Chapter 6 Chapter Six

In the offices of Blaser-Scuttle, where James Bentley had once worked, Poirot was led into Mr. Scuttle's room after questioning. Mr. Scuttle is a busy and enthusiastic man. "Good morning, good morning," he said, rubbing his hands together, "what can we do for you?" He looked at Poirot in front of him with professional eyes, trying to figure out his identity.Foreigner, clothed in good quality, quite rich, a hotel owner?Or a hotel manager?Or a show business boss? "I hope I am not taking your time unduly, but I would like to ask you a little about your former employee, James Bentley."

Mr. Scuttle's expressive eyebrows rose an inch, then fell. "James Bentley. James Bentley?" He asked the next question quickly. "Are you a newspaper reporter?" "No." "You're not a policeman, are you?" "No. At least—not in this country." "Not in this country." Mr. Scuttle immediately stored the words in his mind for later use. "About what?" Poirot, never being too pedantic, knew he should seize the moment to tell the truth directly. He opened his mouth and said: "I am starting further inquiries into the case of James Bentley - ask his friends and relatives."

"I don't know of any relations with him. Anyway, he was found guilty, as you know, and sentenced to death." "But it hasn't been implemented yet." "Well, as long as there's life, there's hope, isn't it?" Mr. Scuttle shook his head. "But it's doubtful. The evidence is strong. Who are his relatives?" "I can only tell you the fact that his relatives are rich and powerful, very, very rich." "I am surprised by what you say." Mr. Scuttle could hardly have been more friendly.Poirot's "very, very rich" remark had an irresistible hypnotic effect on him. "Yes, your words do surprise me."

"Bentley's mother, Mrs. Bentley," continued Poirot, "was completely cut off from her own family, and she kept her son from knowing about her natal family." "Was her natal family well-known? Well, that's all right. Young Bentley never got any credit for it. It's a pity his relatives didn't come to his rescue sooner." "They have just learned of these circumstances," explained Poirot, "and they have hired me to come to the country as soon as possible, and to do all possible remedial measures." Scuttle leaned back in his chair, his businesslike manner relaxed.

"I don't know what you can do, I suppose he's insane? It's a bit too late now. But if you can get those famous doctors to testify, maybe you can try. Of course, I'm very bad at this." Poirot leaned forward. "Sir, James Bentley worked here. You can tell me about him." "There's very little I can tell you—not much, really. He's one of our low-ranking clerks, and there's nothing bad about him. He seems like a decent young man, reasonably well-bred, and so on. But He has no business acumen, he just can't get a thing done. You don't have to be smart in this business. If an agent comes to us and says he has a house to sell, we try to sell it to him. If an agent wants to buy a house, we find one for him. If it is a lonely house with few pleasant facilities and conveniences, we emphasize its long history and not mention it. Its unfavorable surroundings. If the house is right on the gas field, we say it is well equipped and convenient, not mentioning its surrounding views. All in all, try to please our agent and make money —that's what you're going to do here. All kinds of artifice and cunning are needed here.' We advise you to buy this house quickly, ma'am, there's a member of Parliament who's very interested in it—indeed Really like the house very much. He's coming again this afternoon, let's show him!' Nine times out of ten they'll fall for it - say what a member of Parliament wants to do, always gets a lot of people moving They don’t even think about why! There isn’t a member of parliament whose choice doesn’t affect the choice of houses in his constituency. It’s working very well.” He burst out laughing, showing all his dentures. "Psychology—that's how things work—is about getting into people's minds."

Poirot clung to the word. "Psychology. You're absolutely right. I can see you're a good judge of people." "Not too bad. Not too bad," replied Mr. Scuttle modestly. "Therefore, I ask you again, what is your impression of James Bentley? This is between you and me--in strict confidentiality between you and me--and you think he would kill the old lady?" Skater narrowed his eyes. "certainly." "So, psychologically speaking, do you also think it is very likely that he would do such a thing?" "Oh, if you talk like that--no, not quite sure. Never thought he'd have the guts. If you really ask me, I'll tell you why. He's mild-tempered, and always a little hesitant. Indecisive, indecisive, unbearable. Constantly worrying about accepting the next job. He's just a little unhinged."

