do not know those two expressions. You mean to say he was not the pukka sahib?’
A fleeting smile passed across Jane Plenderleith’s face, but she replied gravely, ‘No.’
‘Would it come as a great surprise to you, Miss Plenderleith, if I suggested that this man was blackmailing Mrs Allen?’
Japp sat forward to observe the result of his suggestion.
He was well satisfied. The girl started forward, the colour rose in her cheeks, she brought down her hand sharply on the arm of her chair.
‘So that was it! What a fool I was not to have guessed. Of course!’
‘You think the suggestion feasible, mademoiselle?’ asked Poirot.
‘I was a fool not to have thought of it! Barbara’s borrowed small sums off me several times during the last six months. And I’ve seen her sitting poring over her passbook. I knew she was living well within her income, so I didn’t bother, but, of course, if she was paying out sums of money—’
‘And it would accord with her general demeanour—yes?’ asked Poirot.
‘Absolutely. She was nervous. Quite jumpy sometimes. Altogether different from what she used to be.’
Poirot said gently:
‘Excuse me, but that is not just what you told us before.’
‘That was different,’ Jane Plenderleith waved an impatient hand. ‘She wasn’t depressed. I mean she wasn’t feeling suicidal or anything like that. But blackmail—yes. I wish she’d told me. I’d have sent him to the devil.’
‘But he might have gone—not to the devil, but to Mr Charles Laverton-West?’ observed Poirot.
‘Yes,’ said Jane Plenderleith slowly. ‘Yes … that’s true …’
‘You’ve no idea of what this man’s hold over her may have been?’ asked Japp.
The girl shook her head.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. I can’t believe, knowing Barbara, that it could have been anything really serious. On the other hand—’ she paused, then went on. ‘What I mean is, Barbara was a bit of a simpleton in some ways. She’d be very easily frightened. In fact, she was the kind of girl who would be a positive gift to a blackmailer! The nasty brute!’
She snapped out the last three words with real venom.
‘Unfortunately,’ said Poirot, ‘the crime seems to have taken place the wrong way round. It is the victim who should kill the blackmailer, not the blackmailer his victim.’
Jane Plenderleith frowned a little.
‘No—that is true—but I can imagine circumstances—’
‘Such as?’
‘Supposing Barbara got desperate. She may have threatened him with that silly little pistol of hers. He tries to wrench it away from her and in the struggle he fires it and kills her. Then he’s horrified at what he’s done and tries to pretend it was suicide.’
‘Might be,’ said Japp. ‘But there’s a difficulty.’
She looked at him inquiringly.
‘Major Eustace (if it was him) left here last night at ten-twenty and said goodbye to Mrs Allen on the doorstep.’
‘Oh,’ the girl’s face fell. ‘I see.’ She paused a minute or two. ‘But he might have come back later,’ she said slowly.
‘Yes, that is possible,’ said Poirot.
Japp continued:
‘Tell me, Miss Plenderleith, where was Mrs Allen in the habit of receiving guests, here or in the room upstairs?’
‘Both. But this room was used for more communal parties or for my own special friends. You see, the arrangement was that Barbara had the big bedroom and used it as a sitting-room as well, and I had the little bedroom and used this room.’
‘If Major Eustace came by appointment last night, in which room do you think Mrs Allen would have received him?’
‘I think she would probably bring him in here.’ The girl sounded a little doubtful. ‘It would be less intimate. On the other hand, if she wanted to write a cheque or anything of that kind, she would probably take him upstairs. There are no writing materials down here.’
Japp shook his head.
‘There was no question of a cheque. Mrs Allen drew out two hundred pounds in cash yesterday. And so far we’ve not been able to find any trace of it in the house.’
‘And she gave it to that brute? Oh, poor Barbara! Poor, poor Barbara!’
Poirot coughed.
‘Unless, as you suggest, it was more or less an accident, it still seems a remarkable fact that he should kill an apparently regular source of income.’
‘Accident? It wasn’t an accident. He lost his temper and saw red and shot her.’
‘That is how you think it happened?’
‘Yes.’ She added vehemently, ‘It was murder—murder!’
Poirot said gravely:
‘I will not say that you are wrong, mademoiselle.’
Japp said:
‘What cigarettes did Mrs Allen smoke?’
‘Gaspers. There are some in that box.’
Japp opened the box, took out a cigarette and nodded. He slipped the cigarette into his pocket.
‘And you, mademoiselle?’ asked Poirot.
‘The same.’
‘You do not smoke Turkish?’
‘Never.’
‘Nor Mrs Allen?’
‘No. She didn’t like them.’
Poirot asked:
‘And Mr Laverton-West. What did he smoke?’
She stared hard at him.
‘Charles? What does it matter what he smoked? You’re not going to pretend that he killed her?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘A man has killed the woman he loved before now, mademoiselle.’
Jane shook her head impatiently.
‘Charles wouldn’t kill anybody. He’s a very careful man.’
