Chapter 16 Chapter Sixteen

"I have a lot of things to do today," said Hercule Poirot when he got up from the dining table the next morning to see Miss Limon: "There are many things to inquire about, things to sort out, people to visit and contact." Have you arranged everything for me?" "Of course," said Miss Lemon, "it's all here." She handed him a small briefcase.Poirot hurriedly checked the documents inside, and nodded. "You're right in doing things," he said. "That's great." "Well, Mr. Poirot, I don't think there's anything great about it. I'll do what you tell me to do. It's very simple."

"Hmph, it's not that simple." Poirot said, "I often tell those gassmiths, plumbers, and those who come to repair things? Have they ever done what I wanted? Rarely, very often." few." He stepped into the hallway leading to the door. "Bring me that light overcoat, George, it's getting autumnal to me." He poked his head into the female secretary's room again and said, "Oh, by the way, what do you think of the lady who came yesterday?" Miss Li Meng was stretching her fingers to the keys of the typewriter, she was taken aback when she heard this, and then said succinctly: "Foreigner."

"Yes, yes." "You can tell it's a foreigner at a glance." "Other than that, is there any other comment?" Miss Lemon thought about it. "I really can't judge her ability," she said skeptically. "She seems to have some trouble." "Yes, you know, she was suspected of stealing something, not money, but her employer's papers." "Oh, my God," said Miss Lemon, "is it a very important document?" "Seems probable. It's just as likely, though, that he didn't lose anything at all." "Oh, well," said Miss Lemon, giving her boss the wink she usually gave her boss when she wanted to send him away so he could concentrate on his work. "Anyway, I always say that when hiring people, it's best to take into account where you are, and you should buy British products."

Hercule Poirot went out of the house, and the first thing he wanted to do was Bollodon Flats.After getting off the car in the patio, he looked around.In front of one of the gates stood a uniformed gatekeeper, blowing a lonely tune. As Poirot approached him, he said: "Sir, what's the matter?" "I wonder if you can tell me," said Poirot, "a very tragic incident that happened here recently." "A tragic event?" said the gatekeeper. "I don't know." "A lady jumped off a building, or should I say fell from a tall building and fell to her death."

"Oh, that's what you're talking about. I don't know that because I've only been here a week. Hi, Joe." A porter from the opposite row of apartments approached them. "Do you know about the woman who fell from the seventh floor? It happened a month ago, right?" "Not that long," said Joe.He is an old man who speaks slowly. "Terrible." "Did she die on the ground?" "Yes." "What is her name? Because, perhaps, she is a relation of mine," explained Poirot.He's not one to worry about lying. "Really, sir. I'm so sorry for you. She's a lady named Chabenti."

"Has she lived in the apartment here for a long time?" "Let me see. About a year—maybe a year and a half, no, I think two years. Number seventy-six, seventh floor." "Is it the top floor?" "Yes, sir. Mrs. Chabenti." Poirot did not ask further details, because he was afraid that people would think that since they were his relatives, he should know some things.Therefore, he turned around and asked: "Did it cause a lot of commotion, and many people asked questions? When did it happen?" "I think it was about five or six o'clock in the morning. There was no movement beforehand, and it fell down all at once. Although it was early in the morning, a large group of people immediately gathered around the gate over there. Squeeze in and look. People are like that, you know."

"Of course the police are here too." "Of course, the police came quickly, and so did the doctor and the ambulance. That's the way it is," said the old concierge.Judging from his bored tone, it seemed that once or twice a month someone would jump off the seventh floor. "I guess the people upstairs ran down to take a look after they knew what happened." "Uh, not many people came down, because first of all, the noise of the cars here was too loud, and most of the people upstairs didn't even know it. Some people seemed to say that she screamed when she fell, but the noise wasn't too loud. What a big commotion. Only people crossing the street saw it, and then, of course, they put their heads through the bars to look in, and then everyone crowded to see. Sir, you know something happened, and everyone wants to watch of!"

Poirot told him that he knew it well. "Does she live alone?" asked Poirot with affected indifference. "correct." "But I suppose she has some friends in the flat?" Joe shrugged his shoulders and shook his head again. "Maybe, I dare not say. It is rare to see her with anyone in our dining room. A few times, she invited friends from outside to the restaurant. In my opinion, she is not very good with the tenants here. Get close. I think," said Joe impatiently, "if you want to know anything else, you'd better ask Mr. McFarlane, our superintendent here."

"Ah, thank you. That's exactly what I'm going to." "His office is on the ground floor of that building over there, with a nameplate on the door." Poirot followed his directions and walked over.He took from his suitcase the top letter that Miss Lemon had prepared for him. The envelope was stamped "Mr. McFarlane".Mr. McFarlane was a handsome, shrewd man of about forty-five.Poirot handed him the letter, which he opened and read. "Oh, yes," he said, "that's right." He put the letter on the desk and looked at Poirot. "The owner of the apartment has instructed me to assist you as much as possible in connection with the death of Mrs. Louise Chabenty. What do you want to know, sir"—and looking at the letter again—"Eh, M. Poirot? "

"This time, of course, everything will be kept secret," Poirot said: "The police and lawyers have contacted her relatives, but because I am going to England, the relatives are anxious that I can personally check some facts. I think you understand that. Official reports alone are often very unsettling." "Yes, indeed, I know very well that it must be so. I will do my best to tell you what you want to know." "How long has she lived here and how did she come here to rent a house?" "She's been here--I can find out right away--nearly two years straight. There's an apartment that's vacant, and I think the lady who's moving out must have known her and told her about it beforehand. The The lady is Mrs Weld, worked for the BBC, and lived in London for many years, but is going to Canada. She was a nice lady—I don't think she knew the dead lady very well, Maybe it was just casually mentioning to her that she was moving out. Mrs. Chabenti liked the apartment."

