On our arrival at the manor-house, the door was opened to us by a
middle-aged parlourmaid. Poirot handed her his card, and a letter
from the Insurance Company for Mrs. Maltravers. She showed us into
a small morning-room, and retired to tell her mistress. About ten
minutes elapsed, and then the door opened, and a slender figure in
widow’s weeds stood upon the threshold.
“Monsieur Poirot?” she faltered.
“Madame!” Poirot sprang gallantly to his feet and hastened towards
her. “I cannot tell you how I regret to derange you in this way.
But what will you? _Les affaires_—they know no mercy.”
Mrs. Maltravers permitted him to lead her to a chair. Her eyes were
red with weeping, but the temporary disfigurement could not conceal
her extraordinary beauty. She was about twenty-seven or eight, and
very fair, with large blue eyes and a pretty pouting mouth.
“It is something about my husband’s insurance, is it? But must I
be bothered _now_—so soon?”
“Courage, my dear Madame. Courage! You see, your late husband
insured his life for rather a large sum, and in such a case the
Company always has to satisfy itself as to a few details. They have
empowered me to act for them. You can rest assured that I will do
all in my power to render the matter not too unpleasant for you.
Will you recount to me briefly the sad events of Wednesday?”
“I was changing for tea when my maid came up—one of the gardeners
had just run to the house. He had found——”
Her voice trailed away. Poirot pressed her hand sympathetically.
“I comprehend. Enough! You had seen your husband earlier in the
afternoon?”
“Not since lunch. I had walked down to the village for some stamps,
and I believe he was out pottering round the grounds.”
“Shooting rooks, eh?”
“Yes, he usually took his little rook rifle with him, and I heard
one or two shots in the distance.”
“Where is this little rook rifle now?”
“In the hall, I think.”
She led the way out of the room and found and handed the little
weapon to Poirot, who examined it cursorily.
“Two shots fired, I see,” he observed, as he handed it back. “And
now, madame, if I might see——”
He paused delicately.
“The servant shall take you,” she murmured, averting her head.
The parlourmaid, summoned, led Poirot upstairs. I remained with
the lovely and unfortunate woman. It was hard to know whether to
speak or remain silent. I essayed one or two general reflections
to which she responded absently, and in a very few minutes Poirot
rejoined us.
“I thank you for all your courtesy, madame. I do not think you need
be troubled any further with this matter. By the way, do you know
anything of your husband’s financial position?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing whatever. I am very stupid over business things.”
“I see. Then you can give us no clue as to why he suddenly decided
to insure his life? He had not done so previously, I understand.”
“Well, we had only been married a little over a year. But, as to
why he insured his life, it was because he had absolutely made up
his mind that he would not live long. He had a strong premonition
of his own death. I gather that he had had one hæmorrhage already,
and that he knew that another one would prove fatal. I tried to
dispel these gloomy fears of his, but without avail. Alas, he was
only too right!”
Tears in her eyes, she bade us a dignified farewell. Poirot made
a characteristic gesture as we walked down the drive together.
“_Eh bien_, that is that! Back to London, my friend, there appears
to be no mouse in this mouse-hole. And yet——”
“Yet what?”
“A slight discrepancy, that is all! You noticed it? You did not?
Still, life is full of discrepancies, and assuredly the man cannot
have taken his own life—there is no poison that would fill his
mouth with blood. No, no, I must resign myself to the fact that
all here is clear and above-board—but who is this?”
A tall young man was striding up the drive towards us. He passed
us without making any sign, but I noted that he was not ill-looking,
with a lean, deeply bronzed face that spoke of life in a tropic
clime. A gardener who was sweeping up leaves had paused for a
minute in his task, and Poirot ran quickly up to him.
“Tell me, I pray you, who is that gentleman? Do you know him?”
“I don’t remember his name, sir, though I did hear it. He was
staying down here last week for a night. Tuesday, it was.”
“Quick, _mon ami_, let us follow him.”
We hastened up the drive after the retreating figure. A glimpse of
a black-robed figure on the terrace at the side of the house, and
our quarry swerved and we after him, so that we were witnesses of
the meeting.
Mrs. Maltravers almost staggered where she stood, and her face
blanched noticeably.
