The Monogram Murders(22)
“Enter, please,” Poirot called out.
It was not Luca Lazzari but Thomas Brignell, the junior clerk who had spoken up about having seen Richard Negus by the lift at half past seven. “Ah, Monsieur Brignell,” said Poirot. “Do join us. Your account of yesterday evening was most helpful. Mr. Catchpool and I are grateful.”
“Yes, very much so,” I said heartily. I’d have said almost anything to make it easier for Brignell to cough up whatever was bothering him. It was obvious that something was. The poor chap looked no more confident now than he had in the dining room. He rubbed the palms of his hands together, sliding them up and down. I could see sweat on his forehead, and he looked paler than he had before.
“I’ve let you down,” he said. “I’ve let Mr. Lazzari down, and he’s been so good to me, he has. I didn’t . . . in the dining room before, I didn’t . . .” He broke off and rubbed his palms together some more.
“You did not tell us the truth?” Poirot suggested.
“Every word I spoke was the truth, sir!” said Thomas Brignell indignantly. “I’d be no better than the murderer myself if I lied to the police on a matter as important as this.”
“I do not think that you would be quite as guilty as him, monsieur.”
“There were two things I neglected to mention. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, sir. You see, speaking in front of a room full of people isn’t something as comes easy to me. I’ve always been that way. And what made it harder in there, before”—he nodded in the direction of the dining room—“was that I’d have been reluctant to say the other thing Mr. Negus said to me because he paid me a compliment.
“What compliment?”
“It wasn’t one I’d done anything to deserve, sir, I’m sure. I’m just an ordinary man. There’s nothing notable about me at all. I do my job, as I’m paid to, and I try to do my best, but there’s no reason for anyone to single me out for special praise.”
“And Mr. Negus did this?” asked Poirot. “He singled you out for praise?”
Brignell winced. “Yes, sir. Like I said: I didn’t ask for it and I’m sure I’d done nothing to earn it. But when I saw him and he saw me, he said, ‘Ah, Mr. Brignell, you seem a most efficient fellow. I know I can trust you with this.’ Then he proceeded to discuss the matter I mentioned before, sir—about the bill, and him wanting to pay it.”
“And you did not want to repeat the compliment you had received in front of everybody else, is that right?” I said. “You feared it might sound boastful?”
“Yes, I did, sir. I did indeed. There’s something else, too. Once we’d agreed the matter of the bill, Mr. Negus asked me to fetch him a sherry. I was the person that did that. I offered to take it up to his room, but he said he was happy to wait. I brought it to him, and then up he went with it, in the lift.”
Poirot sat forward in his chair. “Yet you said nothing when I asked if anyone in the room had given Richard Negus a glass of sherry?”
Brignell looked confused and frustrated—as if the right answer was on the tip of his tongue, but still, somehow, eluded him. “I ought to have done, sir. I ought to have offered a full account of the incident as soon as you asked. I deeply regret that I failed in my duty to you and to the three deceased guests, God rest their souls. I can only hope that by coming to you now I’ve made a small amends.”
“Indeed, indeed. But, monsieur, I am curious about why you did not speak up in the dining room. When I asked, ‘Who here took Richard Negus a glass of sherry?,’ what was it that caused you to remain silent?”
The poor clerk had started to tremble. “I swear on my dear late mother’s grave, Mr. Poirot, I’ve now told you every particular of my encounter with Mr. Negus yesterday evening. Every last particular. You couldn’t have a more complete knowledge of what transpired—of that you may rest assured.”
Poirot opened his mouth to ask another question, but I leaped in before him and said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Brignell. Please don’t worry about not having told us sooner. I understand how hard it is to stand up and speak in front of a crowd. I don’t much like it myself.”
Once dismissed, Brignell hurried to the door like a fox fleeing from hounds.
“I believe him,” I said when he had gone. “He’s told us everything he knows.”
“About his meeting with Richard Negus beside the hotel lift, yes. The detail he conceals relates to himself. Why did he not speak up in the dining room about the sherry? I asked him that question twice, and still he did not answer. Instead, he elaborated upon his remorse, which was sincere. He would not lie, but he cannot bring himself to speak the truth. Ah, how he withholds! It is a form of lying—a very effective one, for there is no spoken lie to be contested.”
Poirot chuckled suddenly. “And, you, Catchpool, you seek to protect him from Hercule Poirot, who would press him again and again, eh, for the information?”
“He looked as if he had reached his limit. And, frankly, if he is keeping quiet about anything, it’s something that he thinks is of no consequence to us and yet it’s a cause of great embarrassment to him. He’s a fretful, conscientious sort. His sense of duty would oblige him to tell us if he thought it mattered.”