then got rid of the voluble Mrs Pierce, who departed with Jameson talking thirteen to the dozen, Japp turned his attention once more to the girl.
‘I am Chief Inspector Japp. Now, Miss Plenderleith, I should like to know all you can tell me about this business.’
‘Certainly. Where shall I begin?’
Her self-possession was admirable. There were no signs of grief or shock save for an almost unnatural rigidity of manner.
‘You arrived this morning at what time?’
‘I think it was just before half-past ten. Mrs Pierce, the old liar, wasn’t here, I found—’
‘Is that a frequent occurrence?’
Jane Plenderleith shrugged her shoulders.
‘About twice a week she turns up at twelve—or not at all. She’s supposed to come at nine. Actually, as I say, twice a week she either “comes over queer,” or else some member of her family is overtaken by sickness. All these daily women are like that—fail you now and again. She’s not bad as they go.’
‘You’ve had her long?’
‘Just over a month. Our last one pinched things.’
‘Please go on, Miss Plenderleith.’
‘I paid off the taxi, carried in my suitcase, looked round for Mrs P., couldn’t see her and went upstairs to my room. I tidied up a bit then I went across to Barbara—Mrs Allen—and found the door locked. I rattled the handle and knocked but could get no reply. I came downstairs and rang up the police station.’
‘Pardon!’ Poirot interposed a quick, deft question. ‘It did not occur to you to try and break down the door—with the help of one of the chauffeurs in the mews, say?’
Her eyes turned to him—cool, grey-green eyes. Her glance seemed to sweep over him quickly and appraisingly.
‘No, I don’t think I thought of that. If anything was wrong, it seemed to me that the police were the people to send for.’
‘Then you thought—pardon, mademoiselle—that there was something wrong?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Because you could not get a reply to your knocks? But possibly your friend might have taken a sleeping draught or something of that kind—’
‘She didn’t take sleeping draughts.’
The reply came sharply.
‘Or she might have gone away and locked her door before going?’
‘Why should she lock it? In any case she would have left a note for me.’
‘And she did not—leave a note for you? You are quite sure of that?’
‘Of course I am sure of it. I should have seen it at once.’
The sharpness of her tone was accentuated.
Japp said:
‘You didn’t try and look through the keyhole, Miss Plenderleith?’
‘No,’ said Jane Plenderleith thoughtfully. ‘I never thought of that. But I couldn’t have seen anything, could I? Because the key would have been in it?’
Her inquiring gaze, innocent, wide-eyed, met Japp’s. Poirot smiled suddenly to himself.
‘You did quite right, of course, Miss Plenderleith,’ said Japp. ‘I suppose you’d no reason to believe that your friend was likely to commit suicide?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘She hadn’t seemed worried—or distressed in any way?’
There was a pause—an appreciable pause before the girl answered.
‘No.’
‘Did you know she had a pistol?’
Jane Plenderleith nodded.
‘Yes, she had it out in India. She always kept it in a drawer in her room.’
‘H’m. Got a licence for it?’
‘I imagine so. I don’t know for certain.’
‘Now, Miss Plenderleith, will you tell me all you can about Mrs Allen, how long you’ve known her, where her relations are—everything in fact.’
Jane Plenderleith nodded.
‘I’ve known Barbara about five years. I met her first travelling abroad—in Egypt to be exact. She was on her way home from India. I’d been at the British School in Athens for a bit and was having a few weeks in Egypt before going home. We were on a Nile cruise together. We made friends, decided we liked each other. I was looking at the time for someone to share a flat or a tiny house with me. Barbara was alone in the world. We thought we’d get on well together.’
‘And you did get on well together?’ asked Poirot.
‘Very well. We each had our own friends—Barbara was more social in her likings—my friends were more of the artistic kind. It probably worked better that way.’
Poirot nodded. Japp went on:
‘What do you know about Mrs Allen’s family and her life before she met you?’
Jane Plenderleith shrugged her shoulders.
‘Not very much really. Her maiden name was Armitage, I believe.’
‘Her husband?’
‘I don’t fancy that he was anything to write home about. He drank, I think. I gather he died a year or two after the marriage. There was one child, a little girl, which died when it was three years old. Barbara didn’t talk much about her husband. I believe she married him in India when she was about seventeen. Then they went off to Borneo or one of the God-forsaken spots you send ne’er-do-wells to—but as it was obviously a painful subject I didn’t refer to it.’
‘Do you know if Mrs Allen was in any financial difficulties?’
‘No, I’m sure she wasn’t.’
‘Not in debt—anything of that kind?’
‘Oh, no! I’m sure she wasn’t in that kind of a jam.’
‘Now there’s another question I must ask—and I hope you won’t be upset about it, Miss Plenderleith. Had Mrs Allen any particular man friend or men friends?’
Jane Plenderleith answered coolly:
‘Well, she was engaged to be married if that answers your question.’
‘What is the name of the man she was engaged to?’
‘Charles
