The Monogram Murders(64)
“George and Harriet Sippel,” I read aloud. “Patrick and Frances Ive. Patrick Ive and Nancy Ducane. William Ducane and Nancy Ducane. Charles and Margaret Ernst. Richard Negus and Ida Gransbury. In none of these pairings is the woman older than the man, certainly not by enough to be described as ‘old enough to be his mother.’ ”
“Tsk,” said Poirot impatiently. “You do not think, my friend. How do you know that this couple exists, with the older woman and the younger man?”
I stared at him, wondering if he had lost his reason. “Well, Walter Stoakley talked about them at the King’s Head, and Rafal Bobak overheard—”
“Non, non,” Poirot interrupted gracelessly. “You do not pay attention to the details: in the King’s Head Inn, Walter Stoakley spoke of the woman putting an end to her romantic involvement with the man, did he not? Whereas the conversation that Rafal Bobak overheard between the three murder victims was about a man no longer romantically interested in a woman who still craved his love. How can these be the same people, the same couple? The very opposite must be true: they cannot possibly be the same people!”
“You’re right,” I said, dejected. “I didn’t think of that.”
“You were too delighted with your pattern—that is why. A much older woman and much younger man over here, and a much older woman and much younger man over there. Voilà, you assume they must be the same!”
“Yes, I did. Perhaps I’m in the wrong job.”
“Non. You are perceptive, Catchpool. Not always, but sometimes. You have helped to steer me through the tunnel of confusion. Do you remember when you said that whatever Thomas Brignell was withholding, he was doing so for reasons of personal embarrassment? That was a remark that proved very helpful to me—very helpful indeed!”
“Well, I’m afraid I’m still in the tunnel and can’t see a flicker of light at either end.”
“I will make you a promise,” said Poirot. “Tomorrow, immediately after breakfast, we will pay a little visit, you and I. After that, you will comprehend more than you do now. I hope that I will also.”
“I don’t suppose I am permitted to ask whom we will be visiting?”
“You may ask, mon ami.” Poirot smiled. “I telephoned to Scotland Yard for the address. It is one you would recognize, I think, if I told it to you.”
Which, needless to say, he had no intention of doing.
Knock and See Who Comes to the Door
AS WE MADE OUR way across town the following morning to pay our mysterious “visit,” Poirot’s mood was as changeable as the London weather, which could not make up its mind between sunny and cloudy. At one moment he would appear to be pleased with himself and at ease, and the next he would furrow his brow as if worrying away at something.
We finally arrived at a modest house on a narrow street. “Number 3 Yarmouth Cottages,” said Poirot, standing outside it. “From where do you know this address, Catchpool? It is familiar to you, no?”
“Yes. Hold on a moment. It will come to me. That’s right—it’s Samuel Kidd’s address, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. Our helpful witness who saw Nancy Ducane run from the Bloxham Hotel and drop two keys, even though Nancy Ducane could not have been at the Bloxham Hotel just after eight o’clock on the night of the murders.”
“Because she was at Louisa Wallace’s house,” I agreed. “So we’re here to give Mr. Kidd a scare, are we, and find out who put him up to lying?”
“Non. Mr. Kidd is not at home today. He has gone to work, I expect.”
“Then . . .”
“Let us play a little game, called Knock-and-See-Who-Comes-to-the-Door,” said Poirot with an enigmatic smile. “Go ahead. I would knock myself if it were not for my gloves. I do not wish to make them dirty.”
I knocked and waited, wondering why Poirot expected anyone to come to the door of a house whose only known occupant was elsewhere. I opened my mouth to ask him, then closed it again. There was, of course, no point. Wistfully, I remembered a time (less than a fortnight ago) when I believed that asking a straight question of someone who knew the answer was a worthwhile thing to do.
The front door of number 3 Yarmouth Cottages opened, and I found myself looking into the large eyes of a person who was not Samuel Kidd. At first I was puzzled, for this was a face I did not know. Then I watched as terror twisted the features, and I knew who it had to be.
“Good morning, Mademoiselle Jennie,” said Poirot. “Catchpool, this is Jennie Hobbs. And this, mademoiselle, is my friend Mr. Edward Catchpool. You might remember that we talked about him at Pleasant’s Coffee House. Allow me to express my profound relief at finding you alive.”
That was when I knew for sure that I knew nothing. The few paltry scraps of certainty upon which I had been relying had proved themselves untrustworthy. How the deuce had Poirot known he would find Jennie Hobbs here? It was simply impossible! And yet, here we were.
After Jennie had composed herself and arranged her expression into something less abject and more guarded, she invited us into the house and bade us wait in a small dark room with shabby furniture. She then excused herself, saying that she would be back shortly.
“You said it was too late to save her!” I said angrily to Poirot. “You lied to me.”