Chapter 18 Chapter Eighteen

"A neat job," said Superintendent Spence. His flushed face was angry.He looked angrily at Hercule Poirot, who was sitting listening attentively. "Sleek and ugly," he said, "she was strangled," he went on, "with a silk scarf—her own, which she was wearing around her neck that day—wrapped around her neck, Just tie the ends in a knot - and pull tight. Clean, neat, saves time and effort. That's what assassins do in India. The dead man was killed without struggling or screaming - it's on her carotid artery." "Do you need special training?"

"Maybe—but there's no need to. You can always read about it in books if you want to. There's no particular difficulty, especially if the victim is unsuspecting—she's certainly unsuspecting. " Poirot nodded. "Someone she knew did it." "Yes. They had coffee together—a cup in front of her, and another cup—in front of the guest. Finger prints were carefully wiped off the guest's cup, but lipstick was not so easily wiped off completely. Erase—you can still see a faint trace of lipstick." "So a woman did it?" "You think it's a woman, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. That conclusion can be drawn from the scene." Spence went on to say: "Mrs. Upward recognized one of the photographs—the one of Lily Gamble. So this is connected with Mrs. McGinty's murder." "Yes," said Poirot, "it has something to do with Mrs. McGinty's murder." He remembered Mrs Upward's cheerful tone: "Mrs. McGinty is dead. How did she die?" "Her neck sticks out, just like mine." Spence continued: "The opportunity she was looking for seemed to be in her favour—her son and Mrs. Oliver were out at the theater together. She called up the person concerned and asked him to come and see her. Is that what you surmised? She was doing detective reasoning."

"Something like this. It's curiosity. She's keeping her secrets to herself, but she wants to find out more. She doesn't realize that she might be doing it dangerously." sighed Poirot, " A lot of people think murder is like a game, but it's not a game. I reminded her, but she wouldn't listen." "She won't listen, we know. Well, that clears things up. When Robin and Mrs. Oliver were about to drive off, he ran back into the house when his mother had just called someone. She didn't want to tell him who she was calling, she kept it cryptic. Robin and Mrs. Oliver thought it might be you."

"I hope so," said Hercule Poirot. "Can't you imagine whom she will call?" "No idea. These things just happen naturally, you know." "Can't the maid be of any help?" "No. She came back about ten-thirty—she had a key to the back door. She went straight into her bedroom, which adjoined the kitchen, and went to bed. The whole house was dark, and she thought Mrs. Upward I have already fallen asleep, and everyone else has not returned home." Spence added: "She's deaf and has a bad temper. She pays little attention to what's going on around her—and I think she must be doing as little work as possible and whining as much as possible."

"Isn't he a loyal old servant?" "No! She's only been with the Upwards for a few years." A superintendent leaned in the door and said: "There's a young lady who wants to see you, sir. She said there's something you might want to know. It's about last night." "About last night? Let her in." Deirdre Henderson came in.She was pale, tense, and as restrained as ever. "I thought I'd better come," she said, "and I hope I haven't bothered you," she added apologetically. "You're welcome, Miss Henderson."

Spence stood up and pulled out a chair.She sat down, awkwardly, like a schoolboy. "You have something to say?" said Spence encouragingly. "You mean about last night? About Mrs. Upward?" "Yeah, that's right. She got murdered, didn't she? I mean the people at the post office and the bakery said that. Mom said of course it couldn't be true—" She stopped. "I'm afraid your mother's not right on that point. It's absolutely true. Now, you want to—tell us what?" Deirdre nodded. "Yes," she said, "you know, I'm there."

Spence's attitude has changed.The change was slight, perhaps, but the stern composure of a superintendent was at work. "There you are," he said. "You were at Rabenhams last night. What time?" "I don't remember exactly," said Deirdre. "Somewhere between eight-thirty and nine, I think it was probably near nine. Anyway, after supper, you know, she Called me to go." "Mrs. Upward calling you?" "Yes. She said Robin and Mrs. Oliver were going to the theatre, and she was home alone, and asked if I would come over and have coffee with her."

"Are you going?" "yes." "Did you—drink coffee with her?" Deirdre shook her head. "No. When I got there--knocked at the door, but there was no answer. So I opened it and went into the hall. It was dark in there, and I saw from the outside that there was no light in the living room. I was therefore perplexed. I called twice 'Mrs. Upward,' but no one said yes. So I thought there must be something wrong." "What do you think might be wrong?" "I thought maybe she went to the theater with them." "Didn't you know beforehand?"

