The Monogram Murders (10 page)

Ask a Hundred People

I BARELY NOTICED THE large crowd gathered in the

Bloxham Hotel’s dining room as Poirot and I walked

in. The room itself was so striking that I couldn’t help

but be diverted by its grandeur. I stopped in the

doorway and stared up at the high, lavishly

ornamented ceiling with its many emblems and

carvings. It was strange to think of people eating

ordinary things like toast and marmalade at the tables

below a work of art such as this—not even looking

up, perhaps, as they sliced the tops off their boiled

eggs.

I was trying to make sense of the complete design,

and how the different parts of the ceiling related to

one another, when a disconsolate Luca Lazzari rushed

toward me, interrupting my admiration of the artistic

symmetry above my head with his loud lament. “Mr.

Catchpool, Monsieur Poirot, I must apologize to you

most profusely! I have hurried to assist you in your

important work, and, in doing so, I have put forward a

falsehood! It was simply, you see, that I heard many

accounts, and my first attempt to collate them was not

successful. My own foolishness was responsible! No

one else was at fault. Ah—”

Lazzari broke off and looked over his shoulder at

the hundred or so men and women in the room. Then

he moved to his left, so that he was standing directly

in front of Poirot, and stuck out his chest in a funny

sort of way. He put his hands on his hips. I think he

was hoping to hide his entire staff from Poirot’s

disapproving eye, on the principle that if they couldn’t

be seen, they couldn’t be blamed for anything.

“What was your mistake, Signor Lazzari?” Poirot

asked.

“It was a grave error! You observed that it was

surely not possible, and you were right. But I want

you to understand that my excellent staff, whom you

see here before you, told me the truth of what took

place, and it was I who twisted that truth to mislead—

but I did not do it deliberately!”

“
Je comprends.
Now, to correct the mistake . . . ?”

said Poirot hopefully.

The “excellent” staff, meanwhile, sat silently at

large round tables, listening carefully to every word.

The mood was somber. I made a quick survey of the

faces and saw not a single smile.

“I told you that the three deceased guests asked to

have dinner served in their rooms at a quarter past

seven yesterday evening—each separately,” Lazzari

said. “This is not true! The three were together! They

dined as a group! All in one room, Ida Gransbury’s

room, number 317.
One
waiter, not three, saw them

alive and well at a quarter past seven. Do you see,

Monsieur Poirot? It is not the great coincidence that I

conveyed to you, but, instead, a commonplace

occurrence: three guests taking dinner together in the

room of one!”

“
Bon.
” Poirot sounded satisfied. “That makes

sense of that. And who was this one waiter?”

A stout, bald man seated at one of the tables rose

to his feet. He looked to be around fifty and had the

jowlish tendency and mournful eyes of a basset

hound. “It was I, sir,” he said.

“What is your name, monsieur?”

“Rafal Bobak, sir.”

“You served dinner to Harriet Sippel, Ida

Gransbury and Richard Negus in Room 317 at fifteen

minutes past seven yesterday evening?” Poirot asked

him.

“Not dinner, sir,” said Bobak. “Afternoon tea—

that was what Mr. Negus ordered. Afternoon tea at

dinner time. He asked if that was all right or if I was

going to force them to have what he called ‘a dinner

sort of dinner.’ Told me that he and his friends were of

one mind as not being in the mood for one of those.

Said they’d rather have afternoon tea. I told him he

could have whatever he wanted, sir. He asked for

sandwiches—ham, cheese, salmon and cucumber—

and an assortment of cakes. And scones, sir, with jam

and cream.”

“And beverages?” Poirot asked.

“Tea, sir. For all three of them.”

“
D’accord.
And the sherry for Richard Negus?”

Rafal Bobak shook his head. “No, sir. No sherry.

Mr. Negus didn’t ask me for a sherry. I didn’t take a

glass of sherry up to Room 317.”

“You are certain of this?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Being on display in front of all those pairs of eyes

was making me feel a touch awkward. I was painfully

aware that I had not yet asked a question. Letting

Poirot run the show was all very well, but if I didn’t

participate at all, I would look feeble. I cleared my

throat and addressed the room: “Did any of you take a

cup of tea to Harriet Sippel’s room, number 121, at

any point? Or a sherry to Richard Negus’s room?

Either yesterday or Wednesday, the day before?”

Heads began to shake. Unless someone was lying,

it seemed that the only delivery to any of the three

victims’ rooms was the one of afternoon-tea-for-

dinner made by Rafal Bobak to Room 317 at 7:15

P.M. on Thursday.

I tried to sort it out in my mind: the teacup in

Harriet Sippel’s room wasn’t a problem. That must

have been one of the three brought by Bobak, since

only two cups were found in Ida Gransbury’s room

after the murders. But how did the sherry glass make

its way to Richard Negus’s room unless transported

there by a waiter?

Did the killer arrive at the Bloxham with a glass of

Harveys Bristol Cream in his hand, as well as a

pocket full of mongrammed cufflinks and poison? It

seemed far-fetched.

