Kitabı oku: «Mrs McGinty’s Dead»

Contents

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

E-book Extras

About Agatha Christie

The Agatha Christie Collection

www.agathachristie.com

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Hercule Poirot came out of the Vieille Grand’mère restaurant into Soho. He turned up the collar of his overcoat through prudence, rather than necessity, since the night was not cold. ‘But at my age, one takes no risks,’ Poirot was wont to declare.

His eyes held a reflective sleepy pleasure. The Escargots de la Vieille Grand’mère had been delicious. A real find, this dingy little restaurant. Meditatively, like a well fed dog, Hercule Poirot curled his tongue round his lips. Drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed his luxuriant moustaches.

Yes, he had dined well…And now what?

A taxi, passing him, slowed down invitingly. Poirot hesitated for a moment, but made no sign. Why take a taxi? He would in any case reach home too early to go to bed.

‘Alas,’ murmured Poirot to his moustaches, ‘that one can only eat three times a day…’

For afternoon tea was a meal to which he had never become acclimatized. ‘If one partakes of the five o’clock, one does not,’ he explained, ‘approach the dinner with the proper quality of expectant gastric juices. And the dinner, let us remember, is the supreme meal of the day!’

Not for him, either, the mid-morning coffee. No, chocolate and croissants for breakfast, Déjeuner at twelve-thirty if possible but certainly not later than one o’clock, and finally the climax: Le Dîner!

These were the peak periods of Hercule Poirot’s day. Always a man who had taken his stomach seriously, he was reaping his reward in old age. Eating was now not only a physical pleasure, it was also an intellectual research. For in between meals he spent quite a lot of time searching out and marking down possible sources of new and delicious food. La Vieille Grand’mère was the result of one of these quests and La Vieille Grand’mère had just received the seal of Hercule Poirot’s gastronomic approval.

But now, unfortunately, there was the evening to put in.

Hercule Poirot sighed.

‘If only,’ he thought, ‘ce cher Hastings were available…’

He dwelt with pleasure on his remembrances of his old friend.

‘My first friend in this country—and still to me the dearest friend I have. True, often and often did he enrage me. But do I remember that now? No. I remember only his incredulous wonder, his open-mouthed appreciation of my talents—the ease with which I misled him without uttering an untrue word, his bafflement, his stupendous astonishment when he at last perceived the truth that had been clear to me all along. Ce cher, cher ami! It is my weakness, it has always been my weakness, to desire to show off. That weakness, Hastings could never understand. But indeed it is very necessary for a man of my abilities to admire himself—and for that one needs stimulation from outside. I cannot, truly I cannot, sit in a chair all day reflecting how truly admirable I am. One needs the human touch. One needs—as they say nowadays—the stooge.’

Hercule Poirot sighed. He turned into Shaftesbury Avenue.

Should he cross it and go on to Leicester Square and spend the evening at a cinema? Frowning slightly, he shook his head. The cinema, more often than not, enraged him by the looseness of its plots—the lack of logical continuity in the argument—even the photography which, raved over by some, to Hercule Poirot seemed often no more than the portrayal of scenes and objects so as to make them appear totally different from what they were in reality.

Everything, Hercule Poirot decided, was too artistic nowadays. Nowhere was there the love of order and method that he himself prized so highly. And seldom was there any appreciation of subtlety. Scenes of violence and crude brutality were the fashion, and as a former police officer, Poirot was bored by brutality. In his early days, he had seen plenty of crude brutality. It had been more the rule than the exception. He found it fatiguing, and unintelligent.

‘The truth is,’ Poirot reflected as he turned his steps homeward, ‘I am not in tune with the modern world. And I am, in a superior way, a slave as other men are slaves. My work has enslaved me just as their work enslaves them. When the hour of leisure arrives, they have nothing with which to fill their leisure. The retired financier takes up golf, the little merchant puts bulbs in his garden, me, I eat. But there it is, I come round to it again. One can only eat three times a day. And in between are the gaps.’

He passed a newspaper-seller and scanned the bill.

‘Result of McGinty Trial. Verdict.’

