Murder in the Mews (Hercule Poirot 18)

There was a meditative note in his voice. He glanced curiously at Hercule Poirot.

Four

“Well?” said Major Riddle.

It was twenty minutes later. The chief constable’s interrogative “Well?” was addressed to the police surgeon, a lank elderly man with grizzled hair.

The latter shrugged his shoulders.

“He’s been dead over half an hour—but not more than an hour. You don’t want technicalities, I know, so I’ll spare you them. The man was shot through the head, the pistol being held a few inches from the right temple. Bullet passed right through the brain and out again.”

“Perfectly compatible with suicide?”

“Oh, perfectly. The body then slumped down in the chair, and the pistol dropped from his hand.”

“You’ve got the bullet?”

“Yes.” The doctor held it up.

“Good,” said Major Riddle. “We’ll keep it for comparison with the pistol. Glad it’s a clear case and no difficulties.”

Hercule Poirot asked gently:

“You are sure there are no difficulties, Doctor?”

The doctor replied slowly:

“Well, I suppose you might call one thing a little odd. When he shot himself he must have been leaning slightly over to the right. Otherwise the bullet would have hit the wall below the mirror, instead of plumb in the middle.”

“An uncomfortable position in which to commit suicide,” said Poirot.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, well—comfort—if you’re going to end it all—” He left the sentence unfinished.

Major Riddle said:

“The body can be moved now?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve done with it until the P.-M.”

“What about you, Inspector?” Major Riddle spoke to a tall impassive-faced man in plain clothes.

“O.K., sir. We’ve got all we want. Only the deceased’s fingerprints on the pistol.”

“Then you can get on with it.”

The mortal remains of Gervase Chevenix-Gore were removed. The chief constable and Poirot were left together.

“Well,” said Riddle, “everything seems quite clear and aboveboard. Door locked, window fastened, key of door in dead man’s pocket. Everything according to Cocker—but for one circumstance.”

“And what is that, my friend?” inquired Poirot.

“You!” said Riddle bluntly. “What are you doing down here?”

By way of reply, Poirot handed to him the letter he had received from the dead man a week ago, and the telegram which had finally brought him there.

“Humph,” said the chief constable. “Interesting. We’ll have to get to the bottom of this. I should say it had a direct bearing upon his suicide.”