vi

the rolls called punctually for poirot at a little before six.

alistair blunt and his secretary were the only occupants. mrs. olivera and jane had gone down

in another car earlier, it seemed.

the drive was uneventful. blunt talked a little, mostly of his garden and of a recent horticultural

show.

poirot congratulated him on his escape from death, at which blunt demurred. he said:

“oh, that! don’t think the fellow was shooting at me particularly. anyway, the poor chap

hadn’t the first idea of how to aim! just one of these half-crazed students. there’s no harm in them

really. they just get worked up and fancy a pot shot at the p.m. will alter the course of history. it’s

pathetic, really.”

“there have been other attempts on your life, have there not?”

“sounds quite melodramatic,” said blunt, with a slight twinkle. “someone sent me a bomb by

post not long ago. it wasn’t a very efficient bomb. you know, these fellows who want to take on

the management of the world—what sort of an efficient business do they think they could make of

it, when they can’t even devise an effectual bomb?”

he shook his head.

“it’s always the same thing — long- haired woolly idealists — without one practical bit of

knowledge in their heads. i’m not a clever chap—never have been—but i can just read and write

and do arithmetic. d’you understand what i mean by that?”

“i think so, but explain to me further.”

“well, if i read something that is written down in english i can understand what it means—i

am not talking of abstruse stuff, formulae or philosophy—just plain businesslike english—most

people can’t! if i want to write down something i can write down what i mean—i’ve discovered

that quite a lot of people can’t do that either! and, as i say, i can do plain arithmetic. if jones has

eight bananas and brown takes ten away from him, how many will jones have left? that’s the

kind of sum people like to pretend has a simple answer. they won’t admit, first that brown can’t

do it—and second that there won’t be an answer in plus bananas!”

“they prefer the answer to be a conjuring trick?”

“exactly. politicians are just as bad. but i’ve always held out for plain common sense. you

can’t beat it, you know, in the end.”

he added with a slightly self-conscious laugh:

“but i mustn’t talk shop. bad habit. besides, i like to leave business matters behind when i get

away from london. i’ve been looking forward, m. poirot, to hearing a few of your adventures. i

read a lot of thrillers and detective stories, you know. do you think any of them are true to life?”

the conversation dwelt for the rest of the journey on the more spectacular cases of hercule

poirot. alistair blunt displayed himself as vivid as any schoolboy for details.

this pleasant atmosphere sustained a chill on arrival at exsham, where behind her massive bust

mrs. olivera radiated a freezing disapproval. she ignored poirot as far as possible, addressing

herself exclusively to her host and to mr. selby.

the latter showed poirot to his room.

the house was a charming one, not very big, and furnished with the same quiet good taste that

poirot had noticed in london. everything was costly but simple. the vast wealth that owned it

was only indicated by the smoothness with which this apparent simplicity was produced. the

service was admirable—the cooking english, not continental—the wines at dinner stirred poirot

to a passion of appreciation. they had a perfect clear soup, a grilled sole, saddle of lamb with tiny

young garden peas and strawberries and cream.

poirot was so enjoying these creature comforts that the continued frigid demeanour of mrs.

olivera and the brusque rudeness of her daughter hardly attracted his attention. jane, for some

reason, was regarding him with definite hostility. hazily, towards the end of the dinner, poirot

wondered why!

looking down the table with mild curiosity, blunt asked:

“helen not dining with us tonight?”

julia olivera’s lips drew themselves in with a taut line. she said:

“dear helen has been overtiring herself, i think, in the garden. i suggested it would be far better

for her to go to bed and rest than to bother to dress herself up and come here. she quite saw my

point.”

“oh, i see.” blunt looked vague and a little puzzled. “i thought it made a bit of a change for her

at weekends.”

“helen is such a simple soul. she likes turning in early,” said mrs. olivera firmly.

when poirot joined the ladies in the drawing room, blunt having remained behind for a few

minutes’ conversation with his secretary, he heard jane olivera say to her mother:

“uncle alistair didn’t like the cool way you’d shelved helen montressor, mother.”