It stirred no interest in him. He recalled vaguely a small paragraph in the papers. It had not been an interesting murder. Some wretched old woman knocked on the head for a few pounds. All part of the senseless crude brutality of these days.

Poirot turned into the courtyard of his block of flats. As always his heart swelled in approval. He was proud of his home. A splendid symmetrical building. The lift took him up to the third floor where he had a large luxury flat with impeccable chromium fittings, square armchairs, and severely rectangular ornaments. There could truly be said not to be a curve in the place.

As he opened the door with his latchkey and stepped into the square, white lobby, his manservant, George, stepped softly to meet him.

‘Good evening, sir. There is a—gentleman waiting to see you.’

He relieved Poirot deftly of his overcoat.

‘Indeed?’ Poirot was aware of that very slight pause before the word gentleman. As a social snob, George was an expert.

‘What is his name?’

‘A Mr Spence, sir.’

‘Spence.’ The name, for the moment, meant nothing to Poirot. Yet he knew that it should do so.

Pausing for a moment before the mirror to adjust his moustaches to a state of perfection, Poirot opened the door of the sitting-room and entered. The man sitting in one of the big square armchairs got up.

‘Hallo, M. Poirot, hope you remember me. It’s a long time…Superintendent Spence.’

‘But of course.’ Poirot shook him warmly by the hand.

Superintendent Spence of the Kilchester Police. A very interesting case that had been…As Spence had said, a long time ago now…

Poirot pressed his guest with refreshments. A grenadine? Crème de Menthe? Benedictine? Crème de Cacao?…

At this moment George entered with a tray on which was a whisky bottle and a siphon. ‘Or beer if you prefer it, sir?’ he murmured to the visitor.

Superintendent Spence’s large red face lightened.

‘Beer for me,’ he said.

Poirot was left to wonder once more at the accomplishments of George. He himself had had no idea that there was beer in the flat and it seemed incomprehensible to him that it could be preferred to a sweet liqueur.

When Spence had his foaming tankard, Poirot poured himself out a tiny glass of gleaming green crème de menthe.

‘But it is charming of you to look me up,’ he said. ‘Charming. You have come up from—?’

‘Kilchester. I’ll be retired in about six months. Actually, I was due for retirement eighteen months ago. They asked me to stop on and I did.’

‘You were wise,’ said Poirot with feeling. ‘You were very wise…’

‘Was I? I wonder. I’m not so sure.’

‘Yes, yes, you were wise,’ Poirot insisted. ‘The long hours of ennui, you have no conception of them.’

‘Oh, I’ll have plenty to do when I retire. Moved into a new house last year, we did. Quite a bit of garden and shamefully neglected. I haven’t been able to get down to it properly yet.’

‘Ah yes, you are one of those who garden. Me, once I decided to live in the country and grow vegetable marrows. It did not succeed. I have not the temperament.’

‘You should have seen one of my marrows last year,’ said Spence with enthusiasm. ‘Colossal! And my roses. I’m keen on roses. I’m going to have—’

He broke off.

‘That’s not what I came to talk about.’

‘No, no, you came to see an old acquaintance—it was kind. I appreciate it.’

‘There’s more to it than that, I’m afraid, M. Poirot. I’ll be honest. I want something.’

Poirot murmured delicately:

‘There is a mortgage, possibly, on your house? You would like a loan—’

Spence interrupted in a horrified voice:

‘Oh, good Lord, it’s not money! Nothing of that kind.’

Poirot waved his hands in graceful apology.

‘I demand your pardon.’

‘I’ll tell you straight out—it’s damned cheek what I’ve come for. If you send me away with a flea in my ear I shan’t be surprised.’

‘There will be no flea,’ said Poirot. ‘But continue.’

‘It’s the McGinty case. You’ve read about it, perhaps?’

Poirot shook his head.

‘Not with attention. Mrs McGinty—an old woman in a shop or a house. She is dead, yes. How did she die?’

Spence stared at him.

