The Monogram Murders(39)
At that moment, the coffee-house door opened and a man walked in. He had the drooping eyes of a basset hound.
Fee nudged Poirot. “Here he is, without the police fellow,” she whispered.
The man was Rafal Bobak, the waiter from the Bloxham Hotel who had served afternoon tea to Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus at a quarter past seven on the night of the murders. Bobak apologized for the intrusion, and explained that Luca Lazzari had told his whole staff that if any of them wanted to speak to the famous detective Hercule Poirot, Pleasant’s Coffee House in St. Gregory’s Alley was the place to find him.
Once they had settled themselves at a table, Poirot asked, “What is it that you wish to tell me? You have remembered something?”
“I’ve remembered as much as I’m likely to remember, sir, and I thought it would be as well to tell you while it’s fresh in my mind. Some of it you’ve heard already, but I’ve been going over and over it, and it’s remarkable how much comes back to you once you apply yourself.”
“Indeed, monsieur. It is necessary only to sit still and employ the little gray cells.”
“Mr. Negus was the one who took delivery of the meal, as I’ve told you, sir. The two ladies were discussing a woman and a man, like I said at the hotel. It sounded as if she’d been abandoned by him for being too old, or he’d lost interest in her for some other reason. At least, that was my understanding, sir, but I’ve managed to remember a bit of what they said, so you can judge for yourself.”
“Ah! Most helpful!”
“Well, sir, the first thing I’ve managed to remember is Mrs. Harriet Sippel saying, “She had no choice, did she? She’s no longer the one he confides in. He’d hardly be interested in her now—she’s let herself go, and she’s old enough to be his mother. No, if she wanted to find out what’s going on in his mind, she had no choice but to receive the woman he does confide in, and talk to her.” After saying all this, Mrs. Sippel broke into peals of laughter, and it wasn’t nice laughter. Catty, as I said at the hotel.”
“Please go on, Mr. Bobak.”
“Well, Mr. Negus heard what she said, because he turned away from me—he and I had been exchanging pleasantries, you see—and he said, “Oh, Harriet, that’s hardly fair. Ida’s easily shocked. Go easy on her.” And then either Harriet Sippel or the other one, Ida Gransbury, said something. I can’t for the life of me remember what it was, sir, for which I’m sorry.”
“There is no need to apologize,” said Poirot. “Your recollection, incomplete as it is, will prove invaluable, I am sure.”
“I hope so, sir,” said Bobak doubtfully. “The next bit I remember word by word was many minutes later, as I laid everything out on the table for the three guests. Mr. Negus said to Mrs. Sippel, “His mind? I’d argue he has no mind. And I dispute your old-enough-to-be-his-mother claim. I dispute it utterly.” Mrs. Sippel laughed at this and said, “Well, neither of us can prove we’re right, so let’s agree to disagree!” That was the last thing I heard before I left the room, sir.”
“I would argue he has no mind,” Poirot murmured.
“What they were saying, sir—none of it was friendly. This woman they were talking about, they harbored nothing but ill will for her.”
“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Bobak,” said Poirot warmly. “Your account is inordinately helpful. To know the very words that were spoken, and so many of them, is more than I could have hoped for.”
“I only wish I could remember the rest, sir.”
Poirot tried to persuade Bobak to stay and drink a cup of something, but the waiter was determined to return to the Bloxham Hotel as soon as he could, and not take advantage of Luca Lazzari’s good nature.
Refused another cup of coffee by Fee Spring, who cited his health in her defense, Poirot decided to return to Blanche Unsworth’s lodging house. He moved slowly, ambling through the busy London streets, while his mind raced ahead. As he walked, he turned over in his mind the words Rafal Bobak had repeated to him: “He’d hardly be interested in her now . . . She’s old enough to be his mother . . . His mind? I’d argue he has no mind . . . I dispute your old-enough-to-be-his-mother claim . . . Well, neither of us can prove we’re right . . .”
He was still murmuring these phrases to himself when he arrived at his temporary accommodation. Blanche Unsworth rushed toward him as he entered. “What are you saying to yourself, Mr. Poirot?” she asked cheerily. “It’s like having two of you!”
Poirot looked down at his body, the shape of which inclined toward rotundity. “I hope I have not eaten so much that I have doubled in size, madame,” he said.
“No, I meant two of you talking.” Blanche Unsworth lowered her voice to a whisper and came so close to Poirot that he felt obliged to pin himself against the wall in order to avoid physical contact with her. “There’s a chap come to call on you, and his voice is just like yours. He’s waiting in the drawing room. A visitor from your native Belgium, he must be. Raggedy fellow, but I let him in, since there was no bad smell coming from him, and . . . well, I didn’t want to turn away a relation of yours, Mr. Poirot. I expect customs with regard to clothing are different in every country. ’Course, it’s the French who likes to dress smart, isn’t it?”