'I hope it won't be as bad as that,' said Sergeant Fletcher.
Poirot did not reply. He went on down the hill. He had ceased to think. Nothing anywhere made sense.
He went into the post office. Maude Williams was there looking at knitting patterns. Poirot did not speak to her. He went to the stamp counter. When Maude had made her purchase, Mrs Sweetiman came over to him and he bought some stamps. Maude went out of the shop.
Mrs Sweetiman seemed preoccupied and not talkative. Poirot was able to follow Maude out fairly quickly. He caught her up a short distance along the road and fell into step beside her.
Mrs Sweetiman, looking out of the post office window, exclaimed to herself disapprovingly. 'Those foreigners! All the same, every manjack of 'em. Old enough to be her grandfather, he is!'
II
'Eh bien,' said Poirot, 'you have something to tell me?'
'I don't know that it's important. There was somebody trying to get in at the window of Mrs Wetherby's room.'
'When?'
'This morning. She'd gone out, and the girl was out with the dog. Old frozen fish was shut up in his study as usual. I'd have been in the kitchen normally – it faces the other way like the study – but actually it seemed a good opportunity to – you understand?'
Poirot nodded.
'So I nipped upstairs and into Her Acidity's bedroom. There was a ladder against the window and a man was fumbling with the window catch. She's had everything locked and barred since the murder. Never a bit of fresh air. When the man saw me he scuttled down and made off. The ladder was the gardener's – he'd been cutting back the ivy and had gone to have his elevenses.'
'Who was the man? Can you describe him?'
'I only got the merest glimpse. By the time I got to the window he was down the ladder and gone, and when I first saw him he was against the sun, so I couldn't see his face.'
'You are sure it was a man?'
Maude considered·
'Dressed as a man – an old felt hat on. It might have been a woman, of course…'
'It is interesting,' said Poirot. 'It is very interesting… Nothing else?'
'Not yet. The junk that old woman keeps! Must be dotty! She came in without me hearing this morning and bawled me out for snooping. I shall be murdering her next. If anyone asks to be murdered that woman does. A really nasty bit of goods.'
Poirot murmured softly:
'Evelyn Hope…'
'What's that?' She spun round on him.
'So you know that name?'
'Why – yes… It's the name Eva Whatsername took when she went to Australia. It – it was in the paper – the Sunday Companion.'
'The Sunday Companion said many things, but it did not say that. The police found the name written in a book in Mrs Upward's house.'
Maude exclaimed:
'Then it was her – and she didn't die out there… Michael was right -'
'Michael?'
Maude said abruptly:
'I can't stop. I'll be late serving lunch. I've got it all in the oven, but it will be getting dried up.'
She started off at a run. Poirot stood looking after her.
At the post office window, Mrs Sweetiman, her nose glued to the pane, wondered if that old foreigner had been making suggestions of a certain character…
III
Back at Long Meadows, Poirot removed his shoes, and put on a pair of bedroom slippers. They were not chic, not in his opinion comme il faut – but there must be relief.
He sat down on the easy-chair again and began once more to think. He had by now a lot to think about.
There were things he had missed – little things -
The pattern was all there. It only needed cohesion.
Maureen, glass in hand, talking in a dreamy voice – asking a question… Mrs Oliver's account of her evening at the Rep. Cecil? Michael? He was almost sure that she had mentioned a Michael – Eva Kane, nursery governess to the Craigs -
Evelyn Hope…
Of course! Evelyn Hope!
Chapter 23
I
Eve Carpenter came into the Summerhayes' house in the casual way that most people did, using any door or window that was convenient.
She was looking for Hercule Poirot and when she found him she did not beat about the bush.
'Look here,' she said. 'You're a detective and you're supposed to be good. All right, I'll hire you.'
'Suppose I am not for hire. Mon Dieu, I am not a taxicab!'
'You're a private detective and private detective get paid, don't they?'
'It is the custom.'
'Well, that's what I'm saying. I'll pay you. I'll pay you well.'
'For what? What do you want me to do.'
Eve Carpenter said sharply:
'Protect me against the police. They're crazy. They seem to think I killed the Upward woman. And they're nosing round, asking me all sorts of questions – ferreting out things. I don't like it. It's driving me mental.'
Poirot looked at her. Something of what she said was true. She looked many years older than when he had first seen her a few weeks ago. Circles under her eyes spoke of sleepless nights. There were lines from her mouth to her chin, and her hand, when she lit a cigarette, shook badly.
'You've got to stop it,' she said. 'You've got to.'
'Madame, what can I do?'
'Fend them off somehow or other. Damned cheek! If Guy was a man he'd stop all this. He wouldn't let them persecute me.'
'And – he does nothing?'
She said sullenly:
