The Monogram Murders (30 page)

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.”

“You mean that both he and his wife
say
that he

was in Devon,” Poirot briskly corrected me. “To

return to the matter of the trail of blood, suggesting

that the body had been dragged to the door . . . Of

course, an empty suitcase can be carried into the

middle of a room, to where a dead body waits to be

placed inside it. So, again, we must wonder: why pull

Jennie Hobbs’s body in the direction of the door?”

“Please, Poirot. If we must have this conversation,

let us have it some other time. Not now.”

He looked put out by my discomfort. “Very well,”

he said brusquely. “Since you are in no mood to

debate the possibilities, let me tell you what occurred

here in London while you were in Great Holling.

Perhaps you will feel more comfortable with facts.”

“A great deal more comfortable, yes,” I said.

After making minor adjustments to his mustache,

Poirot lowered himself into an armchair and launched

into an account of the conversations he’d had with

Rafal Bobak, Samuel Kidd, Nancy Ducane and Louisa

Wallace while I was in Great Holling. My mind was

reeling by the time he had finished. I risked urging

him on to further loquacity by saying, “Haven’t you

left out some rather important things?”

“Such as what?”

“Well, this useless, clumsy maid at Louisa

Wallace’s house—Dorcas. You implied that while

you and she were standing together on the upstairs

landing, you realized something important, but you

didn’t say what it was that you realized.”

“That is true. I did not.”

“And this mysterious picture you drew and had

delivered to Scotland Yard—what’s that all about?

What was the picture of? And what is Stanley Beer

supposed to do with it?”

“That, also, I did not tell you.” Poirot had the

nerve to look apologetic, as if he had himself had no

choice in the matter.

Foolishly, I persisted. “And why did you want to

know how many times each and every Bloxham Hotel

employee saw Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and

Richard Negus alive or dead? How is that pertinent to

anything? You didn’t explain that either.”

“Poirot, he leaves the gaps all over the place!”

“Not to forget your earlier omissions. What, for

instance, were the two most unusual features shared

by the Bloxham murders and Jennie Hobbs’s outburst

in Pleasant’s Coffee House? You said they had two

highly unusual things in common.”

“Indeed I did.
Mon ami,
I do not tell you these

things because I want to make of you a detective.”

“This case will make nothing of me but a

miserable wretch, of no use to anyone,” I said,

allowing my true feelings to have an outing for once

in my life. “It’s the most maddening thing.”

I heard a noise that might or might not have been a

knock at the drawing-room door. “Is somebody

there?” I called out.

“Yes,” came Blanche Unsworth’s apprehensive

voice from the hall. “I’m sorry to disturb you at this

time, gentlemen, but there’s a lady to see Mr. Poirot.

She says it can’t wait.”

“Show her in, madame.”

A few seconds later, I found myself face to face

with the artist Nancy Ducane. Most men, I knew,

would have thought her startlingly beautiful.

Poirot made the introductions with perfect

courtesy.

“Thank you for seeing me.” Nancy Ducane’s

swollen eyes suggested that she had done a fair

amount of crying. She was wearing a dark green coat

that looked expensive. “I feel dreadful, barging in on

you like this. Please pardon the intrusion. I tried to

persuade myself not to come, but . . . as you can see, I

failed.”

“Please sit down, Mrs. Ducane,” said Poirot.

“How did you find us?”

“With help from Scotland Yard, like a proper bona

fide detective.” Nancy attempted a smile.

“Ah! Poirot, he chooses a house where he thinks

no one will find him, and the police send the crowds

to his door! No matter, madame. I am delighted to see

you, if a little surprised.”

“I would like to tell you what happened in Great

Holling sixteen years ago,” said Nancy. “I should

have done so before, but you gave me such a shock

when you mentioned all those names I had hoped

never to hear again.”

She unbuttoned her coat and took it off. I gestured

toward an armchair.

She sat down. “It’s not a happy tale,” she said.

NANCY DUCANE SPOKE IN a quiet voice and with a

haunted look in her eyes. She told us the same story

that Margaret Ernst had told me in Great Holling,

about the cruel and slanderous treatment of Reverend

Patrick Ive. When she spoke of Jennie Hobbs, her

voice shook. “She was the worst of them. She was in

love with Patrick, you see. Oh, I can’t prove it, but I

shall always believe it. She did what she did to him

as someone who loved him:
told an unforgivable lie

because she was jealous
.
He was in love with me,

and she wanted to wound him. To punish him. Then

when Harriet seized on the lie, and Jennie saw the

harm she had done and felt sick about it—and I
do

believe she felt dreadfully ashamed, and must have

hated herself—she did nothing to remedy what she

had set in motion, nothing! She slunk off into the

shadows and hoped not to be noticed. However afraid

she was of Harriet, she should have forced herself to

stand up and say, “I told a terrible lie and I’m sorry

for it.”

“Pardon, madame. You say you cannot prove that

Jennie was in love with Patrick Ive. May I ask: how

do you know that she was? As you suggest, it is

unthinkable that one who loved him would start so

damaging a rumor.”

“There is no doubt in my mind that Jennie loved

Patrick,” said Nancy stubbornly. “She left behind a

sweetheart in Cambridge when she moved to Great

Holling with Patrick and Frances—did you know

that?”

We shook our heads.

“They were supposed to get married. The date was

set, I believe. Jennie couldn’t bear to let Patrick go,