"Have you no particular reason for dismissing him?" Skatel shook his head. "Business isn't doing well these days, the staff doesn't have enough to do, and we fire the least capable people. That's Bentley's turn. I think that's normal, when the company is doing badly, That's always been the case. Give him a good reference, and he still can't get a new job. He's not motivated, he lacks energy, and it doesn't give a good impression." This is always the case, Poirot thought, leaving the office.James Bentley always made a bad impression.Most people think murderers are very attractive, and he felt a little comforted when he thought so.

"Excuse me, do you mind if I sit down and talk to you?" Poirot was sitting at a small table in the Café Blue Cat, looking up from the menu he had just been studying carefully. The dimly lit Blue Cat coffee shop features a dedicated past world of oak trees and pane glass windows.But the lady who had just sat across from him, against the dark background behind her, was particularly eye-catching and vivid.She has blonde hair and wears a shiny blue skirt.Besides, Hercule Poirot could feel that he had seen this woman somewhere not so long ago. She continued: "I cannot help hearing about you and Scuttle." Poirot nodded.He had realized that the partitioned offices of Blaser-Scuttle were more about convenience than secrecy.This did not worry him, since what he hoped to achieve was publicity.He said, "You were typing by that window on the right?"

She nodded, showing her white teeth, and smiled to express her acquiescence. This is a healthy young woman with a plump figure.This was something Poirot appreciated very much.Age, according to his judgment, is about thirty-three or four-year-old. "Shall we talk about Mr. Bentley?" she said. "What about Mr. Bentley?" "Is he going to appeal? Is there any new evidence? Oh, I'm so glad I can't—I just don't believe he's going to kill." Poirot raised his eyebrows. "So you never thought he did it?" he said slowly. "Ah, I didn't think so at first, I thought it must be a mistake. But then there was evidence—"

She stopped. "Yes, there is proof," said Poirot. "Based on the evidence, it seemed impossible that someone else did it. I thought, maybe he's gone crazy." "Doesn't he seem to you a little--how should I put it--is he a little queer?" "Ah, no, it's not weird, he's just kind of shy and out of his depth. That happens to everybody. The truth is, he's never shown himself well, and he doesn't have confidence in himself." Poirot looked at her. Of course she had enough self-confidence herself, and she probably had enough self-confidence to inspire another.

