Chapman had gone away rather suddenly. There was just a big printed notice outside the door the next morning: NO MILK – TELL NELLIE I AM CALLED AWAY.
''Nellie was the daily maid who did for her. Mrs. Chapman had gone away suddenly once or twice before, so the girl didn't think it odd, but what was odd was the fact that she hadn't rung for the porter to take her luggage down or get her a taxi.
'Anyway, Beddoes decided to get into the flat. We got a search warrant and a pass key from the manager. Found nothing of interest except in the bathroom. There had been some hasty clearing up done there. There was a trace of blood on the linoleum – in the corners where it had been missed when the floor was washed over. After that, it was just a question of finding the body. Mrs. Chapman couldn't have left with any luggage with her or the porter would have known. Therefore the body must still be in the flat. We soon spotted that fur chest – air-tight, you know – just the place. Keys were in the dressing table drawer.
'We opened it up – and there was the missing lady! Mistletoe Bough up to date.'
Poirot asked:
'What about Mrs. Chapman?'
'What indeed? 'Who is Sylvia' (her name's Sylvia, by the way), 'what is she?' One thing is certain. Sylvia, or Sylvia's friends, murdered the lady and put her in the box.'
Poirot nodded.
He asked:
'But why was her face battered in? It is not nice, that.'
'I'll say it isn't nice! As to why – well, one can only guess. Sheer vindictiveness, perhaps. Or it may have been with the idea of concealing the woman's identity.'
Poirot frowned. He said, 'But it did not conceal her identity.'
'No, because not only had we got a pretty good description of what Mabelle Sainsbury Seale was wearing when she disappeared, but her handbag had been stuffed into the fur box, too, and inside the handbag there was actually an old letter addressed to her at her hotel in Russell Square.'
Poirot sat up. He said:
'But that – that does not make the common sense!'
'It certainly doesn't. I suppose it was a slip.'
'Yes – perhaps – a slip. But -'
He got up.
'You have been over the flat?'
'Pretty well. There's nothing illuminating.'
'I should like to see Mrs. Chapman's bedroom.'
'Come along then.'
The bedroom showed no signs of a hasty departure. It was neat and tidy. The bed had not been slept in, but was turned down ready for the night. There was a thick coating of dust everywhere.
Japp said:
'No fingerprints, so far as we can see. There are some on the kitchen things, but I expect they'll turn out to be the maid's.'
'That means that the whole place was dusted very carefully after the murder?'
'Yes.'
Poirot's eyes swept slowly round the room. Like the sitting room it was furnished in the modern style – and furnished, so he thought, by someone with a moderate income. The articles in it were expensive but not ultra- expensive. They were showy but not first class. The color scheme was rose pink. He looked into the built-in wardrobe and handled the clothes – smart clothes but again not of first class quality. His eyes fell to the shoes – they were largely of the sandal variety popular at the moment; some had exaggerated cork soles. He balanced one in his hand, registered the fact that Mrs. Chapman had taken a size five in shoes and put it down again. In another cupboard he found a pile of furs, shoved in in a heap. Japp said:
'Came out of the fur chest.'
Poirot nodded.
He was handling a grey squirrel coat. He remarked appreciatively: 'First class skins.'
He went on into the bathroom.
There was a lavish display of cosmetics. Poirot looked at them with interest. Powder, rouge, vanishing cream, skin food, two bottles of hair application.
Japp said:
'Not one of our natural platinum blondes, I gather.'
Poirot murmured:
'At forty, mon ami, the hair of most women has begun to go grey but Mrs. Chapman was not one to yield to nature.'
'She's probably gone henna red by now for a change.'
'I wonder?'
Japp said:
'There's something worrying you, Poirot. What is it?'
Poirot said:
'But yes, I am worried. I am very seriously worried. There is here, you see, for me an insoluble problem.'
Resolutely he went once more into the box room.
He took hold of the shoe on the dead woman's foot. It resisted and came off with difficulty.
He examined the buckle. It had been clumsily sewn on by hand.
Hercule Poirot sighed.
He said: 'It is that I am dreaming!'
Japp said curiously:
'What are you trying to do – make the thing more difficult?'
'Exactly that.'
Japp said:
'One patent leather shoe, complete with buckle. What's wrong with that?'
Hercule Poirot said:
'Nothing – absolutely nothing. But all the same – I do not understand.'
III
Mrs. Merton of 82 King Leopold Mansions had been designated by the porter as Mrs. Chapman's closest friend in the Mansions.
It was, therefore, to 82 that Japp and Poirot betook themselves next.
Mrs. Merton was a loquacious lady, with snapping black eyes, and an elaborate coiffure.
It needed no pressure to make her talk. She was only too ready to rise to a dramatic situation.
'Sylvia Chapman – well, of course, I don't know her really well – not intimately, so to speak. We had a few bridge evenings occasionally and we went to the pictures together, and, of course, shopping sometimes. But, oh, do tell me – she isn't dead, is she?'
Japp reassured her.
'Well, I'm sure I'm thankful to hear it! But the postman just now was all agog about a body having been found in one of the flats – but then one really can't believe half one hears, can one? I never do.'
Japp asked a further question.
'No, I haven't heard anything of Mrs. Chapman – not since she went away. She must have gone away rather suddenly, because we had spoken about going to see the new Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire the following week, and she said nothing about going away then.'
Mrs. Merton had never heard a Miss Sainsbury Seale mentioned. Mrs. Chapman had never spoken of anyone
