He said with the utmost incredulity:
“Aunt Kathie? Surely—don’t you mean—Mrs. Jeremy Cloade?”
Poirot shook his head.
“But what on earth could Aunt Kathie—”
Poirot murmured discreetly:
“She was directed to me, I understand, by spirit guidance.”
“Oh Lord!” said Rowley. He looked relieved and amused. He said, as though reassuring Poirot, “She’s quite harmless, you know.”
“I wonder,” said Poirot.
“What do you mean?”
“Is anybody—ever—quite harmless?”
Rowley stared. Poirot sighed.
“You have come to me to ask me something?—Yes?” he prompted gently.
The worried look came back to Rowley’s face.
“It’s rather a long story, I’m afraid—”
Poirot was afraid of it, too. He had a very shrewd idea that Rowley Cloade was not the sort of person to come to the point quickly. He leaned back and half-closed his eyes as Rowley began:
“My uncle, you see, was Gordon Cloade—”
“I know all about Gordon Cloade,” said Poirot, helpfully.
“Good. Then I needn’t explain. He married a few weeks before his death—a young widow called Underhay. Since his death she has been living at Warmsley Vale—she and a brother of hers. We all understood that her first husband had died of fever in Africa. But now it seems as though that mightn’t be so.”
“Ah,” Poirot sat up. “And what has led you to that surmise?”
Rowley described the advent of Mr. Enoch Arden in Warmsley Vale. “Perhaps you have seen in the papers—”
“Yes, I have seen.” Poirot was again helpful.
Rowley went on. He described his first impression of the man Arden, his visit to the Stag, the letter he had received from Beatrice Lippincott and finally the conversation that Beatrice had overheard.
“Of course,” Rowley said, “one can’t be sure just what she did hear. She may have exaggerated it all a bit—or even got it wrong.”
“Has she told her story to the police?”
Rowley nodded. “I told her she’d better.”
“I don’t quite see—pardon me—why you come to me, Mr. Cloade? Do you want me to investigate this—murder? For it is murder, I assume.”
“Lord, no,” said Rowley. “I don’t want anything of that kind. That’s a police job. He was bumped off all right. No, what I’m after is this. I want you to find out who the fellow was.”
Poirot’s eyes narrowed.
“Who do you think he was, Mr. Cloade?”
“Well, I mean—Enoch Arden isn’t a name. Dash it all, it’s a quotation. Tennyson. I went and mugged it up. Fellow who comes back and finds out his wife has married another fellow.”
“So you think,” said Poirot quietly, “that Enoch Arden was Robert Underhay himself?”
Rowley said slowly:
“Well, he might have been—I mean, about the right age and appearance and all that. Of course I’ve gone over it all with Beatrice again and again. She can’t naturally remember exactly what they both said. The chap said Robert Underhay had come down in the world and was in bad health and needed money. Well, he might have been talking about himself, mightn’t he? He seems to have said something about it wouldn’t suit David Hunter’s book if Underhay turned up in Warmsley Vale—sounding a bit as though he was there under an assumed name.”
“What evidence of identification was there at the inquest?”
Rowley shook his head.
“Nothing definite. Only the Stag people saying he was the man who’d come there and registered as Enoch Arden.”
“What about his papers?”
“He hadn’t any.”
“What?” Poirot sat up in surprise. “No papers of any kind?”
“Nothing at all. Some spare socks and a shirt and a toothbrush, etc.—but no papers.”
“No passport? No letters? Not even a ration card?”
“Nothing at all.”
“That,” said Poirot, “is very interesting. Yes, very interesting.”
Rowley went on: “David Hunter, that’s Rosaleen Cloade’s brother, had called to see him the evening after he arrived. His story to the police is that he’d had a letter from the chap saying he had been a friend of Robert Underhay’s and was down and out. At his sister’s request he went to the Stag and saw the fellow and gave him a fiver. That’s his story and you bet he means to stick to it! Of course the police are keeping dark about what Beatrice heard.”