‘Lord!’ he said. ‘That takes me back. Extraordinary. And I never thought of it until now.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothing. Just a game. Child’s game. We used to play it when we were kids. A lot of us in a row. Question and answer all down the line. “Mrs McGinty’s dead!” “How did she die?” “Down on one knee just like I.” And then the next question, “Mrs McGinty’s dead.” “How did she die?” “Holding her hand out just like I.” And there we’d be, all kneeling and our right arms held out stiff. And then you got it! “Mrs McGinty’s dead.” “How did she die?” “Like THIS!” Smack, the top of the row would fall sideways and down we all went like a pack of ninepins!’ Spence laughed uproariously at the remembrance. ‘Takes me back, it does!’

Poirot waited politely. This was one of the moments when, even after half a lifetime in the country, he found the English incomprehensible. He himself had played at Cache Cache in his childhood, but he felt no desire to talk about it or even to think about it.

When Spence had overcome his own amusement, Poirot repeated with some slight weariness, ‘How did she die?’

The laughter was wiped off Spence’s face. He was suddenly himself again.

‘She was hit on the back of her head with some sharp, heavy implement. Her savings, about thirty pounds in cash, were taken after her room had been ransacked. She lived alone in a small cottage except for a lodger. Man of the name of Bentley. James Bentley.’

‘Ah yes, Bentley.’

‘The place wasn’t broken into. No signs of any tampering with the windows or locks. Bentley was hard up, had lost his job, and owed two months’ rent. The money was found hidden under a loose stone at the back of the cottage. Bentley’s coat sleeve had blood on it and hair—same blood group and the right hair. According to his first statement he was never near the body—so it couldn’t have come there by accident.’

‘Who found her?’

‘The baker called with bread. It was the day he got paid. James Bentley opened the door to him and said he’d knocked at Mrs McGinty’s bedroom door, but couldn’t get an answer. The baker suggested she might have been taken bad. They got the woman from next door to go up and see. Mrs McGinty wasn’t in the bedroom, and hadn’t slept in the bed, but the room had been ransacked and the floorboards had been prised up. Then they thought of looking in the parlour. She was there, lying on the floor, and the neighbour fairly screamed her head off. Then they got the police, of course.’

‘And Bentley was eventually arrested and tried?’

‘Yes. The case came on at the Assizes. Yesterday. Open and shut case. The jury were only out twenty minutes this morning. Verdict: Guilty. Condemned to death.’

Poirot nodded.

‘And then, after the verdict, you got in a train and came to London and came here to see me. Why?’

Superintendent Spence was looking into his beer glass. He ran his finger slowly round and round the rim.

‘Because,’ he said, ‘I don’t think he did it…’

Chapter 2

There was a moment or two of silence.

‘You came to me—’

Poirot did not finish the sentence.

Superintendent Spence looked up. The colour in his face was deeper than it had been. It was a typical countryman’s face, unexpressive, self-contained, with shrewd but honest eyes. It was the face of a man with definite standards who would never be bothered by doubts of himself or by doubts of what constituted right and wrong.

‘I’ve been a long time in the Force,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a good deal of experience of this, that and the other. I can judge a man as well as any other could do. I’ve had cases of murder during my service—some of them straightforward enough, some of them not so straightforward. One case you know of, M. Poirot—’

Poirot nodded.

‘Tricky, that was. But for you, we mightn’t have seen clear. But we did see clear—and there wasn’t any doubt. The same with the others you don’t know about. There was Whistler, he got his—and deserved it. There were those chaps who shot old Guterman. There was Verall and his arsenic. Tranter got off—but he did it all right. Mrs Courtland—she was lucky—her husband was a nasty perverted bit of work, and the jury acquitted her accordingly. Not justice—just sentiment. You’ve got to allow for that happening now and again. Sometimes there isn’t enough evidence—sometimes there’s sentiment, sometimes a murderer manages to put it across the jury—that last doesn’t happen often, but it can happen. Sometimes it’s a clever bit of work by defending counsel—or a prosecuting counsel takes the wrong tack. Oh yes, I’ve seen a lot of things like that. But—but—’

Spence wagged a heavy forefinger.

‘I haven’t seen—not in my experience—an innocent man hanged for something he didn’t do. It’s a thing, M. Poirot, that I don’t want to see.

‘Not,’ added Spence, ‘in this country!’

