The Monogram Murders (20 page)

she was ready to do so, Hercule Poirot was at

Pleasant’s Coffee House in London, engaged in an

effort of equal futility: that of trying to persuade the

waitress Fee Spring to tell him what she could not

remember.

“All I can tell you’s what I’ve already told you,”

she said several times, with increasing weariness. “I

noticed something not right about Jennie that night. I

tucked it away to fret about later, and now it’s buried

somewhere and won’t come out. You pestering me

won’t change that, if anything will. Chances are

you’ve scared it away for good. You’ve no patience

about you, that’s for sure.”

“Please continue to try to retrieve the memory,

mademoiselle. It might be important.”

Fee Spring looked over Poirot’s shoulder toward

the door. “If it’s memories you’re after, there’ll be a

man bringing one in for you soon. He was in round

about an hour ago. Shown the way here by a

policeman, he was—escorted, like royalty. Must be

someone important, I thought. You weren’t here, so I

told him to come back now
.
” She was looking up at

the clock that was wedged in between two teapots on

a bowed shelf above her head. “I knew you’d be in

again at least once today, looking for Jennie when

I’ve told you you won’t find her.”

“Did this gentleman tell you his name?”

“No. He was nice and polite, though. Respectful.

Not like the one who was all mucky looking and

spoke with your voice. He had no right doing that,

however clever it was.”

“
Pardon,
mademoiselle. The man to whom you

refer—Mr. Samuel Kidd—he did not speak with my

voice. He attempted to replicate it, but no person can

replicate the voice of another.”

Fee laughed. “He did yours pretty darn good! I’d

not know the difference, with my eyes closed.”

“Then you do not pay attention when people talk,”

said Poirot irritably. “Each of us has a speaking voice

that is unique, a cadence that belongs to that

individual alone.” To illustrate his point, Poirot held

up his cup. “As unique as the tremendous coffee of

Pleasant’s Coffee House.”

“You’re drinking far too much of it,” said Fee. “It’s

not good for you.”

“From where did you get this idea?”

“You can’t see your eyes, Mr. Poirot. I can. You

should try drinking a cup of tea once in a while. Tea

doesn’t taste like mud, and there’s no such thing as too

much of it. Tea’s only ever good for a person.”

Having delivered her speech, Fee smoothed down the

front of her apron. “And I
do
listen when people talk

—to the words, not the accent. It’s what people say

that counts, not whether they say it Belgian-sounding

or English-sounding.”

At that moment, the coffee-house door opened and

a man walked in. He had the drooping eyes of a

basset hound.

Fee nudged Poirot. “Here he is, without the police

fellow,” she whispered.

The man was Rafal Bobak, the waiter from the

Bloxham Hotel who had served afternoon tea to

Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus at a

quarter past seven on the night of the murders. Bobak

apologized for the intrusion, and explained that Luca

Lazzari had told his whole staff that if any of them

wanted to speak to the famous detective Hercule

Poirot, Pleasant’s Coffee House in St. Gregory’s

Alley was the place to find him.

Once they had settled themselves at a table, Poirot

asked, “What is it that you wish to tell me? You have

remembered something?”

“I’ve remembered as much as I’m likely to

remember, sir, and I thought it would be as well to tell

you while it’s fresh in my mind. Some of it you’ve

heard already, but I’ve been going over and over it,

and it’s remarkable how much comes back to you

once you apply yourself.”

“Indeed, monsieur. It is necessary only to sit still

and employ the little gray cells.”

“Mr. Negus was the one who took delivery of the

meal, as I’ve told you, sir. The two ladies were

discussing a woman and a man, like I said at the hotel.

It sounded as if she’d been abandoned by him for

being too old, or he’d lost interest in her for some

other reason. At least, that was my understanding, sir,

but I’ve managed to remember a bit of what they said,

so you can judge for yourself.”

“Ah! Most helpful!”

“Well, sir, the first thing I’ve managed to

remember is Mrs. Harriet Sippel saying, “She had no

choice, did she? She’s no longer the one he confides

in. He’d hardly be interested in her now—she’s let

herself go, and she’s old enough to be his mother. No,

if she wanted to find out what’s going on in his mind,

she had no choice but to receive the woman he
does

confide in, and talk to her.” After saying all this, Mrs.

Sippel broke into peals of laughter, and it wasn’t
nice

laughter. Catty, as I said at the hotel.”

“Please go on, Mr. Bobak.”

“Well, Mr. Negus heard what she said, because he

turned away from me—he and I had been exchanging

pleasantries, you see—and he said, “Oh, Harriet,

that’s hardly fair. Ida’s easily shocked. Go easy on

her.” And then either Harriet Sippel or the other one,

Ida Gransbury, said
something.
I can’t for the life of

me remember what it was, sir, for which I’m sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize,” said Poirot.

“Your recollection, incomplete as it is, will prove

invaluable, I am sure.”

“I hope so, sir,” said Bobak doubtfully. “The next

bit I remember word by word was many minutes later,

as I laid everything out on the table for the three

guests. Mr. Negus said to Mrs. Sippel, “His mind? I’d

argue he has no mind. And I dispute your old-enough-

to-be-his-mother claim. I dispute it utterly.” Mrs.

Sippel laughed at this and said, “Well, neither of us

can prove we’re right, so let’s agree to disagree!”

That was the last thing I heard before I left the room,

sir.”

