Seventeen
Superintendent Spence looked up at Shepherd’s Court, Mayfair, before stepping inside its agreeable portal. Situated modestly in the vicinity of Shepherd Market, it was discreet, expensive and inconspicuous.
Inside, Spence’s feet sunk into soft pile carpet, there was a velvet-covered settee and a jardinière full of flowering plants. A small automatic lift faced him, with a flight of stairs at one side of it. On the right of the hall was a door marked Office. Spence pushed it open and went through. He found himself in a small room with a counter, behind which was a table and a typewriter, and two chairs. One was drawn up to the table, the other, a more decorative one, was set at an angle to the window. There was no one visible.
Spying a bell inset on the mahogany counter, Spence pressed it. When nothing happened, he pressed it again. A minute or so later a door in the far wall was opened and a resplendent person in uniform appeared. His appearance was that of a foreign General or possibly Field Marshal, but his speech was of London and uneducated London at that.
“Yes, sir?”
“Mrs. Gordon Cloade.”
“Third floor, sir. Shall I ring through first?”
“She’s here, is she?” said Spence. “I had an idea she might be in the country.”
“No, sir, she’s been here since Saturday last.”
“And Mr. David Hunter?”
“Mr. Hunter’s been here, too.”
“He’s not been away?”
“No, sir.”
“Was he here last night?”
“Now then,” said the Field Marshal, suddenly becoming aggressive. “What’s all this about? Want to know every one’s life history?”
Silently Spence displayed his warrant card. The Field Marshal was immediately deflated and became cooperative.
“Sorry, I’m sure,” he said. “Couldn’t tell, could I?”
“Now then, was Mr. Hunter here last night?”
“Yes, sir, he was. At least to the best of my belief he was. That is, he didn’t say he was going away.”
“Would you know if he was away?”
“Well, generally speaking, no. I don’t suppose I should. Gentlemen and ladies usually say if they’re not going to be here. Leave word about letters or what they want said if any one rings up.”
“Do telephone calls go through this office?”
“No, most of the flats have their own lines. One or two prefer not to have a telephone and then we send up word on the house phone and the people come down and speak from the box in the hall.”
“But Mrs. Cloade’s flat has its own phone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And as far as you know they were both here last night?”
“That’s right.”
“What about meals?”
“There’s a restaurant, but Mrs. Cloade and Mr. Hunter don’t very often use it. They usually go out to dinner.”
“Breakfast?”
“That’s served in the flats.”
“Can you find out if breakfast was served this morning to them?”
“Yes, sir. I can find out from room service.”
Spence nodded. “I’m going up now. Let me know about that when I come down.”
“Very good, sir.”
Spence entered the lift and pressed the button for the third floor. There were only two flats on each landing. Spence pushed the bell of No. 9.
David Hunter opened it. He did not know the Superintendent by sight and he spoke brusquely.
“Well, what is it?”
“Mr. Hunter?”
“Yes.”
“Superintendent Spence of the Oastshire County Police. Can I have a word with you?”
“I apologize, Superintendent.” He grinned. “I thought you were a tout. Come in.”
He led the way into a modern and charming room. Rosaleen Cloade was standing by the window and turned at their entrance.
“Superintendent Spence, Rosaleen,” said Hunter. “Sit down, Superintendent. Have a drink?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Hunter.”
Rosaleen had inclined her head slightly. She sat now, her back to the window, her hands clasped tightly on her lap.
“Smoke?” David proferred cigarettes.
“Thanks.” Spence took a cigarette, waited…watched David slide a hand into a pocket, slide it out, frown, look round and pick up a box of matches. He struck one and lit the Superintendent’s cigarette.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Well,” said David, easily, as he lit his own cigarette. “What’s wrong at Warmsley Vale? Has our cook been dealing in the black market? She provides us with wonderful food, and I’ve always wondered if there was some sinister story behind it.”
“It’s rather more serious than that,” said the Superintendent. “A man died at the Stag Inn last night. Perhaps you saw it in the papers?”
David shook his head.
“No, I didn’t notice it. What about him?”
“He didn’t only die. He was killed. His head was stove in as a matter of fact.”
A half-choked exclamation came from Rosaleen. David said quickly:
“Please, Superintendent, don’t enlarge on any details. My sister is delicate. She can’t help it, but if you mention blood and horrors she’ll probably faint.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the Superintendent. “But there wasn’t any blood to speak of. It was murder right enough, though.”
He paused. David’s eyebrows went up. He said gently:
“You interest me. Where do we come in?”
“We hoped you might be able to tell us something about this man, Mr. Hunter.”
“I?”
“You called to see him on Saturday evening last. His name—or the name he was registered under—was Enoch Arden.”
“Yes, of course. I remember now.”
David spoke quietly, without embarrassment.
“Well, Mr. Hunter?”
“Well, Superintendent, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I know next to nothing about the man.”
“Was his name really Enoch Arden?”
“I should very much doubt it.”
“Why did you go to see him?”
