Murder in the Mews

‘Nothing helpful, I’m afraid, Miss Plenderleith. I’ve been over the whole house now. Oh, I suppose I’d better just have a look in this cupboard under the stairs.’

He caught hold of the handle as he spoke, and pulled.

Jane Plenderleith said:

‘It’s locked.’

Something in her voice made both men look at her sharply.

‘Yes,’ said Japp pleasantly. ‘I can see it’s locked. Perhaps you’ll get the key.’

The girl was standing as though carved in stone.

‘I—I’m not sure where it is.’

Japp shot a quick glance at her. His voice continued resolutely pleasant and off-hand.

‘Dear me, that’s too bad. Don’t want to splinter the wood, opening it by force. I’ll send Jameson out to get an assortment of keys.’

She moved forward stiffly.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘One minute. It might be—’

She went back into the living-room and reappeared a moment later holding a fair-sized key in her hand.

‘We keep it locked,’ she explained, ‘because one’s umbrellas and things have a habit of getting pinched.’

‘Very wise precaution,’ said Japp, cheerfully accepting the key.

He turned it in the lock and threw the door open. It was dark inside the cupboard. Japp took out his pocket flashlight and let it play round the inside.

Poirot felt the girl at his side stiffen and stop breathing for a second. His eyes followed the sweep of Japp’s torch.

There was not very much in the cupboard. Three umbrellas—one broken, four walking sticks, a set of golf clubs, two tennis racquets, a neatly-folded rug and several sofa cushions in various stages of dilapidation. On the top of these last reposed a small, smart-looking attaché-case.

As Japp stretched out a hand towards it, Jane Plenderleith said quickly:

‘That’s mine. I—it came back with me this morning. So there can’t be anything there.’

‘Just as well to make quite sure,’ said Japp, his cheery friendliness increasing slightly.

The case was unlocked. Inside it was fitted with shagreen brushes and toilet bottles. There were two magazines in it but nothing else.

Japp examined the whole outfit with meticulous attention. When at last he shut the lid and began a cursory examination of the cushions, the girl gave an audible sigh of relief.

There was nothing else in the cupboard beyond what was plainly to be seen. Japp’s examination was soon finished.

He relocked the door and handed the key to Jane Plenderleith.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘that concludes matters. Can you give me Mr Laverton-West’s address?’

‘Farlescombe Hall, Little Ledbury, Hampshire.’

‘Thank you, Miss Plenderleith. That’s all for the present. I may be round again later. By the way, mum’s the word. Leave it at suicide as far as the general public’s concerned.’

‘Of course, I quite understand.’

She shook hands with them both.

As they walked away down the mews, Japp exploded:

‘What the—the hell was there in that cupboard? There was something.’

‘Yes, there was something.’

‘And I’ll bet ten to one it was something to do with the attaché-case! But like the double-dyed mutt I must be, I couldn’t find anything. Looked in all the bottles—felt the lining—what the devil could it be?’

Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.

‘That girl’s in it somehow,’ Japp went on. ‘Brought that case back this morning? Not on your life, she didn’t! Notice that there were two magazines in it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, one of them was for last July!’

CHAPTER 7 (#ulink_61b5b8d9-4e8c-5f63-88eb-2acd7fffce9f)

It was the following day when Japp walked into Poirot’s flat, flung his hat on the table in deep disgust and dropped into a chair.

‘Well,’ he growled. ‘She’s out of it!’

‘Who is out of it?’

‘Plenderleith. Was playing bridge up to midnight. Host, hostess, naval-commander guest and two servants can all swear to that. No doubt about it, we’ve got to give up any idea of her being concerned in the business. All the same, I’d like to know why she went all hot and bothered about that little attaché-case under the stairs. That’s something in your line, Poirot. You like solving the kind of triviality that leads nowhere. The Mystery of the Small Attaché-Case. Sounds quite promising!’

‘I will give you yet another suggestion for a title. The Mystery of the Smell of Cigarette Smoke.’

‘A bit clumsy for a title. Smell—eh? Was that why you were sniffing so when we first examined the body? I saw you—and heard you! Sniff—sniff—sniff. Thought you had a cold in your head.’

‘You were entirely in error.’

Japp sighed.

‘I always thought it was the little grey cells of the brain. Don’t tell me the cells of your nose are equally superior to anyone else’s.’

‘No, no, calm yourself.’

‘I didn’t smell any cigarette smoke,’ went on Japp suspiciously.