Part 16 (2/2)
The manageress nodded her head sapiently, with an air of one thoroughly well up in the annals of detective law.
”I understand perfectly. Now, let me see; who did we have staying here?”
She frowned, evidently running over the names in her mind, and helping her memory by occasionally checking them off on her fingertips.
”Captain Swann, Mr Elkins, Major Blunt, old Mr Benson. No, really, sir, I don't believe anyone went out that evening.”
”You would have noticed if they had done so, eh?”
”Oh, yes, sir, it is not very usual, you see. I mean gentlemen go out to dinner and all that, but they don't go out after dinner, because - well, there is nowhere to go to, is there?”
The attractions of Abbots Cross were golf and nothing but golf.
”That is so,” agreed Poirot. ”Then, as far as you remember, Mademoiselle, n.o.body from here was out that night?”
”Captain England and his wife were out to dinner.”
Poirot shook his head.
”That is not the kind of thing I mean. I will try the other hotel; the Mitre, is it not?”
”Oh, the Mitre,” said Miss Langdon. ”Of course, anyone might have gone out walking from there.”
The disparagement of her tone, though vague, was evident, and Poirot beat a tactful retreat.
Ten minutes later he was repeating the scene this time with Miss Cole, the brusque manageress of the Mitre, a less pretentious hotel with lower prices, situated close to the station.
”There was one gentleman out late that night, came in about half-past twelve, as far as I can remember. Quite a habit of his it was, to go out for a walk at that time of the evening. He had done it once or twice before. Let me see now, what was his name? Just for the moment I can't remember it.”
She pulled a large ledger toward her and began turning over the pages.
”Nineteenth, twentieth, twenty-first, twenty-second. Ah, here we are. Naylor, Captain Humphrey Naylor.”
”He had stayed here before? You know him well?”
”Once before,” said Miss Cole, ”about a fortnight earlier. He went out then in the evening, I remember.”
”He came to play golf, eh?”
”I suppose so,” said Miss Cole; ”that's what most of the gentlemen come for.”
”Very true,” said Poirot. ”Well, Mademoiselle, I thank you infinitely, and I wish you good day.”
He went back to Mon Repos with a very thoughtful face. Once or twice he drew something from his pocket and looked at it.
”It must be done,” he murmured to himself, ”and soon, as soon as I can make the opportunity.”
His first proceeding on re-entering the house was to ask Parsons where Miss Margrave might be found. He was told that she was in the small study dealing with Lady Astwell's correspondence and the information seemed to afford Poirot satisfaction.
He found the little study without difficulty. Lily Margrave was seated at a desk by the window, writing. But for her the room was empty. Poirot carefully shut the door behind him and came toward the girl.
”I may have a little minute of your time, Mademoiselle, you will be so kind?”
”Certainly.”
Lily Margrave put the papers aside and turned toward him.
”What can I do for you?”
”On the evening of the tragedy, Mademoiselle, I understand that when Lady Astwell went to her husband you went straight up to bed. Is that so?”
Lily Margrave nodded.
”You did not come down again, by any chance?”
The girl shook her head.
”I think you said, Mademoiselle, that you had not at any time that evening been in the Tower room?”
”I don't remember saying so, but as a matter of fact that is quite true. I was not in the Tower room that evening.”
Poirot raised his eyebrows.
”Curious,” he murmured.
”What do you mean?”
”Very curious,” murmured Hercule Poirot again. ”How do you account, then, for this?”
He drew from his pocket a little sc.r.a.p of stained green chiffon and held it up for the girl's inspection.
Her expression did not change, but he felt rather than heard the sharp intake of breath.
”I don't understand, M. Poirot.”
”You wore, I understand, a green chiffon dress that evening, Mademoiselle. This -” he tapped the sc.r.a.p in his fingers - ”was torn from it.”
”And you found it in the Tower room?” asked the girl sharply. ”Whereabouts?”
Hercule Poirot looked at the ceiling.
”For the moment shall we just say - in the Tower room?”
For the first time, a look of fear sprang into the girl's eyes. She began to speak, then checked herself. Poirot watched her small white hands clenching themselves on the edge of the desk.
”I wonder if I did go into the Tower room that evening?” she mused. ”Before dinner, I mean. I don't think so. I am almost sure I didn t. If that sc.r.a.p has been in the Tower room all this time, it seems to me a very extraordinary thing the police did not find it right away.”
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