“David Hunter says he had no previous acquaintance with the man?”
“That’s what he says. Anyway, I gather Hunter never met Underhay.”
“And what about Rosaleen Cloade?”
“The police asked her to look at the body in case she knew the man. She told them that he was a complete stranger to her.”
“Eh bien,” said Poirot. “Then that answers your question!”
“Does it?” said Rowley bluntly. “I think not. If the dead man is Underhay then Rosaleen was never my uncle’s wife and she’s not entitled to a penny of his money. Do you think she would recognize him under those circumstances?”
“You don’t trust her?”
“I don’t trust either of them.
“Surely there are plenty of people who could say for certain that the dead man is or is not Underhay?”
“It doesn’t seem to be so easy. That’s what I want you to do. Find someone who knows Underhay. Apparently he has no living relations in this country—and he was always an unsociable lonely sort of chap. I suppose there must be old servants—friends—someone—but the war’s broken up everything and shifted people round. I wouldn’t know how to begin to tackle the job—anyway I haven’t the time. I’m a farmer—and I’m shorthanded.”
“Why me?” said Hercule Poirot.
Rowley looked embarrassed.
A faint twinkle came into Poirot’s eye.
“Spirit guidance?” he murmured.
“Good Lord, no,” said Rowley horrified. “Matter of fact,” he hesitated, “I heard a fellow I know talk about you—said you were a wizard at these sort of things. I don’t know about your fees—expensive, I expect—we’re rather a stony-broke lot, but I dare say we could cough it up amongst the lot of us. That is, if you’ll take it on.”
Hercule Poirot said slowly:
“Yes, I think perhaps I can help you.”
His memory, a very precise and definite memory, went back. The club bore, the rustling newspapers, the monotonous voice.
The name—he had heard the name—it would come back to him presently. If not, he could always ask Mellon…No, he had got it. Porter. Major Porter.
Hercule Poirot rose to his feet.
“Will you come back here this afternoon, Mr. Cloade?”
“Well—I don’t know. Yes, I suppose I could. But surely you can’t do anything in that short time?”
He looked at Poirot with awe and incredulity. Poirot would have been less than human if he could have resisted the temptation to show off. With memories of a brilliant predecessor in his mind, he said solemnly:
“I have my methods, Mr. Cloade.”
It was clearly the right thing to say. Rowley’s expression became respectful in the extreme.
“Yes—of course—really—I don’t know how you people do these things.”
Poirot did not enlighten him. When Rowley had gone, he sat down and wrote a short note. Giving it to George he instructed him to take it to the Coronation Club and wait for an answer.
The answer was highly satisfactory. Major Porter presented his compliments to M. Hercule Poirot and would be happy to see him and his friend at 79 Edgeway Street, Campden Hill, that afternoon at five o’clock.
II
At four-thirty Rowley Cloade reappeared.
“Any luck, M. Poirot?”
“But yes, Mr. Cloade, we go now to see an old friend of Captain Robert Underhay’s.”
; “What?” Rowley’s mouth fell open. He stared at Poirot with the amazement a small boy shows when a conjurer produces rabbits out of a hat. “But it’s incredible! I don’t understand how you can do these things—why, it’s only a few hours.”
Poirot waved a deprecating hand and tried to look modest. He had no intention of revealing the simplicity with which his conjuring trick had been done. His vanity was pleased to impress this simple Rowley.
The two men went out together, and hailing a taxi they drove to Campden Hill.
III
Major Porter had the first floor of a small shabby house. They were admitted by a cheerful blowsy-looking woman who took them up. It was a square room with bookshelves round it and some rather bad sporting prints. There were two rugs on the floor—good rugs with lovely dim colour but very worn. Poirot noticed that the centre of the floor was covered with a new heavy varnish whereas the varnish round the edge was old and rubbed. He realized then that there had been other better rugs until recently—rugs that were worth good money in these days. He looked up at the man standing erect by the fireplace in his well-cut shabby suit. Poirot guessed that for Major Porter, retired Army officer, life was lived very near the bone. Taxation and increased cost of living struck hardest at the old war-horses. Some things, he guessed, Major Porter would cling to until the end. His club subscription, for instance.
