She settled herself comfortably on the sofa and, still not taking any notice of Poirot, added:
'Just bring me the Low Down Review, dear. There's something about Lois Van Schuyler in it and that Moroccan guide of hers.'
Alistair Blunt appeared in the doorway. He said:
'Now, M. Poirot, come into my room.'
Alistair Blunt's own sanctum was a low, long room at the back of the house, with windows opening upon the garden. It was comfortable, with deep armchairs and settees and just enough pleasant untidiness to make it livable.
(Needless to say, Hercule Poirot would have preferred a greater symmetry!)
After offering his guest a cigarette and lighting his own pipe, Alistair Blunt came to the point quite simply and directly.
He said:
'There's a good deal that I'm not satisfied about. I'm referring, of course, to this Sainsbury Seale woman. For reasons of their own – reasons no doubt which are perfectly justified – the authorities have called off the hunt. I don't know exactly who Albert Chapman is or what he's doing – but whatever it is, it's something pretty vital and it's the sort of business that might land him in a tight spot. I don't know the ins and outs of it, but the P.M. did just mention that they can't afford any publicity whatever about this case and that the sooner it fades out of the public's memory the better.
'That's quite O.K. That's the official view, and they know what's necessary. So the police have got their hands tied.'
He leaned forward in his chair.
'But I want to know the truth, M. Poirot. And you're the man to find it out for me. You aren't hampered by officialdom.'
'What do you want me to do, M. Blunt?'
'I want you to find this woman – Sainsbury Seale.'
'Alive or dead?'
Alistair Blunt's eyebrows rose.
'You think it possible that she is dead?'
Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said, speaking slowly and with weight:
'If you want my opinion – but it is only an opinion, remember – then, yes, I think she is dead…'
'Why do you think so?'
Hercule Poirot smiled slightly.
He said:
'It would not make sense to you if I said it was because of a pair of unworn stockings in a drawer.'
Alistair Blunt stared at him curiously.
'You're an odd man, M. Poirot.'
'I am very odd. That is to say, I am methodical, orderly and logical – and I do not like distorting facts to support a theory – that, I find – is unusual!'
Alistair Blunt said:
'I've been turning the whole thing over in my mind – it takes me a little time always to think a thing out. And the whole business is deuced odd! I mean – that dentist chap shooting himself, and then this Chapman woman packed away in her own fur chest with her face smashed in. It's nasty! It's damned nasty! I can't help feeling that there's something behind it all.'
Poirot nodded.
Blunt said:
'And you know – the more I think of it – I'm quite sure that woman never knew my wife. It was just a pretext to speak to me. But why? What good did it do her? I mean – bar a small subscription – and even that was made out to the society, not to her personally. And yet I do feel – that – that it was engineered – just meeting me on the steps of the house. It was all so pat. So suspiciously well-timed! But why? That's what I keep asking myself – why?'
'It is indeed the word – why? I too ask myself – and I cannot see it – no, I cannot see it.'
'You've no ideas at all on the subject?'
Poirot waved an exasperated hand.
'My ideas are childish in the extreme. I tell myself, it was perhaps a ruse to indicate you to someone – to point you out. But that again is absurd – you are quite a well-known man – and anyway how much more simple to say, 'See, that is he – the man who entered now by that door.''
'And anyway,' said Blunt, 'why should anyone want to point me out?'
'Mr. Blunt, think back once more on your time that morning in the dentist's chair. Did nothing that Morley said strike an unusual note? Is there nothing at all that you can remember which might help as a clue?'
Alistair Blunt frowned in an effort of memory.
Then he shook his head.
'I'm sorry. I can't think of anything.'
'You're quite sure he didn't mention this woman – this Miss Sainsbury Seale?'
'No.'
'Or the other woman – Mrs. Chapman?'
'No – no – we didn't speak of people at all. We mentioned roses, gardens needing rain, holidays – nothing else.'
'And no one came into the room while you were there?'
'Let me see – no, I don't think so. On other occasions I seem to remember a young woman being there – fair-haired girl. But she wasn't there this time. Oh, another dentist fellow came in, I remember – fellow with an Irish accent.'
'What did he say or do?'
'Just asked Morley some question and went out again. Morley was a bit short with him, I fancy. He was only there a minute or so.'
'And there is nothing else you can remember? Nothing at all?'
'No. He was absolutely normal.'
Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully:
'I, too, found him absolutely normal.'
There was a long pause. Then Poirot said:
'Do you happen to remember, Monsieur, a young man who was in the waiting room downstairs with you that morning?'
Alistair Blunt frowned.
'Let me see – yes, there was a young man – rather restless he was. I don't remember him particularly, though. Why?'
'Would you know him again if you saw him?'
Blunt shook his head.
'I hardly glanced at him.'
'He didn't try to enter into conversation with you at all?'
'No.'
Blunt looked with frank curiosity at the other.
'What's the point? Who is this young man?'
'His name is Howard Raikes.'
Poirot watched keenly for any reaction, but he saw none.
'Ought I to know his name? Have I met him elsewhere?'
'I do not think you have met him. He is a friend of your niece, Miss Olivera's.'
'Oh, one of Jane's friends.'
'Her mother, I gather, does not approve of the friendship.'
Alistair Blunt said absently:
'I don't suppose that will cut any ice with Jane.'