"Do you think she is a suitable lodger?" Mr. McFarlane hesitated a little before answering: "She's a very nice lodger, yes." "You can tell me that you don't have to worry about it," said Hercule Poirot. "There are often very lively parties in her apartment, eh? She entertains friends, can it be said that it is a bit too carnival?" Mr. McFarlane was no longer restrained in his speech. "Occasionally there are complaints, but mostly elderly tenants." Hercule Poirot made a dramatic gesture. "A little too fond of drinking, indeed, sir, and her friends are gamers too. And it's bound to cause a lot of trouble sometimes." "She likes to hang out with men, doesn't she?" "Well, I don't want to talk too much." "Yes, I understand." "Of course, she's not very young anymore." "Appearance alone is not reliable. How old do you think she is?" "It's hard to say. Forty, forty-five." He added: "You know, she's not in good health." "Yes, I know." "She drank too much, there is no doubt about it. She was also depressed, and worried about her health. I believe that she often went to the doctor, and did not listen to what the doctor said. Ladies in this kind of She thinks she has cancer, and she believes it. The doctor told her no, but she just refuses to believe it. The doctor also said that there was nothing wrong with her during the autopsy, but people talk too much about this disease. Too much. One day, she couldn't think about it, so she—" He nodded. "What a tragedy," said Poirot. "Among the lodgers here, does she have any particularly close friends?" "As far as I know, no. You know, the people who live here are not very close to each other. Mostly business people or people with regular jobs." "I thought of Miss Claudia Ruixi Holland. I don't know if they are familiar with each other." "Miss Ruixi? Holland? I don't think so. Uh, I mean, they just know each other, at most they say hello in the elevator. But socially, it is impossible to have any contact. Because, they are not the same People of seniority. I mean—" Mr. McFarlane said with some embarrassment.But Poirot could not understand why. "Another lady living with Miss Holland may have known Mrs. Chapentry, I believe—Miss Norma Resderick." "Do you know her? I really didn't expect that she just moved in recently, and I don't know her very well. This lady always looks scared. I think she just left school not long ago." Afterwards, he And again: "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?" "No, thank you. You are really helpful. I wonder if I can see her apartment, just so that I can tell them when I go back—" Poirot paused, not knowing what he could say when he went back. "Well, let me see. The present lodger is a Mr. Truvers, who works all day in the city. Well, come up with me." They went up to the seventh floor.As McFarlane inserted the key into the keyhole, a number from the door fell off, narrowly missing Poirot's black patent-leather shoes.He dodged, stooped to pick it up, and carefully put the number spike back in place. "These numbers are loose," he said. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll make a note. Yes, it's always loose. Come in." Poirot entered the drawing room.At this moment, it seems that the interior has no personal characteristics. The wood on the wall is patterned wood similar to wallpaper, and the furniture is very common but quite comfortable. The only things that belong to the tenant are a TV and some books. "You see, our flats here come with some furniture," said Mr. McFarlane. "Tenants don't have to bring anything except what they want. Most of us are move-in and move-out tenants." "Are the interiors all the same?" “It’s not all the same. The general tenants seem to like the patterned wood panels. It goes well with the pictures. The only thing that’s different is what’s hanging on the wall opposite the door. We have a huge selection of watercolors that guests can choose from. "There are ten sets in all," said Mr. McFarlane proudly, "and there are Japanese ones, very artistic, don't you think? ——There are those of English gardens, flowers and birds, bushes, clown masks, lines and cubist abstraction, sharp and strong contrasts in colors, etc., all designed by famous artists.Our furniture is all in one style and comes in two shades. Of course, tenants can add as much as they want, but usually they don't bother. " "Most of the tenants, according to you, are not residents of the house," said Poirot speculatively. "By the way, most of them are birds flying around, and some of them are very busy at work. What they need is pure comfort and convenience, and they don't pay much attention to interior decoration; but there are also one or two who like to do things by themselves. , it didn’t work out that well from our point of view. We stated in the lease that the tenants had to put things back in place before they moved out, and that any damage was to be paid for.” Their conversation seemed to be getting more and more divorced from Mrs. Zapenti's death.Poirot walked towards the window. "Is it from here?" he asked in a low voice. "Yes, that's the window, the one on the left. There's a terrace out there." Poirot looked down the window. "Seven floors," he said, "is a long way." "Yeah, it's not bad. He died on the spot. Of course, it may have been an accident." Poirot shook his head. "You don't really think so, Mr. McFarlane. It must be on purpose." "Of course, one has to find a reason that is easy to explain. I don't think she is a happy woman." "Thank you very much," said Poirot, "for being so kind and helpful. I will then be able to make a clearer report to her relatives in France." The truth about what happened to him is not as clear as he would like it to be.So far, nothing has been found to support his theory that the death of Louise Chabenti is of considerable importance. He repeated her name repeatedly in serious thought, Louise...why the name Louise? Does it always linger in his mind?He shook his head puzzled. He thanked Mr. McFarlane and left.