Major Porter was speaking jerkily.
“’Fraid I don’t remember meeting you, M. Poirot. At the club, you say? Couple of years ago? Know your name of course.”
“This,” said Poirot, “is Mr. Rowland Cloade.”
Major Porter jerked his head in honour of the introduction.
“How d’ye do?” he said. “’Fraid I can’t ask you to have a glass of sherry. Matter of fact my wine merchant has lost his stock in the Blitz. Got some gin. Filthy stuff, I always think. Or what about some beer?”
They accepted beer. Major Porter produced a cigarette case. “Smoke?” Poirot accepted a cigarette. The Major struck a match and lighted Poirot’s cigarette.
“You don’t, I know,” said the Major to Rowley: “Mind if I light my pipe?” He did so with a good deal of sucking and blowing.
“Now then,” he said when all these preliminaries had been accomplished. “What’s all this about?”
He looked from one to the other of them.
Poirot said: “You may have read in the paper of the death of a man at Warmsley Vale?”
Porter shook his head.
“May have. Don’t think so.”
“His name was Arden. Enoch Arden?”
Porter still shook his head.
“He was found at the Stag Inn with the back of his head smashed in.”
Porter frowned.
“Let me see—yes, did see something about it, I believe—some days ago.”
“Yes. I have here a photograph—it is a press photograph and not very clear, I’m afraid! What we should like to know, Major Porter, is whether you have ever seen this man before?”
He handed over the best reproduction of the dead man’s face he had been able to find.
Major Porter took it and frowned at it.
“Wait a sec.” The Major took out his spectacles, adjusted them on his nose and studied the photograph more closely—then he gave a sudden start.
“God bless my soul!” he said. “Well, I’m damned!”
“You know the man, Major?”
“Of course I know him. It’s Underhay—Robert Underhay.”
“You’re sure of that?” There was triumph in Rowley’s voice.
“Of course I’m sure. Robert Underhay! I’d swear to it anywhere.”
Two
The telephone rang and Lynn went to answer it.
Rowley’s voice spoke.
“Lynn?”
“Rowley?”
Her voice sounded depressed. He said:
“What are you up to? I never see you these days.”
“Oh, well—it’s all chores—you know. Running round with a basket, waiting for fish and queueing up for a bit of quite disgusting cake. All that sort of thing. Home life.”
“I want to see you. I’ve got something to tell you.”
“What sort of thing?”
He gave a chuckle.
“Good news. Meet me by Rolland Copse. We’re ploughing up there.”
Good news? Lynn put the receiver down. What to Rowley Cloade would be good news? Finance? Had he sold that young bull at a better price than he had hoped to get?
No, she thought, it must be more than that. As she walked up the field to Rolland Copse, Rowley left the tractor and came to meet her.
“Hallo, Lynn.”
“Why, Rowley—you look—different, somehow?”
He laughed.
“I should think I do. Our luck’s turned, Lynn!”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember old Jeremy mentioning a chap called Hercule Poirot?”
“Hercule Poirot?” Lynn frowned. “Yes, I do remember something—”
“Quite a long time ago. When the war was on. They were in that mausoleum of a club of his and there was an air raid.”
“Well?” Lynn demanded impatiently.
“Fellow has the wrong clothes and all that. French chap—or Belgian. Queer fellow but he’s the goods all right.”
Lynn knit her brows.
“Wasn’t he—a detective?”
“That’s right. Well, you know, this fellow who was done in at the Stag. I didn’t tell you but an idea was getting around that he might just possibly be Rosaleen Cloade’s first husband.”
Lynn laughed.
“Simply because he called himself Enoch Arden? What an absurd idea!”