"It is indeed strange." "Can't you think of any other reason?" "Oh, and it occurred to me that perhaps Frieda had misrepresented her. She does remember things wrong sometimes. She's a foreigner. She was very excited last night because she was leaving soon." "How did you do it, Miss Henderson?" "I left." "Go home?" "Yes—I mean, I went for a walk first. It was fine yesterday." Spence was silent for a moment, eyeing her.Poirot noticed that he was studying her lips. At this moment, he stood up and said:

"Well, thank you, Miss Henderson. You were very right in coming to us to speak out about this. We appreciate it very much." He went over to shake her hand. "I guess I should," Deirdre said, "Mom doesn't want me to come." "She still doesn't want you to come?" "But I thought I'd better say something." "very true." He led her to the door and turned back again. He sat down, tapped the table, and looked at Poirot. "No lipstick," he said, "or was she just this morning?" "No, not only this morning, she never wears lipstick." "It's weird, isn't it? There are still women who don't use lipstick these days." "She was one of those weird girls - not fully developed." "As far as my nose is concerned, there is no smell of perfume either. And Mrs. Oliver said there was a distinct smell of perfume--very expensive perfume, she said--in that house last night. Robin Earl Purward also confirmed this, it was not the perfume his mother wore." "I don't think the girl knows how to wear perfume," said Poirot. "I should think so, too," said Spence. "Looks like a class president at an old girls' school—though she must be thirty?" "It should be that big." "Development is suppressed, do you mean that?" Poirot thought about it.Then he said it's not that simple. "It doesn't make sense," Spence frowned, "no lipstick, no perfume. And because she also had a very good mother, and Lily Gamble's mother was killed in a drunken altercation in Cardiff when Lily Gamble was nine. I don't see how she could be Lily Gamble. But—Mrs. Upward called her over last night—you can't get rid of the fact." He wiped Wiping his nose, "It doesn't make any sense at all." "How about the autopsy?" "It didn't help much. All the coroners said with certainty that she probably died at half-past nine." "Then Deirdre Henderson may have been dead when she arrived at Labernams." "If the girl's telling the truth, maybe it is. Either she's telling the truth—or she's under serious suspicion. She says her mother doesn't want her to tell us. Is there anything suspicious about it?" Poirot thought about it. "Nothing special. That's what mothers always say. You know, she's one of those people who tries to avoid anything unpleasant." Spence sighed: "So we know that Deirdre Henderson - was there. Maybe someone else was there before Deirdre Henderson. It was a woman, a woman with lipstick and expensive perfume .” Poirot said in a low voice: "You will investigate—" Spence interrupts him: "I'm investigating! Just doing it quietly at the moment. We don't want to alarm anyone. What was Eva Carpenter doing last night? What was Sarah Rendell doing? At nine-fifty they All sitting at home. As far as I know, Carpenter was at a political rally last night." "Eva," said Poirot thoughtfully, "the fashion for names has changed, has it not? You hardly hear the name Eva nowadays. It is outdated. But this Eva is very popular." "She can afford expensive perfume," Spence said, continuing to follow his own train of thought. He sighed again. "We had to find more background on her. It's so easy to be a war widow. You can grieve anywhere, mourning some brave young air crash soldier. No one will ask you anything." He turned to another topic. "That sugar-cracking ax you sent, or whatever it is called - I think it hits the point. It was the murder weapon used in Mrs. McGinty's murder. The coroners agreed that the shape of the ax was It fit perfectly with the wounds of the corpse. And there was blood on it. Of course the blood was washed - but what they didn't realize was that even the tiniest bit of blood reacted with the latest reagents. Yes, it was human blood .And that's connecting the Wetherbys and the Henderson girl again. Is that the case?" "Deirdre Henderson is pretty sure the sugar hammer was sold at a harvest festival flea market." "And Mrs. Somerhays must have bought it at the Christmas flea market, too?" "Mrs. Summerhays never remembers anything exactly," said Poirot despondently. "She is a very charming person, but she does things without order. But I will tell you the following facts— I've stayed at the 'Long Meadow' hotel - where the doors and windows are always open. Anyone - anyone could come in and take things away and put them back sometime later, Summerhays Neither the Colonel nor Mrs. Somerhays would notice. If one day she found the thing missing, she would think her husband had used it to shuck rabbits or chop trees—and he would have thought she had taken it. Went to chop pork. In that house, no one keeps things in