The Monogram Murders (12 page)

Brignell, you seem a most efficient fellow. I know I

can trust you with this.’ Then he proceeded to discuss

the matter I mentioned before, sir—about the bill, and

him wanting to pay it.”

“And you did not want to repeat the compliment

you had received in front of everybody else, is that

right?” I said. “You feared it might sound boastful?”

“Yes, I did, sir. I did indeed. There’s something

else, too. Once we’d agreed the matter of the bill, Mr.

Negus asked me to fetch him a sherry. I was the

person that did that. I offered to take it up to his room,

but he said he was happy to wait. I brought it to him,

and then up he went with it, in the lift.”

Poirot sat forward in his chair. “Yet you said

nothing when I asked if anyone in the room had given

Richard Negus a glass of sherry?”

Brignell looked confused and frustrated—as if the

right answer was on the tip of his tongue, but still,

somehow, eluded him. “I ought to have done, sir. I

ought to have offered a full account of the incident as

soon as you asked. I deeply regret that I failed in my

duty to you and to the three deceased guests, God rest

their souls. I can only hope that by coming to you now

I’ve made a small amends.”

“Indeed, indeed. But, monsieur, I am curious about

why you did not speak up in the dining room. When I

asked, ‘Who here took Richard Negus a glass of

sherry?,’ what was it that caused you to remain

silent?”

The poor clerk had started to tremble. “I swear on

my dear late mother’s grave, Mr. Poirot, I’ve now

told you every particular of my encounter with Mr.

Negus yesterday evening. Every last particular. You

couldn’t have a more complete knowledge of what

transpired—of that you may rest assured.”

Poirot opened his mouth to ask another question,

but I leaped in before him and said, “Thank you very

much, Mr. Brignell. Please don’t worry about not

having told us sooner. I understand how hard it is to

stand up and speak in front of a crowd. I don’t much

like it myself.”

Once dismissed, Brignell hurried to the door like a

fox fleeing from hounds.

“I believe him,” I said when he had gone. “He’s

told us everything he knows.”

“About his meeting with Richard Negus beside the

hotel lift, yes. The detail he conceals relates to

himself. Why did he not speak up in the dining room

about the sherry? I asked him that question twice, and

still he did not answer. Instead, he elaborated upon

his remorse, which was sincere. He would not lie, but

he cannot bring himself to speak the truth. Ah, how he

withholds! It is a form of lying—a very effective one,

for there is no spoken lie to be contested.”

Poirot chuckled suddenly. “And, you, Catchpool,

you seek to protect him from Hercule Poirot, who

would press him again and again, eh, for the

information?”

“He looked as if he had reached his limit. And,

frankly, if he is keeping quiet about anything, it’s

something that he thinks is of no consequence to us

and yet it’s a cause of great embarrassment to him.

He’s a fretful, conscientious sort. His sense of duty

would oblige him to tell us if he thought it mattered.”

“And because you sent him away, I did not have

the chance to explain to him that the information he

withholds might be
vital
.” Having raised his voice,

Poirot glared at me, to make sure I noted his

annoyance. “Even I, Hercule Poirot, do not yet know

what matters and what is irrelevant. This is why I

must know everything.” He stood up. “And now, I

will return to Pleasant’s,” he said abruptly. “The

coffee there is far better than Signor Lazzari’s.”

“But Richard Negus’s brother Henry is on his

way,” I protested. “I thought you would want to speak

to him.”

“I need a change of scenery, Catchpool. I must

revitalize my little gray cells. They will begin to

stagnate if I do not take them elsewhere.”

“Poppycock! You’re hoping to bump into Jennie,

or hear news of her,” I said. “Poirot, I do think you’re

on a desperate goose chase with this Jennie business.

You know it too, or else you would admit you’re

going to Pleasant’s in the hope of finding her.”

“Maybe so. But if there is a goose killer at large,

what else is one to do? Bring Mr. Henry Negus to

Pleasant’s. I will talk to him there.”

“What? He’s coming all the way from Devon. He’s

not going to want to arrive and then leave at once for

—”

“But does he want the dead goose?” Poirot

demanded. “Ask him that!”

I resolved to ask Henry Negus no such thing, for

fear he might turn on his heel and go straight back

whence he came, having decided that Scotland Yard

had been taken over by madmen.

Two Keys

POIROT ARRIVED AT THE coffee house to find it very

busy and smelling of a mixture of smoke and

something sweet like pancake syrup. “I need a table,

but they are all taken,” he complained to Fee Spring,

who had only just arrived herself and was standing by

the wooden coat stand with her coat draped over her

arm. When she pulled off her hat, her flyaway hair

crackled and hung in the air for a few seconds before

succumbing to gravity. The effect was rather comical,

thought Poirot.

“Your need’s in trouble, then, isn’t it?” she said

cheerfully. “I can’t shoo paying patrons out onto the

street, not even for a famous detective.” She lowered

her voice to a whisper. “Mr. and Mrs. Ossessil will

be on their way before too long. You can sit where

they’re sitting.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Ossessil? That is an unusual name.”

