The Monogram Murders (27 page)

canvas as vividly as she lived in real life. Poirot

found himself wanting to look at the portrait again

before he left the house, and not only to check that he

was not mistaken about the important detail he thought

he had noticed.

Dorcas appeared on the upstairs landing. “Your

coffee, sir.” Poirot, who had been inside St. John

Wallace’s study, stepped forward to take the cup from

her hand. She lurched back as if she hadn’t expected

him to move toward her, and spilled most of the drink

on her white apron. “Oh, dear! I’m sorry, sir, I’m a

right old butterfingers. I’ll make you another cup.”

“No, no, please. There is no need.” Poirot seized

what was left of his coffee and ingested it in one gulp,

before any more of it could be spilled.

“This one is my favorite, I think,” said Louisa

Wallace, still in the study. She was pointing at a

painting that Poirot couldn’t see. “
Blue Bindweed:

Solanum Dulcamara
. The fourth of August last year,

you see? This was my wedding anniversary present

from St. John. Thirty years. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like another cup of

coffee, sir?” said Dorcas.

“The fourth of . . .
Sacré tonnerre
,” Poirot

murmured to himself as a feeling of excitement started

to grow inside him. He returned to the study and

looked at the picture of blue bindweed.

“He has answered that question once, Dorcas. He

does
not
want more coffee.”

“It’s no trouble, ma’am, honest it isn’t. He wanted

coffee, and there was nothing left in the cup by the

time he got it.”

“If nothing is there, one sees nothing,” mused

Poirot cryptically. “One thinks of nothing. To notice a

nothing—that is a difficult thing, even for Poirot, until

one sees, somewhere else, the thing that should have

been there.” He took Dorcas’s hand and kissed it.

“My dear young lady, what you have brought to me is

more valuable than coffee!”

“Ooh.” Dorcas tilted her head and stared. “Your

eyes have gone all funny and green, sir.”

“Whatever can you mean, Monsieur Poirot?”

Louisa Wallace asked. “Dorcas, go and get on with

something useful.”

“Yes, madam.” The girl hurried away.

“I am indebted both to Dorcas and to you,

madame,” said Poirot. “When I arrived here only—

what is it?—half an hour ago, I did not see clearly. I

saw only confusion and puzzles. Now, I begin to put

things together . . . It is very important that I should

think without interruption.”

“Oh.” Louisa looked disappointed. “Well, if you

need to hurry off—”

“Oh, no, no, you misunderstand me. Pardon,

madame. The fault is mine: I did not make myself

clear. Of course we must finish the tour of the art.

There is much still to explore! After that, I shall

depart and do my thinking.”

“Are you sure?” Louisa regarded him with

something akin to alarm. “Well, all right, then, if it’s

not too much of a bore.” She recommenced her

enthusiastic commentary on her husband’s pictures as

Poirot and Louisa moved from room to room.

In one of the guest bedrooms, the last upstairs

room that they came to, there was a white jug and

bowl set with a red, green and white crest on it. There

was also a wooden table, and a chair; Poirot

recognized both from Nancy Ducane’s painting of

Louisa. He said, “Pardon, madame, but where is the

blue jug and bowl from the portrait?”

“The blue jug and bowl,” Louisa repeated,

seemingly confused.

“I think you posed for Nancy Ducane’s painting in

this room,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Yes, I did. And . . . wait a minute! This jug and

bowl set is the one from the other guest bedroom!”

“And yet it is not there. It is here.”

“So it is. But . . . then where is the blue jug and

bowl?”

“I do not know, madame.”

“Well, it must be in a different bedroom. Mine,

perhaps. Dorcas must have swapped them around.”

She set off at a brisk pace in search of the missing

items.

Poirot followed. “There is no other jug and bowl

set in any of the bedrooms,” he said.

After a thorough check, Louisa Wallace said

through gritted teeth, “That
useless
girl! I’ll tell you

what’s happened, Monsieur Poirot. Dorcas has

broken it and she’s too scared to tell me. Let us go

and ask her, shall we? She will deny it, of course, but

it’s the only possible explanation. Jugs and bowls

don’t disappear, and they don’t move from room to

room on their own.”

“When did you last see the blue jug and bowl,

madame?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t noticed them in a long

while. I hardly ever go into the guest bedrooms.”

“Is it possible that Nancy Ducane removed the

blue jug and bowl when she left here on Thursday

night?”

“No. Why would she? That’s silly! I stood at the

door and said goodbye to her, and she was not

holding anything apart from her house key. Besides,

Nancy isn’t a thief. Dorcas, on the other hand . . . That

will be it! She hasn’t broken it, she has stolen it, I’m

sure—but how can I prove it? She’s bound to deny

it.”

“Madame, do me one favor: do not accuse Dorcas

of stealing or of anything else. I do not think she is

guilty.”

“Well, then where is my blue jug and bowl?”

“This is what I must think about,” said Poirot. “I

will leave you in peace in a moment, but first may I

take a last look at Nancy Ducane’s remarkable

portrait of you?”

“Yes, with pleasure.”