“Just one of the usual hard-luck stories. He mentioned certain places, war experiences, people—” David shrugged his shoulders. “Just a touch, I’m afraid. The whole thing rather bogus.”
“Did you give him any money, sir?”
There was a fractional pause and then David said:
“Just a fiver—for luck. He’d been in the war all right.”
“He mentioned certain names that you—knew?”
“Yes.”
“Was one of those names Captain Robert Underhay?”
Now at last he got his effect. David stiffened. Behind him, Rosaleen gave a little frightened gasp.
“What makes you think that, Superintendent?” David asked at last. His eyes were cautious, probing.
“Information received,” said the Superintendent stolidly.
There was a short silence. The Superintendent was aware of David’s eyes, studying him, sizing him up, striving to know…He himself waited quietly.
“Any idea who Robert Underhay was, Superintendent?” David asked.
“Suppose you tell me, sir.”
“Robert Underhay was my sister’s first husband. He died in Africa some years ago.”
“Quite sure of that, Mr. Hunter?” Spence asked quickly.
“Quite sure. That’s so, isn’t it, Rosaleen?” He turned to her.
“Oh, yes.” She spoke quickly and breathlessly. “Robert died of fever—blackwater fever. It was very sad.”
“Sometimes stories get about that aren’t quite true, Mrs. Cloade.”
She said nothing. She was looking not at him, but at her brother. Then, after a moment, she said:
“Robert’s dead.”
“From information in my possession,” said the Superintendent, “I understand that this man, Enoch Arden, claimed to be a fri
end of the late Robert Underhay and at the same time informed you, Mr. Hunter, that Robert Underhay was alive.”
David shook his head.
“Nonsense,” he said. “Absolute nonsense.”
“You state definitely that the name of Robert Underhay was not mentioned?”
“Oh,” David smiled charmingly, “it was mentioned. This poor fellow had known Underhay.”
“There was no question of—blackmail, Mr. Hunter?”
“Blackmail? I don’t understand you, Superintendent.”
“Don’t you really, Mr. Hunter? By the way, just as a matter of form, where were you last night—between, shall we say, seven and eleven?”
“Just as a matter of form, Superintendent, suppose I refuse to answer?”
“Aren’t you behaving rather childishly, Mr. Hunter?”
“I don’t think so. I dislike—I always have disliked, being bullied.”
The Superintendent thought that was probably true.
He’d known witnesses of the David Hunter type before. Witnesses who were obstructive for the sake of being obstructive, and not in the least because they had anything to hide. The mere fact of being asked to account for their comings and goings seemed to raise a black pride and sullenness in them. They would make it a point to give the law all the trouble they could.
Superintendent Spence, though he prided himself on being a fair-minded man, had nevertheless come to Shepherd’s Court with a very strong conviction that David Hunter was a murderer.
Now, for the first time, he was not so sure. The very puerility of David’s defiance awoke doubts in him.
Spence looked at Rosaleen Cloade. She responded at once.
“David, why don’t you tell him?”
“That’s right, Mrs. Cloade. We only want to clear things up—”
David broke in savagely:
“You’ll stop bullying my sister, do you hear? What is it to you where I may have been, here, or at Warmsley Vale or in Timbuctoo?”
Spence said warningly:
“You’ll be subpoenaed for the inquest, Mr. Hunter, and there you’ll have to answer questions.”
“I’ll wait for the inquest, then! And now, Superintendent, will you get to hell out of here?”
“Very good, sir.” The Superintendent rose, imperturbable. “But I’ve something to ask Mrs. Cloade first.”
“I don’t want my sister worried.”
“Quite so. But I want her to look at the body and tell me if she can identify it. I’m within my rights there. It’ll have to be done sooner or later. Why not let her come down with me now and get it over? The late Mr. Arden was heard by a witness to say that he knew Robert Underhay—ergo he may have known Mrs. Underhay—and therefore Mrs. Underhay may know him. If his name isn’t Enoch Arden, we could do with knowing what it really is.”
Rather unexpectedly Rosaleen Cloade got up.
“I’ll come, of course,” she said.
Spence expected a fresh outburst from David, but to his surprise the other grinned.
“Good for you, Rosaleen,” he said. “I’ll confess, I’m curious myself. After all, you may be able to put a name to the fellow.”
Spence said to her:
“You didn’t see him yourself in Warmsley Vale?”
She shook her head.
“I’ve been in London since Saturday last.”
“And Arden arrived on Friday night—yes.”
Rosaleen asked: “Do you want me to come now?”
She asked the question with something of the submissiveness of a little girl. In spite of himself the Superintendent was favourably impressed. There was a docility, a willingness about her which he had not expected.
“That would be very nice of you, Mrs. Cloade,” he said. “The sooner we can get certain facts definitely established the better. I haven’t got a police car here, I’m afraid.”
David crossed to the telephone.
“I’ll ring up the Daimler Hire. It’s beyond the legal limit—but I expect you can square that, Superintendent.”
“I think that can be arranged, Mr. Hunter.”
He got up. “I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”
He went down in the lift and pushed open the office door once more.
The Field Marshal was awaiting him.