Poirot gazed back at him.

‘And you think you are going to see it now. But why—’

Spence interrupted him.

‘I know some of the things you’re going to say. I’ll answer them without you having to ask them. I was put on this case. I was put on to get evidence of what happened. I went into the whole business very carefully. I got the facts, all the facts I could. All those facts pointed one way—pointed to one person. When I’d got all the facts I took them to my superior officer. After that it was out of my hands. The case went to the Public Prosecutor and it was up to him. He decided to prosecute—he couldn’t have done anything else—not on the evidence. And so James Bentley was arrested and committed for trial, and was duly tried and has been found guilty. They couldn’t have found him anything else, not on the evidence. And evidence is what a jury have to consider. Didn’t have any qualms about it either, I should say. No, I should say they were all quite satisfied he was guilty.’

‘But you—are not?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

Superintendent Spence sighed. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his big hand.

‘I don’t know. What I mean is, I can’t give a reason—a concrete reason. To the jury I dare say he looked like a murderer—to me he didn’t—and I know a lot more about murderers than they do.’

‘Yes, yes, you are an expert.’

‘For one thing, you know, he wasn’t cocky. Not cocky at all. And in my experience they usually are. Always so damned pleased with themselves. Always think they’re stringing you along. Always sure they’ve been so clever about the whole thing. And even when they’re in the dock and must know they’re for it, they’re still in a queer sort of way getting a kick out of it all. They’re in the limelight. They’re the central figure. Playing the star part—perhaps for the first time in their lives. They’re—well—you know—cocky!’

Spence brought out the word with an air of finality.

‘You’ll understand what I mean by that, M. Poirot.’

‘I understand very well. And this James Bentley—he was not like that?’

‘No. He was—well, just scared stiff. Scared stiff from the start. And to some people that would square in with his being guilty. But not to me.’

‘No, I agree with you. What is he like, this James Bentley?’

‘Thirty-three, medium height, sallow complexion, wears glasses—’

Poirot arrested the flow.

‘No, I do not mean his physical characteristics. What sort of a personality?’

‘Oh—that.’ Superintendent Spence considered. ‘Unprepossessing sort of fellow. Nervous manner. Can’t look you straight in the face. Has a sly sideways way of peering at you. Worst possible sort of manner for a jury. Sometimes cringing and sometimes truculent. Blusters in an inefficient kind of way.’

He paused and added in a conversational tone:

‘Really a shy kind of chap. Had a cousin rather like that. If anything’s awkward they go and tell some silly lie that hasn’t a chance of being believed.’

‘He does not sound attractive, your James Bentley.’

‘Oh, he isn’t. Nobody could like him. But I don’t want to see him hanged for all that.’

‘And you think he will be hanged?’

‘I don’t see why not. His counsel may lodge an appeal—but if so it will be on very flimsy grounds—a technicality of some kind, and I don’t see that it will have a chance of success.’

‘Did he have a good counsel?’

‘Young Graybrook was allotted to him under the Poor Persons’ Defence Act. I’d say he was thoroughly conscientious and put up the best show he could.’

‘So the man had a fair trial and was condemned by a jury of his fellow-men.’

‘That’s right. A good average jury. Seven men, five women—all decent reasonable souls. Judge was old Stanisdale. Scrupulously fair—no bias.’

‘So—according to the law of the land—James Bentley has nothing to complain of?’

‘If he’s hanged for something he didn’t do, he’s got something to complain of!’

‘A very just observation.’

‘And the case against him was my case—I collected the facts and put them together—and it’s on that case and those facts that he’s been condemned. And I don’t like it, M. Poirot, I don’t like it.’

Hercule Poirot looked for a long time at the red agitated face of Superintendent Spence.

‘Eh bien,’ he said. ‘What do you suggest?’

Spence looked acutely embarrassed.

‘I expect you’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s coming. The Bentley case is closed. I’m on another case already—embezzlement. Got to go up to Scotland tonight. I’m not a free man.’

‘And I—am?’

Spence nodded in a shame-faced sort of way.