Fee laughed at him, then whispered again. “ ‘Oh,

Cecil’—that’s what she says all day long, the wife.

The husband, poor soul, he can’t get as much as two

words out of his mouth without her setting him

straight. He says he’d like scrambled eggs and toast?

Right away she pipes up, ‘Oh, Cecil, not eggs and

toast!’ And don’t think he has to speak to set her off!

He sits down at the first table he comes to and she

says, ‘Oh, Cecil, not this table!’ ’Course, he ought to

say he wants what he don’t want, and don’t want what

he wants. That’s what I’d do. I keep waiting for him

to tumble to it but he’s a useless old lump, truth be

told. Brain like a moldy cabbage. I expect that’s what

started her Oh-Cecil-ing.”

“If he does not leave soon, I shall say ‘Oh, Cecil’

to him myself,” said Poirot, whose legs were already

aching from a combination of standing and the

thwarted desire to be seated.

“They’ll be gone before your coffee’s ready,” Fee

said. “She’s finished her meal, see. She’ll Oh-Cecil

him out of here in no time. What you doing here at

lunchtime anyway? Wait, I know what you’re up to!

Looking for Jennie, aren’t you? I heard you were in

first thing this morning too.”

“How did you hear it?” Poirot asked. “You have

only just arrived,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“I’m never far away,” said Fee enigmatically. “No

one’s seen hide nor hair of Jennie, but d’you know,

Mr. Poirot, I’ve got her stuck in my mind same as

she’s stuck in yours.”

“You too are worried?”

“Oh, not about her being in danger. It’s not up to

me to save her.”

“
Non.
”

“Nor’s it up to you.”

“Ah, but Hercule Poirot, he has saved lives. He

has saved innocent men from the gallows.”

“A good half of them’s probably guilty,” said Fee

cheerfully, as if the idea amused her.

“
Non, mademoiselle. Vous êtes misanthrope.
”

“If you say so. All’s I know is, if I worried about

everyone as comes in here needing to be worried

about, I’d not have a moment’s peace. It’s one sorry

predicament after another and most of it’s coming

from their own heads, not real problems.”

“If something is in a person’s head, then it is real,”

Poirot said.

“Not if it’s daft nonsense dreamed up out of

nowhere, which it often is,” said Fee. “No, what I

meant about Jennie is, I noticed something last night

. . . except I can’t think what it might be. I remember

thinking, ‘It’s funny Jennie doing that, or saying that

. . .’ Only trouble is, I can’t remember what set me off

thinking it—what she did, or what she said. I’ve tried

and tried till it’s made my head spin! Ah, look, they’re

going, Mr. and Mrs. Oh-Cecil. You go and sit yourself

down. Coffee?”

“Yes, please. Mademoiselle, will you please

continue in your efforts to remember what Jennie did

or said? It matters more than I can express.”

“More than straight shelves?” Fee asked with

sudden sharpness. “More than cutlery laid out square

on the table?”

“Ah. You think these things are the dreamed-up

nonsense?” Poirot asked.

Fee’s face reddened. “Sorry if I spoke out of turn,”

she said. “It’s only . . . well, you’d be a good deal

happier, wouldn’t you, if you stopped fussing about

how a fork sits on a tablecloth?”

Poirot gave her the benefit of his best polite smile.

“I would be very much happier if you were to

remember what it was about Mademoiselle Jennie

that has stuck in your mind.” With that, he made a

dignified exit from the conversation and sat down at

his table.

He waited for an hour and a half, during which

time he ate a good lunch but saw no sign of Jennie.

It was nearly two o’clock when I arrived at

Pleasant’s with a man in tow whom Poirot at first

took to be Henry Negus, Richard’s brother. There was

some confusion as I explained that I had left

Constable Stanley Beer to wait for Negus and bring

him along when he arrived, and that I had done so

because the only person I could think about at the

moment was the man standing beside me.

I

introduced

him—Mr.

Samuel

Kidd,

a

boilermaker—and watched with amusement as Poirot

recoiled from the dirt-marked shirt with the missing

button, and the partly unshaven face. Mr. Kidd had

nothing as ordinary as a beard or a mustache, but he

plainly had trouble using a razor. The evidence

suggested that he had started to shave, cut himself

badly, and abandoned the enterprise. As a

consequence, one side of his face was smooth and

hairless but wounded, while the other was injury free

and covered with dark bristles. Which side looked

worse was not an easy question to settle. “Mr. Kidd

has a very interesting story to tell us,” I said. “I was

standing outside the Bloxham waiting for Henry

Negus, when—”

“Ah!” Poirot interrupted me. “You and Mr. Kidd

have come now from the Bloxham Hotel?”

“Yes.” Where did he think I had come from?

Timbuktu?

“How did you travel?”

“Lazzari let me have one of the hotel’s cars.”

“How long did the journey take?”

“Thirty minutes on the nose.”

“How were the roads? Were there many cars?”

“No. Hardly anyone about, as a matter of fact.”

“Do you think that in different conditions you could

have made the journey in less time?” Poirot asked.

“Not unless I grew wings. Thirty minutes is jolly

good going, I’d say.”