Poirot appeared to have fixed on the same

problem. “To be absolutely clear: not one of you gave

a glass of sherry to Mr. Richard Negus, either in his

room or anywhere else in the hotel?”

There was more head-shaking.

“Signor Lazzari, can you tell me please, was the

glass found in Mr. Negus’s room one that belonged to

the Bloxham Hotel?”

“Yes, it was, Monsieur Poirot. This is all very

perplexing. I would suggest that perhaps a waiter who

is absent today gave the glass of sherry to Mr. Negus

on Thursday or Wednesday, but everybody is here

now who was here then.”

“It is, as you say, perplexing,” Poirot agreed. “Mr.

Bobak, perhaps you could tell us what happened

when you took the evening-afternoon-tea to Ida

Gransbury’s room.”

“I set it out on the table and then I left them to it,

sir.”

“They were all three in the room? Mrs. Sippel,

Miss Gransbury and Mr. Negus?”

“They were, yes, sir.”

“Describe to us the scene.”

“The scene, sir?”

Seeing that Rafal Bobak was at a loss, I chipped in

with: “Which one of them opened the door?”

“Mr. Negus opened the door, sir.”

“And where were the two women?” I asked.

“Oh, they were sitting in the two chairs over by the

fireplace. Talking to each other. I had no dealings

with them. I spoke only to Mr. Negus. Laid everything

out on the table by the window, and then I left, sir.”

“Can you recall what the two ladies talked about?”

asked Poirot.

Bobak lowered his eyes. “Well, sir . . .”

“It is important, monsieur. Every detail that you

can tell me about these three people is important.”

“Well . . . they were being a bit catty, sir. Laughing

about it, too.”

“You mean they were being spiteful? How so?”

“One of them was, yes. And Mr. Negus, he seemed

to find it entertaining. It was something about an older

woman and a younger man. It wasn’t my business so I

didn’t listen.”

“Do you remember what precisely was said? At

whom was the cattishness directed?”

“I couldn’t tell you, sir, I’m sorry. An old woman

that might be pining for the love of a young man, that

was the sense I got. It sounded like gossip to me.”

“Monsieur,” said Poirot in his most authoritative

voice. “If you should happen to remember anything

else about this conversation, anything at all, please

inform me without delay.”

“I shall, sir. Now that I think about it, the young

man might have deserted the older woman and eloped

with another woman. Idle gossip, that’s all it was.”

“So . . .” Poirot started to pace the length of the

room. It was strange to see more than a hundred heads

turn slowly, then turn back as he retraced his steps.

“We have Richard Negus, Harriet Sippel and Ida

Gransbury—one man and two women—in Room 317,

talking cattily about one man and two women!”

“But what’s the significance of that, Poirot?” I

asked.

“It might not be significant. It is interesting,

however. And the idle gossip, the laughter, the

afternoon tea for dinner . . . This tells us that our three

murder victims were not strangers but acquaintances

on friendly terms, unaware of the fate that would

shortly befall them.”

A sudden movement startled me. At the table

immediately in front of where Poirot and I were

standing, a black-haired, pale-faced young man had

bounced out of his seat as if propelled from

underneath. I would have assumed he was eager to

say something were it not for the terror-frozen

expression on his face.

“This is one of our junior clerks, Mr. Thomas

Brignell,” said Lazzari, presenting the man with a

flourish of his hand.

“They were more than on friendly terms, sir,”

Brignell breathed after a protracted silence. No one

sitting behind him could have heard what he said, his

voice was so quiet. “They were good friends. They

knew each other well.”

“Of course they were good friends!” Lazzari

announced to the room. “They ate a meal together!”

“Many people eat meals every day with those they

dislike profoundly,” said Poirot. “Please continue,

Mr. Brignell.”

“When I met Mr. Negus last night, he was

concerned for the two ladies as only a good friend

would be,” Thomas Brignell whispered at us.

“You met him?” I said. “When? Where?”

“Half past seven, sir.” He pointed toward the

dining room’s double doors. I noticed that his arm

was shaking. “Right outside here. I walked out and

saw him going toward the lift. He saw me and

stopped, called me over. I assumed he was making his

way back to his room.”

“What did he say to you?” Poirot asked.

“He . . . he asked me to make sure that the meal

was charged to him and not to either of the ladies. He

could afford it, he said, but Mrs. Sippel and Miss

Gransbury could not.”

“Was that all he said, monsieur?”

“Yes.” Brignell looked as if he might faint if he

was required to produce one more word.

“Thank you, Mr. Brignell,” I said as warmly as I

could. “You’ve been very helpful.” Immediately I felt

guilty for not having thanked Rafal Bobak in a similar

manner, so I added, “As have you, Mr. Bobak. As

have you all.”

“Catchpool,” Poirot murmured. “Most people in

this room have said nothing.”

“They have listened attentively and applied their

minds to the problems presented to them. I think they

deserve credit for that.”

“You have faith in their minds, yes? Perhaps these

are the hundred people you call upon when we

disagree?
Bien,
if we were to ask
these
hundred