‘You’ve got it. Awful cheek, you’ll think. But I can’t think of anything else—of any other way. I did all I could at the time, I examined every possibility I could. And I didn’t get anywhere. I don’t believe I ever would get anywhere. But who knows, it may be different for you. You look at things in—if you’ll pardon me for saying so—in a funny sort of way. Maybe that’s the way you’ve got to look at them in this case. Because if James Bentley didn’t kill her, then somebody else did. She didn’t chop the back of her head in herself. You may be able to find something that I missed. There’s no reason why you should do anything about this business. It’s infernal cheek my even suggesting such a thing. But there it is. I came to you because it was the only thing I could think of. But if you don’t want to put yourself out—and why should you—’

Poirot interrupted him.

‘Oh, but indeed there are reasons. I have leisure—too much leisure. And you have intrigued me—yes, you have intrigued me very much. It is a challenge—to the little grey cells of my brain. And then, I have a regard for you. I see you, in your garden in six months’ time, planting, perhaps, the rose bushes—and as you plant them it is not with the happiness you should be feeling, because behind everything there is an unpleasantness in your brain, a recollection that you try to push away, and I would not have you feel that, my friend. And finally—’ Poirot sat upright and nodded his head vigorously, ‘there is the principle of the thing. If a man has not committed murder, he should not be hanged.’ He paused and then added, ‘But supposing that after all, he did kill her?’

‘In that case I’d be only too thankful to be convinced of it.’

‘And two heads are better than one? Voilà, everything is settled. I precipitate myself upon the business. There is, that is clear, no time to be lost. Already the scent is cold. Mrs McGinty was killed—when?’

‘Last November, 22nd.’

‘Then let us at once get down to the brass tacks.’

‘I’ve got my notes on the case which I’ll pass over to you.’

‘Good. For the moment, we need only the bare outline. If James Bentley did not kill Mrs McGinty, who did?’

Spence shrugged his shoulders and said heavily:

‘There’s nobody, so far as I can see.’

‘But that answer we do not accept. Now, since for every murder there must be a motive, what, in the case of Mrs McGinty, could the motive be? Envy, revenge, jealousy, fear, money? Let us take the last and the simplest? Who profited by her death?’

‘Nobody very much. She had two hundred pounds in the Savings Bank. Her niece gets that.’

‘Two hundred pounds is not very much—but in certain circumstances it could be enough. So let us consider the niece. I apologize, my friend, for treading in your footsteps. You too, I know, must have considered all this. But I have to go over with you the ground already traversed.’

Spence nodded his large head.

‘We considered the niece, of course. She’s thirty-eight, married. Husband is employed in the building and decorating trade—a painter. He’s got a good character, steady employment, sharp sort of fellow, no fool. She’s a pleasant young woman, a bit talkative, seemed fond of her aunt in a mild sort of way. Neither of them had any urgent need for two hundred pounds, though quite pleased to have it, I dare say.’

‘What about the cottage? Do they get that?’

‘It was rented. Of course, under the Rent Restriction Act the landlord couldn’t get the old woman out. But now she’s dead, I don’t think the niece could have taken over—anyway she and her husband didn’t want to. They’ve got a small modern council house of their own of which they are extremely proud.’ Spence sighed. ‘I went into the niece and her husband pretty closely—they seemed the best bet, as you’ll understand. But I couldn’t get hold of anything.’

‘Bien. Now let us talk about Mrs McGinty herself. Describe her to me—and not only in physical terms, if you please.’

Spence grinned.

‘Don’t want a police description? Well, she was sixty-four. Widow. Husband had been employed in the drapery department of Hodges in Kilchester. He died about seven years ago. Pneumonia. Since then, Mrs McGinty has been going out daily to various houses round about. Domestic chores. Broadhinny’s a small village which has lately become residential. One or two retired people, one of the partners in an engineering works, a doctor, that sort of thing. There’s quite a good bus and train service to Kilchester, and Cullenquay which, as I expect you know, is quite a large summer resort, is only eight miles away, but Broadhinny itself is still quite pretty and rural—about a quarter of a mile off the main Drymouth and Kilchester road.’

Poirot nodded.

