The Monogram Murders(59)

“Poirot?” I said.

He had eyes—intensely green eyes, at that precise moment—only for Lazzari. “Signor, I must speak to that most observant waiter again, Mr. Rafal Bobak. And Thomas Brignell, and John Goode. In fact, I must speak to every single member of your staff as soon as possible and ask how many times they each saw Harriet Sippel, Richard Negus and Ida Gransbury—dead or alive.”

He had evidently realized something important. As I reached this conclusion, I heard myself gasp as I too made a mental leap. “Poirot,” I murmured.

“What is it, my friend? You have put some pieces of our puzzle together? Poirot, he understands now something that did not strike him before, but there are still questions, still pieces that cannot be made to fit.”

“I have . . .” I cleared my throat. Speaking, for some reason, was proving rather difficult. “I have just seen a woman in the hotel gardens.” I could not, at that moment, bring myself to say that she had been in the arms of Thomas Brignell, or to describe the strange way in which she had seemed to crumple, her head falling to one side. It was simply too . . . peculiar. The suspicion running through my mind was one I would have felt embarrassed to utter aloud.

Thankfully, however, I did feel able to divulge one important detail. “She was wearing a pale brown coat,” I told Poirot.





A Lie for a Lie

I WAS ENGROSSED IN my crossword puzzle when Poirot returned from the hotel to the lodging house several hours later. “Catchpool,” he said severely. “Why do you sit in almost total darkness? I do not believe you can see to write.”

“The fire provides enough light. Besides, I’m not writing at the moment—I’m thinking. Not that it’s getting me very far. I don’t know how these chaps do it, the ones who invent crosswords for the newspapers. I’ve been working on this one for months, and I still can’t get it to fit together. I say, you might be able to help. Can you think of a word that means death and has six letters?”

“Catchpool.” Now Poirot’s tone was even sterner.

“Hm?” I said.

“Do you take me to be the fool, or is it that you are a fool yourself? A word for death that has six letters is murder.”

“Yes, that one’s rather obvious. That was my first thought.”

“I am relieved to hear it, mon ami.”

“That would be perfect, if murder began with a D. Since it doesn’t, and since I’m stuck with this D from another word . . .” I shook my head in consternation.

“Forget crossword puzzles. We have much to discuss.”

“I don’t believe, and won’t believe, that Thomas Brignell murdered Jennie Hobbs,” I said firmly.

“You feel sympathy for him,” said Poirot.

“I do, and I also would bet my last penny that he is no murderer. Who’s to say that he doesn’t have a girlfriend with a pale brown coat? Brown is a popular color for coats!”

“He is the assistant clerk,” said Poirot. “Why would he stand in the gardens beside a wheelbarrow?”

“Perhaps the wheelbarrow was simply there!”

“And Mr. Brignell stands with his lady friend right beside it?”

“Well, why not?” I said, exasperated. “Isn’t that more plausible than the idea that Brignell took Jennie Hobbs’s dead body out to the gardens with a plan to wheel it off somewhere in a wheelbarrow, then pretended to embrace her when he saw me looking out of the window? One might just as well say . . .” I stopped and inhaled sharply. “Oh, goodness,” I said. “You are going to say it, aren’t you?”

“What, mon ami? What do you think Poirot will say?”

“Rafal Bobak is a waiter, so why was he pushing a laundry cart?”

“Exactement. And why does he push the laundry through the elegant lobby in the direction of the front doors? Is the laundry not washed inside the hotel? Signor Lazzari, he would surely have noticed this if he had not been so concerned about the missing fourth murder victim. Of course, he would not be suspicious of Mr. Bobak—all of his staff are beyond reproach in his eyes.”

“Wait a second.” I finally laid down my crossword on the table beside me. “That was what you meant about the width of the doorway, wasn’t it? That laundry cart could easily have been pushed into room 402, so why not wheel it all the way in? Why drag the body instead, which would take more effort?”

Poirot nodded with satisfaction. “Indeed, mon ami. These are the questions I hoped you might ask yourself.”

“But . . . are you honestly saying that Rafal Bobak might have murdered Jennie Hobbs, thrown her body in with the laundry and pushed it out onto the street, right past us? He stopped to talk to us, for pity’s sake!”

“Indeed—even though he has nothing to say. What is it? You think I am uncharitable, thinking the bad thoughts about those who have been so helpful to us?”

“Well . . .”

“Giving everybody the benefit of the doubt is laudable, my friend, but it is no way to apprehend a murderer. While you are displeased with me, let me put one more thought into your head: Mr. Henry Negus. He had with him a very large suitcase, did he not? Large enough to contain the body of a slender woman.”

I covered my face with my hands. “I can’t bear much more of this,” I said. “Henry Negus? No. I’m sorry, but no. He was in Devon on the night of the murders. He struck me as absolutely trustworthy.”