“Well?”
“Both beds slept in last night, sir. Baths and towels used. Breakfast was served to them in the flat at nine-thirty.”
“And you don’t know what time Mr. Hunter came in yesterday evening?”
“I can’t tell you anything further, I’m afraid, sir!”
Well, that was that, Spence thought. He wondered if there was anything behind David’s refusal to speak except pure childlike defiance. He must realize that a charge of murder was hovering over him. Surely he must see that the sooner he told his story the better. Never a good thing to antagonize the police. But antagonizing the police, he thought ruefully, was just what David Hunter would enjoy doing.
They talked very little on the way down. When they arrived at the mortuary Rosaleen Cloade was very pale. Her hands were shaking. David looked concerned for her. He spoke to her as though she was a small child.
“It’ll be only a minute or two, mavourneen. It’s nothing at all, nothing at all now. Don’t get worked up. You go in with the Superintendent and I’ll wait for you. And there’s nothing at all to mind about. Peaceful he’ll look and just as though he were asleep.”
She gave him a little nod of the head and stretched out her hand. He gave it a little squeeze.
“Be a brave girl now, alanna.”
As she followed the Superintendent she said in her soft voice: “You must think I’m a terrible coward, Superintendent. But when they’ve been all dead in the house—all dead but you—that awful night in London—”
He said gently: “I understand, Mrs. Cloade. I know you went through a bad experience in the Blitz when your husband was killed. Really, it will be only a minute or two.”
At a sign from Spence the sheet was turned back. Rosaleen Cloade stood looking down at the man who had called himself Enoch Arden. Spence, unobtrusively standing to one side, was actually watching her closely.
She looked at the dead man curiously and as though wondering—she gave no start, no sign of emotion or recognition, just looked long and wonderingly at him. Then, very quietly, in an almost matter-of-fact way, she made the sign of the cross.
“God rest his soul,” she said. “I’ve never seen that man in my life. I don’t know who he is.”
Spence thought to himself:
“Either you’re one of the finest actresses I’ve ever known or else you’re speaking the truth.”
Later, Spence rang up Rowley Cloade.
“I’ve had the widow down,” he said. “She says definitely that he’s not Robert Underlay and that she’s never seen him before. So that settles that!”
There was a pause. Then Rowley said slowly:
“Does it settle it?”
“I think a jury would believe her—in the absence of evidence to the contrary, of course.”
“Ye-es,” said Rowley and rang off.
Then, frowning, he picked up not the local telephone directory, but the London one. His forefingers ran methodically down the letter P. Presently he found what he wanted.
BOOK II
One
I
Hercule Poirot carefully folded the last of the newspapers he had sent George out to purchase. The information they gave was somewhat meagre. Medical evidence was given that the man’s skull was fractured by a series of heavy blows. The inquest had been adjourned for a fortnight. Anybody who could give information about a man named Enoch Arden believed to have lately arrived from Cape Town was asked to communicate with the Chief Constable of Oastshire.
Poirot laid the papers in a neat pile and gave himself up to meditation. He was interested. He might, perhaps, have passed the first small paragraph by without interest if it had not been for the recent visi
t of Mrs. Lionel Cloade. But that visit had recalled to him very clearly the incidents of that day at the club during that air raid. He remembered, very distinctly, Major Porter’s voice saying, “Maybe a Mr. Enoch Arden will turn up somewhere a thousand miles away and start life anew.” He wanted now, rather badly, to know more about this man called Enoch Arden who had died by violence at Warmsley Vale.
He remembered that he was slightly acquainted with Superintendent Spence of the Oastshire police and he also remembered that young Mellon lived not very far from Warmsley Heath, and that young Mellon knew Jeremy Cloade.
It was while he was meditating a telephone call to young Mellon that George came in and announced that a Mr. Rowland Cloade would like to see him.
“Aha,” said Hercule Poirot with satisfaction. “Show him in.”
A good-looking worried young man was shown in, and seemed rather at a loss how to begin.
“Well, Mr. Cloade,” said Poirot helpfully, “and what can I do for you?”
Rowley Cloade was eyeing Poirot rather doubtfully. The flamboyant moustaches, the sartorial elegance, the white spats and the pointed patent-leather shoes all filled this insular young man with distinct misgivings.
Poirot realized this perfectly well, and was somewhat amused.
Rowley Cloade began rather heavily:
“I’m afraid I’ll have to explain who I am and all that. You won’t know my name—”
Poirot interrupted him:
“But yes, I know your name perfectly. Your aunt, you see, came to see me last week.”
“My aunt?” Rowley’s jaw dropped. He stared at Poirot with the utmost astonishment. This so clearly was news to him, that Poirot put aside his first surmise which was that the two visits were connected. For a moment it seemed to him a remarkable coincidence that two members of the Cloade family should choose to consult him within such a short period of time, but a second later he realized that there was no coincidence—merely a natural sequence proceeding from one initial cause.
Aloud he said:
“I assume that Mrs. Lionel Cloade is your aunt.”
If anything Rowley looked rather more astonished than before.