“You,” she gasped. “I thought you were on the sea—on your way to
East Africa?”
“I got some news from my lawyers that detained me,” explained the
young man. “My old uncle in Scotland died unexpectedly and left me
some money. Under the circumstances I thought it better to cancel
my passage. Then I saw this bad news in the paper and I came down
to see if there was anything I could do. You’ll want some one to
look after things for you a bit perhaps.”
At that moment they became aware of our presence. Poirot stepped
forward, and with many apologies explained that he had left his
stick in the hall. Rather reluctantly, it seemed to me, Mrs.
Maltravers made the necessary introduction.
“Monsieur Poirot, Captain Black.”
A few minutes’ chat ensued, in the course of which Poirot elicited
the fact that Captain Black was putting up at the Anchor Inn. The
missing stick not having been discovered (which was not surprising),
Poirot uttered more apologies and we withdrew.
We returned to the village at a great pace, and Poirot made a bee
line for the Anchor Inn.
“Here we establish ourselves until our friend the Captain returns,”
he explained. “You notice that I emphasized the point that we were
returning to London by the first train? Possibly you thought I
meant it. But no—you observed Mrs. Maltravers’ face when she caught
sight of this young Black? She was clearly taken aback, and he—_eh
bien_, he was very devoted, did you not think so? And he was here
on Tuesday night—the day before Mr. Maltravers died. We must
investigate the doings of Captain Black, Hastings.”
In about half an hour we espied our quarry approaching the inn.
Poirot went out and accosted him and presently brought him up to
the room we had engaged.
“I have been telling Captain Black of the mission which brings us
here,” he explained. “You can understand, _monsieur le capitaine_,
that I am anxious to arrive at Mr. Maltravers’ state of mind
immediately before his death, and that at the same time I do not
wish to distress Mrs. Maltravers unduly by asking her painful
questions. Now, you were here just before the occurrence, and can
give us equally valuable information.”
“I’ll do anything I can to help you, I’m sure,” replied the young
soldier; “but I’m afraid I didn’t notice anything out of the
ordinary. You see, although Maltravers was an old friend of my
people’s, I didn’t know him very well myself.”
“You came down—when?”
“Tuesday afternoon. I went up to town early Wednesday morning, as
my boat sailed from Tilbury about twelve o’clock. But some news I
got made me alter my plans, as I dare say you heard me explain to
Mrs. Maltravers.”
“You were returning to East Africa, I understand?”
“Yes. I’ve been out there ever since the War—a great country.”
“Exactly. Now what was the talk about at dinner on Tuesday night?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The usual odd topics. Maltravers asked after my
people, and then we discussed the question of German reparations,
and then Mrs. Maltravers asked a lot of questions about East
Africa, and I told them one or two yarns, that’s about all, I
think.”
“Thank you.”
Poirot was silent for a moment, then he said gently: “With your
permission, I should like to try a little experiment. You have told
us all that your conscious self knows, I want now to question your
subconscious self.”
“Psychoanalysis, what?” said Black, with visible alarm.
“Oh, no,” said Poirot reassuringly. “You see, it is like this, I
give you a word, you answer with another, and so on. Any word, the
first one you think of. Shall we begin?”
“All right,” said Black slowly, but he looked uneasy.
“Note down the words, please, Hastings,” said Poirot. Then he took
from his pocket his big turnip-faced watch and laid it on the table
beside him. “We will commence. Day.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Black replied:
“_Night_.”
As Poirot proceeded, his answers came quicker.
“Name,” said Poirot.
“_Place_.”
“Bernard.”
“_Shaw_.”
“Tuesday.”
“_Dinner_.”
“Journey.”
“_Ship_.”
“Country.”
“_Uganda_.”
“Story.”
“_Lions_.”
“Rook Rifle.”
“_Farm_.”
“Shot.”
“_Suicide_.”
“Elephant.”
“_Tusks_.”
“Money.”
“_Lawyers_.”
“Thank you, Captain Black. Perhaps you could spare me a few minutes
in about half an hour’s time?”
“Certainly.” The young soldier looked at him curiously and wiped
his brow as he got up.
“And now, Hastings,” said Poirot, smiling at me as the door closed
behind him. “You see it all, do you not?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Does that list of words tell you nothing?”