order - they just pick up what they use and put it away. No one remembers anything. If I lived like that, I'd be in constant worry—but they—they didn't seem to care." Spence sighed. "Well—there's only one good news about the case—they're not going to execute James Bentley until the whole thing is cleared up. We've sent a report to the Home Secretary's office. They've given us what we need time." "I think," said Poirot, "that now that we know more, I should like to see James Bentley again." James Bentley has changed very little.Perhaps he was only a little thinner, and his hands more restless—otherwise, he was as quiet and hopeless as ever. Hercule Poirot spoke carefully.There is some new evidence.Police are re-investigating the case.So, there is hope... James Bentley, however, was indifferent to hope. He said: "No good. What else could they find?" "Your friends," said Hercule Poirot, "are working very hard." "My friends?" He shrugged. "I have no friends." "You shouldn't have said that. You have at least two friends." "Two friends? I really want to know who they are." There was no intention of wanting to know in his tone, just expressing disbelief. "First, Superintendent Spence—" "Spens? Spence? The superintendent who got me arrested on this case? It's just ridiculous." "It's not funny, it's luck. Spence is a very shrewd and conscientious inspector. He wants hard evidence. Make sure you don't catch the wrong guy." "The evidence he found was solid." "Not sure, he can't be sure. That's why I say he's your friend." "Is this kind of person a friend?" Hercule Poirot waited patiently.He thought that even a man like James Bentley must have some human emotions.Even James Bentley could not be completely free from the curiosity of ordinary people. Pretty sure, after a while, James Bentley asked: "And what about the other one?" "Another friend is Maud Williams." Bentley didn't seem to react. "Maud Williams? Who is she?" "She works in the offices of Breser & Skatel." "Oh—so it's that Miss Williams." "Indeed, it is that Miss Williams." "But what does that have to do with her?" From time to time Hercule Poirot found James Bentley's character so exasperating that he wished fervently that he could believe that James Bentley had been the murderer of McGinty.Unfortunately, the more Bentley provoked him, the more he became aware of Bentley's way of thinking.He found it increasingly difficult to imagine Bentley murdering anyone.Poirot was sure that James Bentley's attitude to murder was that it would not do any good anyway.If overconfidence is a character trait of a murderer, as Spence insists, then there is absolutely nothing in Bentley that is the essence of a murderer. Poirot, controlling his thoughts, said: "Miss Williams herself is very interested in the case. She believes you are innocent." "I don't see how she could know about the case." "She knows you." James Bentley blinked, reluctantly said: "I think she understands me to a certain extent, but not fully." "You work together, don't you? You even eat together sometimes?" "Er—yes—once or twice. At the Blue Cat, which is convenient—just across the road." "Did you go for a walk with her?" "In fact, we went for walks, and once, we walked on the grass together." Hercule Poirot couldn't bear it anymore, and broke out: "Oh, my God! Am I asking you to confess a crime? Isn't it perfectly natural to be in the company of a pretty girl? Isn't it pleasant? Can't you yourself Are you happy about it?" "I don't know why," said James Bentley. "At your age, it's natural to have girls in your company, and you have every right to enjoy that pleasure." "I don't know many girls." "You should be ashamed of it, not pretentious! You knew Miss Williams. You worked with her, talked with her, dined with her sometimes, and took a walk on the lawn together. And when I mentioned her, you couldn't even remember her name!" James Bentley blushed. "Well, you know—I've never been around girls much. She's not what you'd call a classy lady, is she? Well, nice to people—and so on—but, I Always thought my mum would think she was too ordinary." "That's what you think is important." James Bentley blushed again. "Her hair," he said, "and the kind of clothes she wore—my mother, of course, in the old fashion—" He interrupted the sentence. "But you find Miss Williams—how should I put it—sympathetic?" "She was always nice," said James Bentley slowly, "but she didn't—really—understand. She was just a little kid when her mother died, you know." "Then you lost your job," said Poirot, "and you couldn't find a new one. Miss Williams saw you once at Broadshinney. Is that so?" James Bentley was frustrated. "Yes—yes. She was there on a business trip, and she sent me a postcard asking me to meet her. I don't understand why she did that. Like I don't know her very well." "But you did meet her?" "Yes, I don't want to be rude." "Did you take her to a movie or dinner?" James Bentley seemed extremely indignant. "Oh no. Nothing of that sort. We—er—just