The Monogram Murders(87)

“This led me to ruminate. I already suspected that the dead Richard Negus whose body I saw and the living Richard Negus seen by Rafal Bobak and Thomas Brignell on the night of the murders were two different men. Then I remembered being told that on arrival at the Bloxham on the Wednesday, Richard Negus was dealt with by Thomas Brignell. If I was right in my suppositions, then this would have been a different Richard Negus, the real one. Suddenly I understood Thomas Brignell’s predicament. How could he say publicly that this one man appeared to have two faces? Everyone would think him a lunatic!”

“You’re the one that sounds half-crazed, Mr. Poirot,” said Samuel Kidd with a sneer.

Poirot went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “This impostor might not have resembled Richard Negus in appearance, but I have no doubt that his voice was a perfect imitation. He is an excellent mimic—are you not, Mr. Kidd?”

“Don’t listen to this man! He’s a liar!”

“No, Mr. Kidd. It is you who are the liar. You have impersonated me more than once.”

Fee Spring stood up at the back of the room. “You should all believe Mr. Poirot,” she said. “He’s telling the truth, all right. I’ve heard Mr. Samuel Kidd speak in his accent. With my eyes closed, I’d not know the difference.”

“It is not only with his voice that Samuel Kidd lies,” said Poirot. “The first time I met him, he presented himself as a man of below average intelligence and slovenly appearance: his shirt with the missing button and the stain. Also the incomplete beard—he had shaved only one small patch of his face. Mr. Kidd, please tell everybody here why you went to great lengths to make yourself look so disheveled the first time we met.”

Samuel Kidd stared resolutely ahead. He said nothing. His eyes were full of loathing.

“Very well, if you will not speak then I shall explain it myself. Mr. Kidd cut his cheek while climbing down the tree outside the window of Room 238, Richard Negus’s hotel room. A cut on the face of a smartly dressed man might stand out and invite questions, no? One who is careful about his appearance would surely not allow a razor to make an unsightly mark upon his face. Mr. Kidd did not want me to think along these lines. He did not want me to wonder if he might recently have climbed out of an open window and down a tree, so he created the general unkempt appearance. He arranged himself to look like the sort of man who would be so careless as to cut himself while shaving and then, to avoid further cuts, walk around with half a beard on and half off! Such a chaotic man would of course use his shaving razor recklessly and do damage—this is what Poirot was supposed to believe, and it was what he did believe at first.”

“Hold on a minute, Poirot,” I said. “If you’re saying that Samuel Kidd climbed out of Richard Negus’s hotel-room window—”

“Am I saying that he murdered Mr. Negus? Non. He did not. He assisted the murderer of Richard Negus. As for who that person is . . . I have not yet told you the name.” Poirot smiled.

“No, you haven’t,” I said sharply. “Nor have you told me who were the three people in Room 317 when Rafal Bobak took up the afternoon tea. You’ve said that the three murder victims were all dead by then—”

“Indeed they were. One of the three in Room 317 at a quarter past seven was Ida Gransbury—dead, but positioned upright in a chair to appear alive, as long as one did not see her face. Another was Samuel Kidd, playing the part of Richard Negus.”

“Yes, I see that, but who was the third?” I asked rather desperately. “Who was the woman posing as Harriet Sippel, gossiping with spiteful glee? It can’t have been Jennie Hobbs. As you say, Jennie would have had to be halfway to Pleasant’s Coffee House by then.”

“Ah, yes, the woman gossiping gleefully,” said Poirot. “I shall tell you who that was, my friend. That woman was Nancy Ducane.”

LOUD CRIES OF SHOCK filled the room.

“Oh, no, Monsieur Poirot,” said Luca Lazzari. “Signora Ducane is one of the country’s foremost artistic talents. She is also a most loyal friend of this hotel. You must be mistaken!”

“I am not mistaken, mon ami.”

I looked at Nancy Ducane, who sat with an air of quiet resignation. She denied nothing that Poirot had said.

Famous artist Nancy Ducane conspiring with Samuel Kidd, Jennie Hobbs’s former fiancé? I had never been more flummoxed in my life than I was at that moment. What could it all mean?

“Did I not tell you, Catchpool, that Madame Ducane wears the scarf over her face today because she does not wish to be recognized? You assumed that I meant ‘recognized as the celebrated portrait painter.’ No! She did not want be recognized by Rafal Bobak as the Harriet he saw in Room 317 on the night of the murders! Please stand and remove your scarf, Mrs. Ducane.”

Nancy did so.

“Mr. Bobak, was this the woman you saw?”

“Yes, Mr. Poirot. It was.”

It was quiet, but audible nonetheless: the sound of breath being drawn into lungs and held there. It filled the large room.

“You did not recognize her as the famous portrait painter, Nancy Ducane?”

“No, sir. I know nothing about art, and I only saw her in profile. She had her head turned away from me.”

“I am sure she did, in case you happened to be an art enthusiast and able to identify her.”