“I would argue he has no mind,” Poirot murmured.

“What they were saying, sir—none of it was

friendly. This woman they were talking about, they

harbored nothing but ill will for her.”

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Bobak,” said

Poirot warmly. “Your account is inordinately helpful.

To know the very words that were spoken, and so

many of them, is more than I could have hoped for.”

“I only wish I could remember the rest, sir.”

Poirot tried to persuade Bobak to stay and drink a

cup of something, but the waiter was determined to

return to the Bloxham Hotel as soon as he could, and

not take advantage of Luca Lazzari’s good nature.

Refused another cup of coffee by Fee Spring, who

cited his health in her defense, Poirot decided to

return to Blanche Unsworth’s lodging house. He

moved slowly, ambling through the busy London

streets, while his mind raced ahead. As he walked, he

turned over in his mind the words Rafal Bobak had

repeated to him: “He’d hardly be interested in her

now . . . She’s old enough to be his mother . . . His

mind? I’d argue he has no mind . . . I dispute your old-

enough-to-be-his-mother claim . . . Well, neither of us

can prove we’re right . . .”

He was still murmuring these phrases to himself

when he arrived at his temporary accommodation.

Blanche Unsworth rushed toward him as he entered.

“What are you saying to yourself, Mr. Poirot?” she

asked cheerily. “It’s like having two of you!”

Poirot looked down at his body, the shape of

which inclined toward rotundity. “I hope I have not

eaten so much that I have doubled in size, madame,”

he said.

“No, I meant two of you
talking.
” Blanche

Unsworth lowered her voice to a whisper and came

so close to Poirot that he felt obliged to pin himself

against the wall in order to avoid physical contact

with her. “There’s a chap come to call on you, and
his

voice is just like yours
. He’s waiting in the drawing

room. A visitor from your native Belgium, he must be.

Raggedy fellow, but I let him in, since there was no

bad smell coming from him, and . . . well, I didn’t

want to turn away a relation of yours, Mr. Poirot. I

expect customs with regard to clothing are different in

every country. ’Course, it’s the
French
who likes to

dress smart, isn’t it?”

“He is no relative of mine,” said Poirot stiffly.

“His name is Samuel Kidd and he is as English as you

are, madame.”

“He’s got cuts all over his face,” said Blanche

Unsworth. “From shaving, he said. I don’t think he

must know how to do it properly, poor lamb. I told

him I’d something to put on the cuts to help them heal,

but all he did was laugh!”

“All over his face?” Poirot frowned. “The Mr.

Kidd I met last Friday at Pleasant’s Coffee House had

only one cut on his face, on a patch of skin that he had

shaved. Tell me, does this man in the drawing room

have a beard?”

“Oh, no. There’s not a hair on his face apart from

his eyebrows. Not as much skin on his face as there

should be either! I wish you’d teach him how to shave

without causing himself lacerations, Mr. Poirot. Oh,

I’m sorry.” Blanche clapped her hands over her

mouth. “You did say he was no relation, didn’t you. I

still have him down in my head as Belgian. He

sounded
exactly
like you, the way he spoke. I thought

he might be a younger brother. About forty, isn’t he?”

Affronted that anyone might take raggedy Samuel

Kidd to be his kin, Poirot cut short his exchange with

Blanche Unsworth somewhat abruptly, and proceeded

to the drawing room.

Inside it, he found what he had been told he would

find: a man—the same man he had met at Pleasant’s

the previous Friday—who had removed all his facial

hair and cut himself extensively in the process.

“Good afternoon, Mr.
Poirr-oh.
” Samuel Kidd

rose to his feet. “I bet I fooled her, didn’t I, her what

let me in? Did she think I was a native of your

country?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kidd. I see that you have

suffered much misfortune since the last time we met.”

“Misfortune?”

“The injuries to your face.”

“Ah, you’re right there, sir. Truth is, I don’t like

thinking about a sharp blade so close to me eyes. I

think about it cutting clean through the eyeball, and it

gives me a shaky hand. I’m funny about eyes. I’ve

tried telling meself to think about something different,

but it don’t work. Always end up sliced to ribbons, I

do.”

“So I see. May I ask: how did you know that you

would find me at this address?”

“Mr. Lazzari at the hotel said that Constable

Stanley Beer said that Mr. Catchpool lived here and

you did too, sir. I’m sorry about disturbing you at

home, but I’ve got good news for you and I thought

you’d want to know it straight away.”

“What is the news?”

“The lady that dropped the two keys, the one I saw

running from the hotel after the murders . . . I’ve

remembered who she is! It came to me when I looked

at a newspaper this morning. I don’t often look at a

newspaper.”

“Who is the woman you saw, monsieur? You are

right. Poirot, he would like to know her name straight

away.”

Samuel Kidd traced an angry red ridge of scab on

his left cheek with the tip of his finger as he mused,

“Seems to me there’s not much time to read about

other people’s lives and live your own while you’re

at it. If I have to choose, and I reckon I do, I’ll choose

living my own life over reading summat about

someone else’s. But as I say, I
did
look at the

newspaper this morning, because I wanted to see if

there was anything about the Bloxham Hotel

murders.”

“
Oui,
” said Poirot, struggling to remain patient.

“And what did you see?”

“Oh, there was plenty about the murders, most of it

saying the police aren’t getting very far and asking for

anyone who saw summat to come forward. Well, I