‘Mrs McGinty’s cottage was one of four that form the village proper. There is the post office and village shop, and agricultural labourers live in the others.’

‘And she took in a lodger?’

‘Yes. Before her husband died, it used to be summer visitors, but after his death she just took one regular. James Bentley had been there for some months.’

‘So we come to—James Bentley?’

‘Bentley’s last job was with a house agent’s in Kilchester. Before that, he lived with his mother in Cullenquay. She was an invalid and he looked after her and never went out much. Then she died, and an annuity she had died with her. He sold the little house and found a job. Well educated man, but no special qualifications or aptitudes, and, as I say, an unprepossessing manner. Didn’t find it easy to get anything. Anyway, they took him on at Breather & Scuttle’s. Rather a second-rate firm. I don’t think he was particularly efficient or successful. They cut down staff and he was the one to go. He couldn’t get another job, and his money ran out. He usually paid Mrs McGinty every month for his room. She gave him breakfast and supper and charged him three pounds a week—quite reasonable, all things considered. He was two months behind in paying her, and he was nearly at the end of his resources. He hadn’t got another job and she was pressing him for what he owed her.’

‘And he knew that she had thirty pounds in the house? Why did she have thirty pounds in the house, by the way, since she had a Savings Bank account?’

‘Because she didn’t trust the Government. Said they’d got two hundred pounds of her money, but they wouldn’t get any more. She’d keep that where she could lay her hands on it any minute. She said that to one or two people. It was under a loose board in her bedroom floor—a very obvious place. James Bentley admitted he knew it was there.’

‘Very obliging of him. And did niece and husband know that too?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Then we have now arrived back at my first question to you. How did Mrs McGinty die?’

‘She died on the night of November 22nd. Police surgeon put the time of death as being between 7 and 10 p.m. She’d had her supper—a kipper and bread and margarine, and according to all accounts, she usually had that about half-past six. If she adhered to that on the night in question, then by the evidence of digestion she was killed about eight-thirty or nine o’clock. James Bentley, by his own account, was out walking that evening from seven-fifteen to about nine. He went out and walked most evenings after dark. According to his own story he came in at about nine o’clock (he had his own key) and went straight upstairs to his room. Mrs McGinty had had wash-basins fixed in the bedrooms because of summer visitors. He read for about half an hour and then went to bed. He heard and noticed nothing out of the way. Next morning he came downstairs and looked into the kitchen, but there was no one there and no signs of breakfast being prepared. He says he hesitated a bit and then knocked on Mrs McGinty’s door, but got no reply.

‘He thought she must have overslept, but didn’t like to go on knocking. Then the baker came and James Bentley went up and knocked again, and after that, as I told you, the baker went next door and fetched in a Mrs Elliot, who eventually found the body and went off the deep end. Mrs McGinty was lying on the parlour floor. She’d been hit on the back of the head with something rather in the nature of a meat chopper with a very sharp edge. She’d been killed instantaneously. Drawers were pulled open and things strewn about, and the loose board in the floor in her bedroom had been prised up and the cache was empty. All the windows were closed and shuttered on the inside. No signs of anything being tampered with or of being broken into from outside.’

‘Therefore,’ said Poirot, ‘either James Bentley must have killed her, or else she must have admitted her killer herself whilst Bentley was out?’

‘Exactly. It wasn’t any hold-up or burglar. Now who would she be likely to let in? One of the neighbours, or her niece, or her niece’s husband. It boils down to that. We eliminated the neighbours. Niece and her husband were at the pictures that night. It is possible—just possible, that one or other of them left the cinema unobserved, bicycled three miles, killed the old woman, hid the money outside the house, and got back into the cinema unnoticed. We looked into that possibility, but we didn’t find any confirmation of it. And why hide the money outside McGinty’s house if so? Difficult place to pick it up later. Why not somewhere along the three miles back? No, the only reason for hiding it where it was hidden—’

Poirot finished the sentence for him.

‘Would be because you were living in that house, but didn’t want to hide it in your room or anywhere inside. In fact: James Bentley.’

‘That’s right. Everywhere, every time, you came up against Bentley. Finally there was the blood on his cuff.’