Taken at the Flood (12 page)

“God rest his soul,” she said. “I've never seen that man in my life. I don't know who he is.”

Spence thought to himself:

“Either you're one of the finest actresses I've ever known or else you're speaking the truth.”

Later, Spence rang up Rowley Cloade.

“I've had the widow down,” he said. “She says definitely that he's not Robert Underlay and that she's never seen him before. So that settles
that!
”

There was a pause. Then Rowley said slowly:

“
Does
it settle it?”

“I think a jury would believe her—in the absence of evidence to the contrary, of course.”

“Ye-es,” said Rowley and rang off.

Then, frowning, he picked up not the local telephone directory, but the London one. His forefingers ran methodically down the letter P. Presently he found what he wanted.

I

H
ercule Poirot carefully folded the last of the newspapers he had sent George out to purchase. The information they gave was somewhat meagre. Medical evidence was given that the man's skull was fractured by a series of heavy blows. The inquest had been adjourned for a fortnight. Anybody who could give information about a man named Enoch Arden believed to have lately arrived from Cape Town was asked to communicate with the Chief Constable of Oastshire.

Poirot laid the papers in a neat pile and gave himself up to meditation. He was interested. He might, perhaps, have passed the first small paragraph by without interest if it had not been for the recent visit of Mrs. Lionel Cloade. But that visit had recalled to him very clearly the incidents of that day at the club during that air raid. He remembered, very distinctly, Major Porter's voice saying, “Maybe a Mr. Enoch Arden will turn up somewhere a thousand miles away and start life anew.” He wanted now, rather badly, to
know more about this man called Enoch Arden who had died by violence at Warmsley Vale.

He remembered that he was slightly acquainted with Superintendent Spence of the Oastshire police and he also remembered that young Mellon lived not very far from Warmsley Heath, and that young Mellon knew Jeremy Cloade.

It was while he was meditating a telephone call to young Mellon that George came in and announced that a Mr. Rowland Cloade would like to see him.

“Aha,” said Hercule Poirot with satisfaction. “Show him in.”

A good-looking worried young man was shown in, and seemed rather at a loss how to begin.

“Well, Mr. Cloade,” said Poirot helpfully, “and what can I do for you?”

Rowley Cloade was eyeing Poirot rather doubtfully. The flamboyant moustaches, the sartorial elegance, the white spats and the pointed patent-leather shoes all filled this insular young man with distinct misgivings.

Poirot realized this perfectly well, and was somewhat amused.

Rowley Cloade began rather heavily:

“I'm afraid I'll have to explain who I am and all that. You won't know my name—”

Poirot interrupted him:

“But yes, I know your name perfectly. Your aunt, you see, came to see me last week.”

“My aunt?” Rowley's jaw dropped. He stared at Poirot with the utmost astonishment. This so clearly was news to him, that Poirot put aside his first surmise which was that the two visits were connected. For a moment it seemed to him a remarkable coinci
dence that two members of the Cloade family should choose to consult him within such a short period of time, but a second later he realized that there was no coincidence—merely a natural sequence proceeding from one initial cause.

Aloud he said:

“I assume that Mrs. Lionel Cloade
is
your aunt.”

If anything Rowley looked rather more astonished than before.

He said with the utmost incredulity:

“Aunt Kathie? Surely—don't you mean—Mrs.
Jeremy
Cloade?”

Poirot shook his head.

“But what on earth could Aunt Kathie—”

Poirot murmured discreetly:

“She was directed to me, I understand, by spirit guidance.”

“Oh Lord!” said Rowley. He looked relieved and amused. He said, as though reassuring Poirot, “She's quite harmless, you know.”

“I wonder,” said Poirot.

“What do you mean?”

“Is anybody—ever—quite harmless?”

Rowley stared. Poirot sighed.

“You have come to me to ask me something?—Yes?” he prompted gently.

The worried look came back to Rowley's face.

“It's rather a long story, I'm afraid—”

Poirot was afraid of it, too. He had a very shrewd idea that Rowley Cloade was not the sort of person to come to the point quickly. He leaned back and half-closed his eyes as Rowley began:

“My uncle, you see, was Gordon Cloade—”

“I know all about Gordon Cloade,” said Poirot, helpfully.