talked while she was waiting for the bus." "Oh, how pleasant this must be to the poor girl!" James Bentley said angrily: "I don't have any money. You must remember that. I don't have any money." "Of course. That was a few days before Mrs. McGinty was killed?" James Bentley nodded.He said unexpectedly: "Yes, that was on Monday. She was killed on Wednesday." "I'm going to ask you something else now, Mr. Bentley. Does Mrs. McGinty buy the Sunday Comet?" "yes." "Have you read her paper?" "Sometimes, she always offered to read it to me, but I didn't ask for it very often. Mom never cared about that kind of paper." "So you didn't read the Sunday Comet that week?" "Didn't read it." "Hasn't Mrs. McGinty mentioned the paper, or the articles in it?" "Oh, she did," replied James Bentley unexpectedly, "and she goes on and on!" "Gee, she keeps talking. What did she say? Think about it. It's important." "I don't remember very well now. It was all about murders that happened in the past. I think she was talking about Craig—no, maybe not Craig. Anyway, she said it had something to do with that case One of the people in question lives in Broadshinney now. She keeps bringing it up. I don't see how it has anything to do with her." "Who did she say - at Broadshinney?" James Bentley said vaguely: "I think it's the woman who wrote the play with her son." "Did she mention her name?" "It's not—I—it's been that long." "I beg you—think hard. You want to be free again, don't you?" "Freedom?" Bentley seemed surprised. "Yes, freedom." "I—yes—I think I'd like to be free—" "Think about it, then! What the hell did Mrs. McGinty say?" "Well—as if to say—'She's very happy and proud now. She wouldn't be so proud if everyone knew about it.' And then, 'You don't think that's the same as It's the same person in the photo. But, of course, the photo was taken many years ago.'” "But how are you sure she meant Mrs. Upward?" "I didn't actually know . . . I just got the impression. She kept talking about Mrs. Upward—then I lost interest and stopped listening, and then—well, now I Come to think of it, I really don't know who she was talking about. You know, she said a lot." Poirot sighed. He said: "I don't think she was talking about Mrs. Upward myself. I think it was someone else. It's a shame to think you're being executed because you didn't pay due heed to what the person you're talking to said." Ridiculous... Did Mrs. McGinty tell you about the houses she worked for, or specifically about the mistresses of those houses?" "Yes, I did—but it's useless for you to ask me that. You don't seem to realize, M. Poirot, that I had my own livelihood to worry about. I was very anxious at that time from exhaustion." "Never so worrying as your present situation! Did Mrs. McGinty say anything about Mrs. Carpenter?—she was Mrs. Selak then—or did she say anything about Mrs. Rendell?" "Carpenter had a new house up on the hill, didn't he? He was engaged to Mrs. Selak then--Mrs. McGinty always despised Mrs. Selak. I don't know why. 'He went up to heaven.' She always says that about her. I don't know what she means by that." "Where are the Rendells?" "He's a doctor, isn't he? I don't recall her saying anything in particular about them." "Where are the Wetherbys?" "I remember exactly what she said about them. 'Always fussing, cranky, and impatient', that's what she said. As for Mr. Carpenter, she said of him, 'He never said anything good or bad. One sentence.'" He paused, "and she said—that was an unhappy family." Hercule Poirot looked up.For a moment he heard something in James Bentley's voice that he had not heard before.He didn't simply repeat what he could think of.His mind, for a brief moment, was out of its indifference.James Bentley was thinking about Hunter Court, about life in it, and whether it really was an unhappy family.James Bentley is thinking hard. Poirot asked him softly: "Are you familiar with them? Mother? Father? Or the daughter of that family?" "Not very familiar. I was thinking of the dog, a Sealyham terrier. He got leashed once. She couldn't get it off and I helped her." There was a new voice again in Bentley's tone, "I helped her," he said, and there was a vague pride and pride in the words. Poirot recalled what Mrs. Oliver had told him about her conversation with Deirdre Henderson. He asked softly: "Have you talked together?" "Yes. She—her mother suffered a lot, and she told me she liked her mother very much." "You just tell her about your mother?" "Yes." James Bentley answered simply. Poirot said nothing.He is waiting. "Life is cruel," said James Bentley, "and it's not fair. Some people never seem to have any happiness at all." "It is possible," said Hercule Poirot. "I don't think she's had much happiness. I mean Miss Wetherby." "Her name is Henderson." "Oh, yes. She told me she had a stepfather." "Deirdre Henderson," said Poirot, "sad Deirdre. A very pretty name—not a pretty girl, though, is it?" James Bentley blushed. "I think," he said, "she's very pretty..."