He racked his brains, trying to bring the elusive memory back. Could it be the voice of Miss Sainsbury Seale?
As he remembered it, Mabelle Sainsbury Seale's voice had been high-pitched and somewhat affected, with rather over-emphasized diction. This voice was not at all like that, and yet – perhaps it might be Miss Sainsbury Seale with her voice disguised. After all, she had been an actress in her time. She could alter her voice, probably, easily enough. In actual timbre, the voice was not unlike what he remembered.
But he was not satisfied with that explanation. No, it was some other person that the voice brought back to him. It was not a voice he knew well – but he was still quite sure that he had heard it once, if not twice, before.
Why, he wondered, bother to ring up and threaten him? Could these people actually believe that threats would deter him? Apparently they did. It was poor psychology!
IV
There was some sensational news in the morning papers.
The Prime Minister had been shot at when leaving 10 Downing Street with a friend yesterday evening. Fortunately the bullet had gone wide. The man, an Indian, had been taken into custody.
After reading this, Poirot took a taxi to Scotland Yard where he was shown up to Japp's room. The latter greeted him heartily.
'Ah, so the news has brought you along. Have any of the papers mentioned who 'the friend' was with the P.M.?'
'No, who was it?'
'Alistair Blunt.'
'Really?'
'And,' went on Japp, 'we've every reason to believe that the bullet was meant for Blunt and not for the P.M. That is, unless the man was an even more thundering bad shot than he is already!'
'Who did it?'
'Some crazy Hindu student. Half-baked, as usual. But he was put up to it. It wasn't all his own idea.'
Japp added:
'Quite a sound bit of work getting him. There's usually a small group of people, you know, watching Number 10. When the shot was fired, a young American grabbed hold of a little man with a beard. Held on to him like grim death and yelled to the police that he'd got the man. Meanwhile the Indian was quietly hooking it – but one of our people nabbed him all right.'
'Who was the American?' asked Poirot curiously.
'Young fellow by the name of Raikes. Why -' he stopped short, staring at Poirot. 'What's the matter?'
Poirot said:
'Howard Raikes, staying at the Holborn Palace Hotel.'
'That's right. Who – why, of course! I thought the name seemed familiar. He's the patient who ran away that morning when Morley shot himself -'
He paused. He said slowly:
'Rum – how that old business keeps cropping up. You've still got your ideas about it, haven't you, Poirot?'
Hercule Poirot replied gravely:
'Yes. I still have my ideas…'
V
At the Gothic House, Poirot was received by a secretary, a tall, limp young man with an accomplished social manner.
He was pleasantly apologetic.
'I am so sorry, M. Poirot – and so is Mr. Blunt. He has been called to Downing Street. The result of this – er – incident last night. I rang your flat, but unfortunately you had already left.'
The young man went on rapidly:
'Mr. Blunt commissioned me to ask you if it would be possible for you to spend the week-end with him at his house in Kent. Exsham, you know. If so, he would call for you in the car tomorrow evening.'
Poirot hesitated.
The young man said persuasively:
'Mr. Blunt is really most anxious to see you.'
Hercule Poirot bowed his head.
He said:
'Thank you. I accept.'
'Oh, that's splendid. Mr. Blunt will be delighted. If he calls for you about a quarter to six, will that – Oh, good morning, Mrs. Olivera -'
Jane Olivera's mother had just entered. She was very smartly dressed, with a hat clinging to an eyebrow in the midst of a very soigne coiffure.
'Oh! Mr. Selby, did Mr. Blunt give you any instructions about those garden chairs? I meant to talk to him about them last night, because I knew we'd be going down this week-end and -'
Mrs. Olivera took in Poirot and paused.
'Do you know Mrs. Olivera, M. Poirot?'
'I have already had the pleasure of meeting Madame.'
Poirot bowed.
Mrs. Olivera said vaguely:
'Oh? How do you do? Of course, Mr. Selby, I know that Alistair is a very busy man and that these small domestic matters mayn't seem to him important -'
'It's quite all right, Mrs. Olivera,' said the efficient Mr. Selby. 'He told me about it and I rang up Messrs. Deevers about them.'
'Well, now, that's a real load off my mind. Now, Mr. Selby, can you tell me…'
Mrs. Olivera clacked on. She was, thought Poirot, rather like a hen. A big, fat hen! Mrs. Olivera, still clacking, moved majestically after her bust towards the door.
'… and if you're quite sure that there will only be ourselves this week-end -'
Mr. Selby coughed.
'Er – M. Poirot is also coming down for the weekend.'
Mrs. Olivera stopped. She turned round and surveyed Poirot with visible distaste.
'Is that really so?'
'Mr. Blunt has been kind enough to invite me,' said Poirot.
'Well, I wonder – why, if that isn't queer of Alistair. You'll excuse me, M. Poirot, but Mr. Blunt particularly told me that he wanted a quiet, family weekend!'
Selby said firmly:
'Mr. Blunt is particularly anxious that M. Poirot should come.'
'Oh, really? He didn't mention it to me.'
The door opened. Jane stood there. She said impatiently:
'Mother, aren't you coming? Our lunch appointment is at 1:15!'
'I'm coming, Jane. Don't be impatient.'
'Well, get a move on, for goodness' sake – Hullo, M. Poirot.'
She was suddenly very still – her petulance frozen, her eyes more wary.