“nonsense,” said mrs. olivera robustly. “alistair is too good-natured. poor relations are all very

well—very kind of him to let her have the cottage rent free, but to think he has to have her up to

the house every weekend for dinner is absurd! she’s only a second cousin or something. i don’t

think alistair ought to be imposed upon!”

“i think she’s proud in her way,” said jane. “she does an awful lot in the garden.”

“that shows a proper spirit,” said mrs. olivera comfortably. “the scotch are very independent

and one respects them for it.”

she settled herself comfortably on the sofa and, still not taking any notice of poirot, added:

“just bring me the low down review, dear. there’s something about lois van schuyler in it

and that moroccan guide of hers.”

alistair blunt appeared in the doorway. he said:

“now m. poirot, come into my room.”

alistair blunt’s own sanctum was a low, long room at the back of the house, with windows

opening upon the garden. it was comfortable, with deep armchairs and settees and just enough

pleasant untidiness to make it livable.

(needless to say, hercule poirot would have preferred a greater symmetry!)

after offering his guest a cigarette and lighting his own pipe, alistair blunt came to the point

quite simply and directly.

he said:

“there’s a good deal that i’m not satisfied about. i’m referring, of course, to this sainsbury

seale woman. for reasons of their own—reasons no doubt which are perfectly justified—the

authorities have called off the hunt. i don’t know exactly who albert chapman is or what he’s

doing—but whatever it is, it’s something pretty vital and it’s the sort of business that might land

him in a tight spot. i don’t know the ins and outs of it, but the p.m. did just mention that they can’t

afford any publicity whatever about this case and that the sooner it fades out of the public’s

memory the better.

“that’s quite o.k. that’s the official view, and they know what’s necessary. so the police have

got their hands tied.”

he leaned forward in his chair.

“but i want to know the truth, m. poirot. and you’re the man to find it out for me. you aren’t

hampered by officialdom.”

“what do you want me to do, m. blunt?”

“i want you to find this woman—sainsbury seale.”

“alive or dead?”

alistair blunt’s eyebrows rose.

“you think it’s possible that she is dead?”

hercule poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said, speaking slowly and with weight:

“if you want my opinion—but it is only an opinion, remember—then, yes, i think she is

dead….”

“why do you think so?”

hercule poirot smiled slightly.

he said:

“it would not make sense to you if i said it was because of a pair of unworn stockings in a

drawer.”

alistair blunt stared at him curiously.

“you’re an odd man, m. poirot.”

“i am very odd. that is to say, i am methodical, orderly and logical—and i do not like distorting

facts to support a theory—that, i find—is unusual!”

alistair blunt said:

“i’ve been turning the whole thing over in my mind—it takes me a little time always to think a

thing out. and the whole business is deuced odd! i mean—that dentist chap shooting himself, and

then this chapman woman packed away in her own fur chest with her face smashed in. it’s nasty!

it’s damned nasty! i can’t help feeling that there’s something behind it all.”

poirot nodded.

blunt said:

“and you know—the more i think of it—i’m quite sure that woman never knew my wife. it

was just a pretext to speak to me. but why? what good did it do her? i mean—bar a small

subscription—and even that was made out to the society, not to her personally. and yet i do feel—

that—that it was engineered—just meeting me on the steps of the house. it was all so pat. so

suspiciously well-timed! but why? that’s what i keep asking myself—why?”

“it is indeed the word—why? i too ask myself—and i cannot see it—no, i cannot see it.”

“you’ve no ideas at all on the subject?”

poirot waved an exasperated hand.

“my ideas are childish in the extreme. i tell myself, it was perhaps a ruse to indicate you to

someone—to point you out. but that again is absurd—you are quite a well-known man—and

anyway how much more simple to say ‘see, that is he—the man who entered now by that door.’”

“and anyway,” said blunt, “why should anyone want to point me out?”

“mr. blunt, think back once more on your time that morning in the dentist’s chair. did nothing

that morley said strike an unusual note? is there nothing at all that you can remember which might

help as a clue?”

alistair blunt frowned in an effort of memory. then he shook his head.

“i’m sorry. i can’t think of anything.”

“you’re quite sure he didn’t mention this woman—this miss sainsbury seale?”

“no.”