Together, Louisa Wallace and Hercule Poirot made

their way back down to the drawing room. They stood

in front of the painting. “Dratted girl,” muttered

Louisa. “All I can see when I look at it now is the

blue jug and bowl.”

“
Oui.
It stands out, does it not?”

“It used to be in my house, and now it isn’t, and all

I can do is stare at a picture of it and wonder what

became of it! Oh, dear, what an upsetting day this has

turned out to be!”

BLANCHE UNSWORTH, AS WAS her custom, asked Poirot

the moment he returned to the lodging house if there

was anything she could get for him.

“Indeed there is,” he told her. “I should like a

piece of paper and some pencils to draw with.

Colored pencils.”

Blanche’s face fell. “I can bring you paper, but as

for colored pencils, I can’t say as I’ve got any, unless

you’re interested in the color of ordinary pencil

lead.”

“Ah! Gray: the best of all.”

“Are you having me on, Mr. Poirot? Gray?”

“
Oui.
” Poirot tapped the side of his head. “The

color of the little gray cells.”

“Oh, no. Give me a nice soft pink or lilac any day

of the week.”

“Colors do not matter—a green dress, a blue jug

and bowl set, a white one.”

“I’m not following you, Mr. Poirot.”

“I do not ask you to follow me, Mrs. Unsworth—

only to bring me one of your ordinary pencils and a

piece of paper, quickly. And an envelope. I have been

talking at great length about art today. Hercule Poirot

will attempt now to compose his own work of art!”

Twenty minutes later, seated at one of the tables in

the dining room, Poirot called for Blanche Unsworth

again. When she appeared, he handed her the

envelope, which was sealed. “Please telephone to

Scotland Yard for me,” he said. “Ask them to send

somebody to collect this without delay and deliver it

to Constable Stanley Beer. I have written his name on

the envelope. Please explain that this is important. It

is in connection with the Bloxham Hotel murders.”

“I thought you were drawing a picture,” said

Blanche.

“My picture is sealed inside the envelope,

accompanied by a letter.”

“Oh. Well, then, I can’t see the picture, can I?”

Poirot smiled. “It is not necessary for you to see it,

madame, unless you work for Scotland Yard—which,

to my knowledge, you do not.”

“Oh.” Blanche Unsworth looked vexed. “Well. I

suppose I should make this call for you, then,” she

said.

“
Merci, madame.
”

When she returned five minutes later, she had her

hand over her mouth and pink spots on her cheeks.

“Oh, dear, Mr. Poirot,” she said. “Oh, this is bad

news for all of us! I don’t know what’s wrong with

people, I really don’t.”

“What news?”

“I telephoned to Scotland Yard, like you asked—

they said they’ll send someone to collect your

envelope. Then the phone rang again, right after I’d

put it down. Oh, Mr. Poirot, it’s dreadful!”

“Calm yourself, madame. Tell me, please.”

“There’s been another murder at the Bloxham! I

don’t know what’s wrong with some of these fancy

hotels, I really don’t.”

The Mind in the Mirror

ON ARRIVING BACK IN London, I proceeded to

Pleasant’s, thinking I might find Poirot there, but the

only familiar face in the coffee house was that of the

waitress with what Poirot calls “the flyaway hair.” I

had always found her to be a tonic and enjoyed

Pleasant’s on account of her presence as much as

anything else. What was her name? Poirot had told

me. Oh yes: Fee Spring, short for Euphemia.

I liked her chiefly for her comforting habit of

saying the same two things every time she saw me.

She said them now. The first was about her long-

standing ambition to change the name of Pleasant’s

from “Coffee House” to “Tea Rooms,” to reflect the

relative merits of the two beverages, and the second

was: “How’s Scotland Yard treating you, then? I’d

like to work there—only if I could be in charge,

mind.”

“Oh, I’m sure you would be leading the troops in

no time,” I told her. “Just as I suspect that one day I

shall arrive here to find ‘Pleasant’s Tea Rooms’ on

the sign outside.”

“Not likely. It’s the only thing they won’t let me

change. Mr. Poirot wouldn’t like it, would he?”

“He would be aghast.”

“You’re not to tell him, or anyone.” Fee’s

proposed change of name for her place of work was

something she professed to have told nobody but me.

“I shan’t,” I assured her. “I tell you what: come

and work with me solving crimes and I’ll ask my boss

if we can change our name to Scotland Yard Tea

Rooms. We do drink tea there, so it wouldn’t be

altogether unsuitable.”

“Hmph.” Fee wasn’t impressed. “I’ve heard

women police aren’t allowed to stay on if they marry.

That’s all right; I’d rather solve crimes with you than

have a husband to look after.”

“There you are, then!”

“So don’t go proposing to me.”

“No fear!”

“Charming, aren’t you?”

To dig myself out of the hole, I said, “I shan’t be

proposing to anybody, but if my parents ever put a gun

to my head, I shall ask you before any other girl—

how’s that?”

“Better me than some dreamer with notions of

romance in her head. She’d be disappointed, all

right.”

I did not want to discuss romance. I said, “As far

as our crime-solving partnership goes . . . I don’t

suppose you’re expecting Poirot, are you? I hoped he