibs and crackers and the rest of it going off?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, there was a suicide in that mews. No. 14. A young widow—Mrs. Allen. I’m going round there now. Like to come?”

“Excuse me, but does someone of your eminence, my dear friend, usually get sent to a case of suicide?”

“Sharp fellow. No—he doesn’t. As a matter of fact our doctor seems to think there’s something funny about this. Will you come? I kind of feel you ought to be in on it.”

“Certainly I will come. No. 14, you say?”

“That’s right.”

III

Poirot arrived at No. 14 Bardsley Gardens Mews almost at the same moment as a car drew up containing Japp and three other men.

No. 14 was clearly marked out as the centre of interest. A big circle of people, chauffeurs, their wives, errand boys, loafers, well-dressed passersby and innumerable children were drawn up all staring at No. 14 with open mouths and a fascinated stare.

A police constable in uniform stood on the step and did his best to keep back the curious. Alert-looking young men with cameras were busy and surged forward as Japp alighted.

“Nothing for you now,” said Japp, brushing them aside. He nodded to Poirot. “So here you are. Let’s get inside.”

They passed in quickly, the door shut behind them and they found themselves squeezed together at the foot of a ladderlike flight of stairs.

A man came to the top of the staircase, recognized Japp and said:

“Up here, sir.”

Japp and Poirot mounted the stairs.

The man at the stairhead opened a door on the left and they found themselves in a small bedroom.

“Thought you’d like me to run over the chief points, sir.”

“Quite right, Jameson,” said Japp. “What about it?”

Divisional Inspector Jameson took up the tale.

“Deceased’s a Mrs. Allen, sir. Lived here with a friend—a Miss Plenderleith. Miss Plenderleith was away staying in the country and returned this morning. She let herself in with her key, was surprised to find no one about. A woman usually comes in at nine o’clock to do for them. She went upstairs first into her own room (that’s this room) then across the landing to her friend’s room. Door was locked on the inside. She rattled the handle, knocked and called, but couldn’t get any answer. In the end getting alarmed she rang up the police station. That was at ten forty-five. We came along at once and forced the door open. Mrs. Allen was lying in a heap on the ground shot through the head. There was an automatic in her hand—a Webley .25—and it looked a clear case of suicide.”

“Where is Miss Plenderleith now?”

“She’s downstairs in the sitting room, sir. A very cool, efficient young lady, I should say. Got a head on her.”

“I’ll talk to her presently. I’d better see Brett now.”

Accompanied by Poirot he crossed the landing and entered the opposite room. A tall, elderly man looked up and nodded.

“Hallo, Japp, glad you’ve got here. Funny business, this.”