“or the other woman—mrs. chapman?”

“no — no — we didn’t speak of people at all. we mentioned roses, gardens needing rain,

holidays—nothing else.”

“and no one came into the room while you were there?”

“let me see—no, i don’t think so. on other occasions i seem to remember a young woman

being there—fair-haired girl. but she wasn’t there this time. oh, another dentist fellow came in, i

remember—the fellow with an irish accent.”

“what did he say or do?”

“just asked morley some question and went out again. morley was a bit short with him, i fancy.

he was only there a minute or so.”

“and there is nothing else you can remember? nothing at all?”

“no. he was absolutely normal.”

hercule poirot said thoughtfully:

“i, too, found him absolutely normal.”

there was a long pause. then poirot said:

“do you happen to remember, monsieur, a young man who was in the waiting room downstairs

with you that morning?”

alistair blunt frowned.

“let me see—yes, there was a young man—rather restless he was. i don’t remember him

particularly, though. why?”

“would you know him again if you saw him?”

blunt shook his head.

“i hardly glanced at him.”

“he didn’t try to enter into conversation with you at all?”

“no.”

blunt looked with frank curiosity at the other.

“what’s the point? who is this young man?”

“his name is howard raikes.”

poirot watched keenly for any reaction, but he saw none.

“ought i to know his name? have i met him elsewhere?”

“i do not think you have met him. he is a friend of your niece, miss olivera’s.”

“oh, one of jane’s friends.”

“her mother, i gather, does not approve of the friendship.”

alistair blunt said absently:

“i don’t suppose that will cut any ice with jane.”

“so seriously does her mother regard the friendship that i gather she brought her daughter over

from the states on purpose to get her away from this young man.”

“oh!” blunt’s face registered comprehension. “it’s that fellow, is it?”

“aha, you become more interested now.”

“he’s a most undesirable young fellow in every way, i believe. mixed up in a lot of subversive

activities.”

“i understand from miss olivera that he made an appointment that morning in queen charlotte

street, solely in order to get a look at you.”

“to try and get me to approve of him?”

“well—no—i understand the idea was that he should be induced to approve of you.”

“well, of all the damned cheek!”

poirot concealed a smile.

“it appears you are everything that he most disapproves of.”

“he’s certainly the kind of young man i disapprove of! spends his time tub-thumping and

talking hot air, instead of doing a decent job of work!”

poirot was silent for a minute, then he said:

“will you forgive me if i ask you an impertinent and very personal question?”

“fire ahead.”

“in the event of your death, what are your testamentary dispositions?”

blunt stared. he said sharply:

“why do you want to know that?”

“because, it is just possible,” he shrugged his shoulders—“that it might be relevant to this

case.”

“nonsense!”

“perhaps. but perhaps not.”

alistair blunt said coldly:

“i think you are being unduly melodramatic, m. poirot. nobody has been trying to murder me—

or anything like that!”

“a bomb on your breakfast table—a shot in the street—”

“oh those! any man who deals in the world’s finance in a big way is liable to that kind of

attention from some crazy fanatic!”

“it might possibly be a case of someone who is not a fanatic and not crazy.”

blunt stared.

“what are you driving at?”

“in plain language, i want to know who benefits by your death.”

blunt grinned.

“chiefly the st. edward’s hospital, the cancer hospital, and the royal institute for the blind.”

“ah!”

“in addition, i have left a sum of money to my niece by marriage, mrs. julia olivera; an

equivalent sum, but in trust, to her daughter, jane olivera, and also a substantial provision for my

only surviving relative, a second cousin, helen montressor, who was left very badly off and who

occupies a small cottage on the estate here.”

he paused and then said:

“this, m. poirot, is strictly in confidence.”

“naturally, monsieur, naturally.”

alistair blunt added sarcastically:

“i suppose you do not suggest, m. poirot, that either julia or jane olivera or my cousin helen

montressor, are planning to murder me for my money?”

“i suggest nothing—nothing at all.”

blunt’s slight irritation subsided. he said:

“and you’ll take on that other commission for me?”

“the finding of miss sainsbury seale? yes, i will.”

alistair blunt said heartily:

“good man.”