Chapter 15. Sir Montagu Corner
It was about ten o’clock when we reached Sir Montagu Corner’s house on the river at Chiswick. It was a big house standing back in its own grounds. We were admitted into a beautifully-panelled hall. On our right, through an open door, we saw the dining-room with its long polished table lit with candles.
‘Will you come this way, please?’
The butler led the way up a broad staircase and into a long room on the first floor overlooking the river.
‘M. Hercule Poirot,’ announced the butler.
It was a beautifully-proportioned room, and had an old-world air with its carefully-shaded dim lamps. In one corner of the room was a bridge table, set near the open window, and round it sat four people. As we entered the room one of the four rose and came towards us.
‘It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, M. Poirot.’
I looked with some interest at Sir Montagu Corner. He had a distinctly Jewish cast of countenance, very small intelligent black eyes and a carefully-arranged toupee. He was a short man-five foot eight at most, I should say. His manner was affected to the last degree.
‘Let me introduce you. Mr and Mrs Widburn.’
‘We’ve met before,’ said Mrs Widburn brightly.
‘And Mr Ross.’
Ross was a young fellow of about twenty-two with a pleasant face and fair hair.
‘I disturb your game. A million apologies,’ said Poirot.
‘Not at all. We have not started. We were commencing to deal the cards only. Some coffee, M. Poirot?’
Poirot declined but accepted an offer of old brandy. It was brought us in immense goblets.
As we sipped it, Sir Montagu discoursed.
He spoke of Japanese prints, of Chinese lacquer, of Persian carpets, of the French Impressionists, of modern music and of the theories of Einstein.
Then he sat back and smiled at us beneficently. He had evidently thoroughly enjoyed his performance. In the dim light he looked like some genie of the mediaeval age. All around the room were exquisite examples of art and culture.
‘And now, Sir Montagu,’ said Poirot, ‘I will trespass on your kindness no longer but will come to the object of my visit.’
Sir Montagu waved a curious claw-like hand.
‘There is no hurry. Time is infinite.’
‘One always feels that in this house,’ sighed Mrs Widburn. ‘So wonderful.’
‘I would not live in London for a million pounds,’ said Sir Montagu. ‘Here one is in the old-world atmosphere of peace that-alas!-we have put behind us in these jarring days.’
A sudden impish fancy flashed over me that if someone were really to offer Sir Montagu a million pounds, old-world peace might go to the wall, but I trod down such heretical sentiments.
‘What is money, after all?’ murmured Mrs Widburn.
‘Ah!’ said Mr Widburn thoughtfully, and rattled some coins absent-mindedly in his trouser pocket.
‘Charles,’ said Mrs Widburn reproachfully.
‘Sorry,’ said Mr Widburn and stopped.
‘To speak of crime in such an atmosphere, is, I feel, unpardonable,’ began Poirot apologetically.
‘Not at all.’ Sir Montagu waved a gracious hand. ‘A crime can be a work of art. A detective can be an artist. I do not refer, of course, to the police. An inspector has been here today. A curious person. He had never heard of Benvenuto Cellini, for instance.’
‘He came about Jane Wilkinson, I suppose,’ said Mrs Widburn with instant curiosity.
‘It was fortunate for the lady that she was at your house last night,’ said Poirot.
‘So it seems,’ said Sir Montagu. ‘I asked her here knowing that she was beautiful and talented and hoping that I might be able to be of use to her. She was thinking of going into management. But it seems that I was fated to be of use to her in a very different way.’
‘Jane’s got luck,’ said Mrs Widburn. ‘She’s been dying to get rid of Edgware and here’s somebody gone and saved her the trouble. She’ll marry the young Duke of Merton now. Everyone says so. His mother’s wild about it.’
‘I was favourably impressed by her,’ said Sir Montagu graciously. ‘She made several most intelligent remarks about Greek art.’
I smiled to myself picturing Jane saying ‘Yes’ and ‘No’, ‘Really, how wonderful’, in her magical husky voice. Sir Montagu was the type of man to whom intelligence consisted of the faculty of listening to his own remarks with suitable attention.
‘Edgware was a queer fish, by all accounts,’ said Widburn. ‘I daresay he’s got a good few enemies.’
‘Is it true, M. Poirot,’ asked Mrs Widburn, ‘that somebody ran a penknife into the back of his brain?’
‘Perfectly true, Madame. It was very neatly and efficiently done-scientific, in fact.’
‘I note your artistic pleasure, M. Poirot,’ said Sir Montagu.
‘And now,’ said Poirot, ‘let me come to the object of my visit. Lady Edgware was called to the telephone when she was here at dinner. It is about that telephone call that I seek information. Perhaps you will allow me to question your domestics on the subject?’
‘Certainly. Certainly. Just press that bell, will you, Ross.’
The butler answered the bell. He was a tall middle-aged man of ecclesiastical appearance.
Sir Montagu explained what was wanted. The butler turned to Poirot with polite attention.
‘Who answered the telephone when it rang?’ began Poirot.
‘I answered it myself, sir. The telephone is in a recess leading out of the hall.’
‘Did the person calling ask to speak to Lady Edgware or to Miss Jane Wilkinson?’
‘To Lady Edgware, sir.’
‘What did they say exactly?’
The butler reflected for a moment.
‘As far as I remember, sir, I said “Hello”. A voice then asked if I was Chiswick 43434. I replied that that was so. It then asked me to hold the line. Another voice then asked if that was Chiswick 43434 and on my replying “Yes” it said, “Is Lady Edgware dining there?” I said her ladyshipwas dining here. The voice said, “I would like to speak to her, please.” I went and informed her ladyship who was at the dinner table. Her ladyship rose, and I showed her where the ’phone was.’
‘And then?’
‘Her ladyship picked up the receiver and said: “Hello-who’s speaking?” Then she said: “Yes-that’s all right. Lady Edgware speaking.” I was just about to leave her ladyship when she called to me and said they had been cut off. She said someone had laughed and evidently hung up the receiver. She asked me if the person ringing up had given any name. They had not done so. That was all that occurred, sir.’
Poirot frowned to himself.
‘Do you really think the telephone call has something to do with the murder, M. Poirot?’ asked Mrs Widburn.
‘Impossible to say, Madame. It is just a curious circumstance.’
‘People do ring up for a joke sometimes. It’s been done to me.’
‘C’est toujours possible, Madame.’
He spoke to the butler again.
‘Was it a man’s voice or a woman’s who rang up?’
‘A lady’s, I think, sir.’
‘What kind of a voice, high or low?’
‘Low, sir. Careful and rather distinct.’ He paused. ‘It may be my fancy, sir, but it sounded like a foreign voice. The R’s were very noticeable.’
‘As far as that goes it might have been a Scotch voice, Donald,’ said Mrs Widburn, smiling at Ross.
Ross laughed.