“Not so absurd, my girl. Old Spence got Rosaleen down to have a look at him. And she swore quite firmly that he wasn’t her husband.”
“So that finished it?”
“It might have,” said Rowley. “But for me!”
“For you? What did you do?”
“I went to this fellow Hercule Poirot. I told him we wanted another opinion. Could he rustle up someone who had actually known Robert Underhay? My word, but he’s absolutely wizard that chap! Just like rabbits out of a hat. He produced a fellow who was Underhay’s best friend in a few hours. Old boy called Porter.” Rowley stopped. Then he chuckled again with that note of excitement that had surprised and startled Lynn. “Now keep this under your hat, Lynn. The Super swore me to secrecy—but I’d like you to know. The dead man is Robert Underhay.”
“What?” Lynn took a step back. She stared at Rowley blankly.
“Robert Underhay himself. Porter hadn’t the least doubt. So you see, Lynn”—Rowley’s voice rose excitedly—“we’ve won! After all, we’ve won! We’ve beaten those damned crooks!”
“What damned crooks?”
“Hunter and his sister. They’re licked—out of it. Rosaleen doesn’t get Gordon’s money. We get it. It’s ours! Gordon’s will that he made before he married Rosaleen holds good and that divides it amongst us. I get a fourth share. See? If her first husband was alive when she married Gordon, she was never married to Gordon at all!”
“Are you—are you sure of what you’re saying?”
He stared at her, for the first time he looked faintly puzzled.
“Of course I’m sure! It’s elementary. Everything’s all right now. It’s the same as Gordon meant it to be. Everything’s the same as if that precious pair had never butted in.”
Everything’s the same…But you couldn’t, Lynn thought, wash out like that something that had happened. You couldn’t pretend that it had never been. She said slowly:
“What will they do?”
“Eh?” She saw that until that moment Rowley had hardly considered that question. “I don’t know. Go back where they came from, I suppose. I think, you know—” She could see him slowly following it out. “Yes, I think we ought to do something for her. I mean, she married Gordon in all good faith. I gather she really
believed her first husband was dead. It’s not her fault. Yes, we must do something about her—give her a decent allowance. Make it up between us all.”
“You like her, don’t you?” said Lynn.
“Well, yes.” He considered. “I do in a way. She’s a nice kid. She knows a cow when she sees it.”
“I don’t,” said Lynn.
“Oh, you’ll learn,” said Rowley kindly.
“And what about—David?” asked Lynn.
Rowley scowled.
“To hell with David! It was never his money anyway. He just came along and sponged on his sister.”
“No, Rowley, it wasn’t like that—it wasn’t. He’s not a sponger. He’s—an adventurer, perhaps—”
“And a ruddy murderer!”
She said breathlessly:
“What do you mean?”
“Well, who do you think killed Underhay?”
She cried:
“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!”
“Of course he killed Underhay! Who else could have done it? He was down here that day. Came down by the five thirty. I was meeting some stuff at the station and caught sight of him in the distance.”
Lynn said sharply:
“He went back to London that evening.”
“After having killed Underhay,” said Rowley triumphantly.
“You oughtn’t to say things like that, Rowley. What time was Underhay killed?”
“Well—I don’t know exactly.” Rowley slowed up—considered. “Don’t suppose we shall know until the inquest tomorrow. Some time between nine and ten, I imagine.”
“David caught the nine-twenty train back to London.”
“Look here, Lynn, how do you know?”
“I—I met him—he was running for it.”
“How do you know he ever caught it?”
“Because he telephoned me from London later.”
Rowley scowled angrily.
“What the hell should he telephone you for? Look here, Lynn, I’m damned if I—”
“Oh, what does it matter, Rowley? Anyway, it shows he caught that train.”
“Plenty of time to have killed Underhay and then run for the train.”
“Not if he was killed after nine o’clock.”
“Well, he may have been killed just before nine.”
But his voice was a little doubtful.