Murder in the Mews (Hercule Poirot 18)

After some minutes, he said quietly:

“Do you know if Mr. Laverton-West is in London at present?”

“I don’t know at all. I rather fancy he’s in Hampshire with his people. I suppose I ought to have wired him. How dreadful. I forgot.”

“It is not easy to remember everything, mademoiselle, when a catastrophe occurs. And after all, the bad news, it will keep. One hears it only too soon.”

“Yes, that’s true,” the girl said absently.

Japp’s footsteps were heard descending the stairs. Jane went out to meet him.

“Well?”

Japp shook his head.

“Nothing helpful, I’m afraid, Miss Plenderleith. I’ve been over the whole house now. Oh, I suppose I’d better just have a look in this cupboard under the stairs.”

He caught hold of the handle as he spoke, and pulled.

Jane Plenderleith said:

“It’s locked.”

Something in her voice made both men look at her sharply.

“Yes,” said Japp pleasantly. “I can see it’s locked. Perhaps you’ll get the key.”

The girl was standing as though carved in stone.

“I—I’m not sure where it is.”

Japp shot a quick glance at her. His voice continued resolutely pleasant and offhand.

“Dear me, that’s too bad. Don’t want to splinter the wood, opening it by force. I’ll send Jameson out to get an assortment of keys.”

She moved forward stiffly.

“Oh,” she said. “One minute. It might be—”

She went back into the living room and reappeared a moment later holding a fair-sized key in her hand.

“We keep it locked,” she explained, “because one’s umbrellas and things have a habit of getting pinched.”

“Very wise precaution,” said Japp, cheerfully accepting the key.

He turned it in the lock and threw the door open. It was dark inside the cupboard. Japp took out his pocket flashlight and let it play round the inside.

Poirot felt the girl at his side stiffen and stop breathing for a second. His eyes followed the sweep of Japp’s torch.

There was not very much in the cupboard. Three umbrellas—one broken, four walking sticks, a set of golf clubs, two tennis racquets, a neatly-folded rug and several sofa cushions in various stages of dilapidation. On the top of these last reposed a small, smart-looking attaché case.

As Japp stretched out a hand towards it, Jane Plenderleith said quickly:

“That’s mine. I—it came back with me this morning. So there can’t be anything there.”

“Just as well to make quite sure,” said Japp, his cheery friendliness increasing slightly.

The case was unlocked. Inside it was fitted with shagreen brushes and toilet bottles. There were two magazines in it but nothing else.