in banking.
After his death she continued to be a powerful figure in the financial world with her immense holdings. She came to London—and a junior partner of the London house was sent to Claridge’s to see her with various documents. Six months later the world was electrified to hear that Rebecca Sanseverato was marrying Alistair Blunt, a man nearly twenty years younger than herself.
There were the usual jeers—and smiles. Rebecca, her friends said, was really an incurable fool where men were concerned! First Sanseverato—now this young man. Of course he was only marrying her for her money. She was in for a second disaster! But to everyone’s surprise the marriage was a success. The people who prophesied that Alistair Blunt would spend her money on other women were wrong. He remained quietly devoted to his wife. Even after her death, ten years later, when as inheritor of her vast wealth he might have been supposed to cut loose, he did not marry again. He lived the same quiet and simple life. His genius for finance had been no less than his wife’s. His judgements and dealings were sound—his integrity above question. He dominated the vast Arnholt and Rotherstein interests by his sheer ability.
He went very little into society, had a house in Kent and one in Norfolk where he spent weekends—not with gay parties, but with a few quiet stodgy friends. He was fond of golf and played moderately well. He was interested in his garden.
This was the man towards whom Chief Inspector Japp and Hercule Poirot were bouncing along in a somewhat elderly taxi.
The Gothic House was a well-known feature on Chelsea Embankment. Inside it was luxurious with an expensive simplicity. It was not very modern but it was eminently comfortable.
Alistair Blunt did not keep them waiting. He came to them almost at once.
‘Chief Inspector Japp?’
Japp came forward and introduced Hercule Poirot. Blunt looked at him with interest.
‘I know your name, of course, M. Poirot. And surely—somewhere—quite recently—’ he paused, frowning.
Poirot said:
‘This morning, Monsieur, in the waiting-room of ce pauvre M. Morley.’
Alistair Blunt’s brow cleared. He said:
‘Of course. I knew I had seen you somewhere.’ He turned to Japp. ‘What can I do for you? I am extremely sorry to hear about poor Morley.’
‘You were surprised, Mr Blunt?’
‘Very surprised. Of course I knew very little about him, but I should have thought him a most unlikely person to commit suicide.’
‘He seemed in good health and spirits then, this morning?’
‘I think so—yes.’ Alistair Blunt paused, then said with an almost boyish smile: ‘To tell you the truth, I’m a most awful coward about going to the dentist. And I simply hate that beastly drill thing they run into you. That’s why I really didn’t notice anything much. Not till it was over, you know, and I got up to go. But I must say Morley seemed perfectly natural then. Cheerful and busy.’
‘You have been to him often?’
‘I think this was my third or fourth visit. I’ve never had much trouble with my teeth until the last year. Breaking up, I suppose.’
Hercule Poirot asked:
‘Who recommended Mr Morley to you originally?’
Blunt drew his brows together in an effort of concentration.
‘Let me see now—I had a twinge—somebody told me Morley of Queen Charlotte Street was the man to go to—no, I can’t for the life of me remember who it was. Sorry.’
Poirot said:
‘If it should come back to you, perhaps you will let one of us know?’
Alistair Blunt looked at him curiously.
He said:
‘I will—certainly. Why? Does it matter?’
‘I have an idea,’ said Poirot, ‘that it might matter very much.’
They were going down the steps of the house when a car drew up in front of it. It was a car of sporting build—one of those cars from which it is necessary to wriggle from under the wheel in sections.
The young woman who did so appeared to consist chiefly of arms and legs. She had finally dislodged herself as the men turned to walk down the street.
The girl stood on the pavement looking after them. Then, suddenly and vigorously, she ejaculated, ‘Hi!’
Not realizing that the call was addressed to them, neither man turned, and the girl repeated: ‘Hi! Hi! You there!’
They stopped and looked round inquiringly. The girl walked towards them. The impression of arms and legs remained. She was tall, thin, and her face had an intelligence and aliveness that redeemed its lack of actual beauty. She was dark with a deeply tanned skin.
She was addressing Poirot:
‘I know who you are—you’re the detective man, Hercule Poirot!’ Her voice was warm and deep, with a trace of American accent.
Poirot said:
‘At your service, Mademoiselle.’
Her eyes went on to his companion.
Poirot said:
‘Chief Inspector Japp.’
Her eyes widened—almost it seemed with alarm. She said, and there was a slight breathlessness in her voice:
‘What have you been doing here? Nothing—nothing has happened to Uncle Alistair, has it?’
Poirot said quickly:
‘Why should you think so, Mademoiselle?’
‘It hasn’t? Good.’
Japp took up Poirot’s question. ‘Why should you think anything had happened to Mr Blunt, Miss—’
He paused inquiringly.
The girl said mechanically:
‘Olivera. Jane Olivera.’ Then she gave a slight and rather unconvincing laugh. ‘Sleuths on the doorstep rather suggest bombs in the attic, don’t they?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with Mr Blunt, I’m thankful to say, Miss Olivera.’
She looked directly at Poirot.
‘Did he call you in about something?’
Japp said:
‘We called on him, Miss Olivera, to see if he could throw any light on a case of suicide that occurred this morning.’
She said sharply:
‘Suicide?
