The Monogram Murders(7)
He was worried, all right, but not about me and whether I had eaten or was going to eat. It was a huge relief. “Looking?” I asked.
“Oui. For a woman, Jennie, whom I very much hope is still alive and not murdered.”
“Murdered?” I had that sense of the ground dropping away again. I knew Poirot was a famous detective. He had told me about some of the cases he’d solved. Still, he was supposed to be having a break from all that, and I could have done without his producing that particular word at that moment, in such a portentous fashion.
“What does she look like, this Jennie?” I asked. “Describe her. I might have seen her. Especially if she’s been murdered. I’ve seen two murdered women tonight, actually, and one man, so you might be in luck. The man didn’t look as if he was likely to be called Jennie, but as for the other two—”
“Attendez, mon ami,” Poirot’s calm voice cut through my desperate ramblings. He took off his hat and began to unbutton his coat. “So Madame Blanche, she is correct—you are troubled? Ah, but how did I not see this straight away? You are pale. My thoughts, they were elsewhere. They arrange to be elsewhere when they see that Madame Blanche approaches! But please tell Poirot immédiatement: what is the matter?”
“THREE MURDERS ARE THE matter,” I said. “And all three of them like nothing I’ve seen before. Two women and one man. Each one in a different room.”
Of course, I had encountered violent death before many times—I had been with Scotland Yard for nearly two years, and a policeman for five—but most murders had about them an obvious appearance of lost control: somebody had lashed out in a fit of temper, or had one tipple too many and blown his top. This business at the Bloxham was very different. Whoever had killed three times at the hotel had planned ahead—for months, I guessed. Each of his crime scenes was a work of macabre art with a hidden meaning that I could not decipher. It terrified me to think that this time I was not up against a chaotic ruffian of the sort I was used to, but perhaps a cold, meticulous mind that would not allow itself to be defeated.
I was no doubt being overly gloomy about it, but I couldn’t shake my feelings of foreboding. Three matching corpses: the very idea made me shudder. I told myself I must not develop a phobia; I had rather to treat this case as I would any other, no matter how different it seemed on the surface.
“Each of the three murders in a different room in the same house?” Poirot asked.
“No, at the Bloxham Hotel. Up Piccadilly Circus way. I don’t suppose you know it?”
“Non.”
“I had never been inside it before tonight. It’s not the sort of place a chap like me would think to go. It’s palatial.”
Poirot was sitting with his back very straight. “Three murders, in the same hotel and each in a different room?” he said.
“Yes, and all committed earlier in the evening within a short space of time.”
“This evening? And yet you are here. Why are you not at the hotel? The killer, he is apprehended already?”
“No such luck, I’m afraid. No, I . . .” I stopped and cleared my throat. Reporting the facts of the case was straightforward enough, but I had no wish to explain to Poirot how my mood had been affected by what I had seen, or to tell him that I had been at the Bloxham for no more than five minutes before I succumbed to the powerful urge to leave.
The way all three had been laid out on their backs so formally: arms by their sides, palms of their hands touching the floor, legs together . . .
Laying out the dead. The phrase forced its way into my mind, accompanied by a vision of a dark room from many years ago—a room I had been compelled to enter as a young child, and had been refusing to enter in my imagination ever since. I fully intended to carry on refusing for the rest of my life.
Lifeless hands, palms facing downward.
“Hold his hand, Edward.”
“Don’t worry, there are plenty of police crawling about the place,” I said quickly and loudly, to banish the unwelcome vision. “Tomorrow morning is soon enough for me to go back.” Seeing that he was waiting for a fuller answer, I added, “I had to clear my head. Frankly, I’ve never seen anything as peculiar as these three murders in all my life.”
“In what way peculiar?”
“Each of the victims had something in his or her mouth—the same thing.”
“Non.” Poirot wagged his finger at me. “This is not possible, mon ami. The same thing cannot be inside three different mouths at the same time.”
“Three separate things, all identical,” I clarified. “Three cufflinks, solid gold from the look of them. Monogrammed. Same initials on all three: PIJ. Poirot? Are you all right? You look—”
“Mon Dieu!” He had risen to his feet and begun to pace around the room. “You do not see what this means, mon ami. No, you do not see it at all, because you have not heard the story of my encounter with Mademoiselle Jennie. Quickly I must tell you what happened so that you understand.”
Poirot’s idea of telling a story quickly is rather different from most people’s. Every detail matters to him equally, whether it’s a fire in which three hundred people perish or a small dimple on a child’s chin. He can never be induced to rush to the nub of a matter, so I settled into my chair and let him tell it in his own way. By the time he had finished, I felt as if I had experienced the events first-hand—more comprehensively, indeed, than I experience many scenes from my life in which I personally participate.