"You like him?" he asked. "Yes, I like him." She blushed. "Amy - this is the other girl in the office - she teases him a lot and calls him a 'booty', but I like him a lot. He's polite and gentle - and he knows a lot, my Meaning a lot from the books. He misses his mother, you know, she's been sick for years, not really sick, just not in good health, and he's been very attentive to her." Poirot nodded. He knew the mothers very well. "Of course, she also cares about him, taking care of his weak heart in winter, and his food and clothing." Poirot nodded again and asked: "Are you friends with him?" "I can't tell—not quite. We talk together all the time. But I haven't seen him much since he left here. I wrote him a letter, very friendly, but he didn't Write me back." Poirot asked softly: "But you like him?" She said bravely: "Yes, I like him." "That's very good," said Poirot, flashing back to his mind the day of his interview with the condemned criminal.He had seen James Bentley very well that day, gray-brown hair, thin figure, large joints in the hands, and the large Adam's apple in the long thin neck.He also saw that furtive, awkward, almost furtive look.He is not a clean and tidy person, nor is he the kind of open-minded person who gives people a sense of trust - but the kind of mysterious, slightly cunning guy who seems to be evasive when looking at things, speaks ambiguously, and likes to talk to himself Soliloquy, not frank at all.He was one of those dishonest, impolite fellows, and that was the impression James Bentley made of most people who liked to look at people, and that was the impression he made on the jury. This guy can lie, steal money, and smash an old lady's head off.But to the very discerning Superintendent Spence, he doesn't have that impression of him.Nor did Hercule Poirot have such an impression of him.Now, the girl didn't see him that way either. "Miss, your name is—" "Maud Williams. Can I help you with anything?" "I think so. There are people who believe that James Bentley is innocent, Miss Williams. They are trying to establish it, and I am the one who was called upon to investigate. What I can tell you is that I have obtained We've made considerable progress—yes, we've made considerable progress!" He lied without blushing.In his opinion, telling this lie was very necessary. Some people always feel uncomfortable in certain places. Maud Williams would talk.Once she started to speak, it was like throwing a stone into water, and the ripples spread quickly.He said: "You told me just now that you and James Bentley used to talk together, and he told you about his mother and his family life, did he mention anyone else? Did he or his mother have a bad relationship?" Maud Williams thought about it. "No—it's not a bad relationship as you say. His mother doesn't like young women very much. No mother with a dutiful son likes a young woman." "No, that's not what I mean. Some family feud or some old enemy, or someone who has a grudge against him, someone who is hostile to him. Did he mention any of this to you?" She shook her head. "He never said there was such a person in his life." "Did he mention his landlady, Mrs. McGinty?" "No mention of that name. He said once that she made him eat herring too many times. Another time he mentioned that his landlady was upset because her cat was lost!" "Did he mention it to you—please be honest. Did he say he knew where she kept her money?" An unnatural blush came over the girl's face, but she set her cheeks firmly. "He actually said it to me. We've talked to some people who just don't trust banks - he just said his landlady kept her money under a floorboard. He said at the time. 'Maybe someday I'll get the money while she's out.' It didn't sound like a joke, he never joked. What he meant was actually that he was worried about the landlady's carelessness." "Oh," said Poirot, "that's right. I mean, from my point of view, that's right. When James Bentley thought of stealing money, it seemed to him that It's like putting it from someone else's point of view. He might say something like, 'One day, maybe somebody's going to blow her head off for money.'" "But anyway, it's not like that." "Oh, yes. But when a man speaks, no matter how casually, it is inevitable that he reveals what is in his heart. Intelligent criminals are never willing to speak, and those criminals are seldom intelligent. They usually talk loudly , and on and on—so that, sooner or later, the vast majority of criminals will be caught without a fight." Maud Williams blurted out: "But someone must have killed the old woman." "Of course." "Do you have any ideas?" "Yes." Hercule Poirot lied again. "I think I've got some ideas, but I've only just made progress." The girl looked at her watch. "I must go back. We can only talk for half an hour. Gilchester is a stone's throw from here—I used to always look for work in London. If there is anything I can do for you, please let me know." I know, okay?" Poirot took out a business card and wrote down the hotel where he was staying and the telephone number. "This is where I live now." It distressed him to notice that his name did not impress her in any particular way.He couldn't help thinking: The younger generation always lacks awareness of celebrities. Hercule Poirot felt a little better on the bus back to Broadshinney.At any rate, there was now someone who believed as much in James Bentley's innocence as he did.Bentley's way of doing things left him with too few friends.His brain couldn't help but recall Bentley in prison.What a disappointing meeting it was, arousing no hope, not even the slightest interest. "Thank you," said Bentley dryly. "But I don't think anyone can possibly help me any more in this matter." No, he believed he had no enemies. "You can't have any enemies when people barely notice you're alive. Where's your mother? Does she have any enemies?" "Of course not. Everyone likes her and respects her." There was a hint of exasperation in his voice. "Where are your friends?" said James Bentley rather reluctantly: "I don't have any friends." That was not quite true, for Maud Williams was a friend.How wonderful is God's arrangement!thought Poirot.No matter how unattractive a person's appearance is, there are always women who like a man.Despite Miss Williams's voluptuous appearance, he was keenly aware that she was actually a genuinely generous mother.She had the qualities that James Bentley lacked.That kind of exuberant energy, that kind of vigor, that kind of strength, that kind of determination to refuse to admit defeat and always go forward to win is something that Bentley doesn't have.He sighed. What a big whopper he told today.But never mind - lying is necessary.Poirot allowed himself to think wildly, talking to himself in confused metaphors. "Anyway, there's always a needle in the sea; I can always lift my foot and step on one in a pack of sleeping dogs; if you shoot an arrow into the sky, one of them always falls, Shot in a glass house."