“Good. Then I needn't explain. He married a few weeks before
his death—a young widow called Underhay. Since his death she has been living at Warmsley Vale—she and a brother of hers. We all understood that her first husband had died of fever in Africa. But now it seems as though that mightn't be so.”

“Ah,” Poirot sat up. “And what has led you to that surmise?”

Rowley described the advent of Mr. Enoch Arden in Warmsley Vale. “Perhaps you have seen in the papers—”

“Yes, I have seen.” Poirot was again helpful.

Rowley went on. He described his first impression of the man Arden, his visit to the Stag, the letter he had received from Beatrice Lippincott and finally the conversation that Beatrice had overheard.

“Of course,” Rowley said, “one can't be sure just what she
did
hear. She may have exaggerated it all a bit—or even got it wrong.”

“Has she told her story to the police?”

Rowley nodded. “I told her she'd better.”

“I don't quite see—pardon me—why you come to
me,
Mr. Cloade? Do you want me to investigate this—murder? For it is murder, I assume.”

“Lord, no,” said Rowley. “I don't want anything of that kind. That's a police job. He was bumped off all right. No, what I'm after is this. I want you to find out who the fellow
was.
”

Poirot's eyes narrowed.

“Who do you think he was, Mr. Cloade?”

“Well, I mean—Enoch Arden isn't a name. Dash it all, it's a quotation. Tennyson. I went and mugged it up. Fellow who comes back and finds out his wife has married another fellow.”

“So you think,” said Poirot quietly, “that Enoch Arden was Robert Underhay himself?”

Rowley said slowly:

“Well, he might have been—I mean, about the right age and appearance and all that. Of course I've gone over it all with Beatrice again and again. She can't naturally remember
exactly
what they both said. The chap said Robert Underhay had come down in the world and was in bad health and needed money. Well, he might have been talking about himself, mightn't he? He seems to have said something about it wouldn't suit David Hunter's book if Underhay turned up in Warmsley Vale—sounding a bit as though he
was
there under an assumed name.”

“What evidence of identification was there at the inquest?”

Rowley shook his head.

“Nothing definite. Only the Stag people saying he was the man who'd come there and registered as Enoch Arden.”

“What about his papers?”

“He hadn't any.”

“What?” Poirot sat up in surprise. “No papers of any kind?”

“Nothing at all. Some spare socks and a shirt and a toothbrush, etc.—but no papers.”

“No passport? No letters? Not even a ration card?”

“Nothing at all.”

“That,” said Poirot, “is very interesting. Yes, very interesting.”

Rowley went on: “David Hunter, that's Rosaleen Cloade's brother, had called to see him the evening after he arrived. His story to the police is that he'd had a letter from the chap saying he had been a friend of Robert Underhay's and was down and out. At his sister's request he went to the Stag and saw the fellow and gave him a fiver. That's
his
story and you bet he means to stick to it! Of course the police are keeping dark about what Beatrice heard.”

“David Hunter says he had no previous acquaintance with the man?”

“That's what he says. Anyway, I gather Hunter never met Underhay.”

“And what about Rosaleen Cloade?”

“The police asked her to look at the body in case she knew the man. She told them that he was a complete stranger to her.”

“
Eh bien,
” said Poirot. “Then that answers your question!”

“Does it?” said Rowley bluntly. “I think not. If the dead man
is
Underhay then Rosaleen was never my uncle's wife and she's not entitled to a penny of his money. Do you think she
would
recognize him under those circumstances?”

“You don't trust her?”

“I don't trust either of them.

“Surely there are plenty of people who could say for certain that the dead man is or is not Underhay?”

“It doesn't seem to be so easy. That's what I want you to do. Find someone who knows Underhay. Apparently he has no living relations in this country—and he was always an unsociable lonely sort of chap. I suppose there must be old servants—friends—
someone
—but the war's broken up everything and shifted people round.
I
wouldn't know how to begin to tackle the job—anyway I haven't the time. I'm a farmer—and I'm shorthanded.”

“Why me?” said Hercule Poirot.

Rowley looked embarrassed.

A faint twinkle came into Poirot's eye.

“Spirit guidance?” he murmured.

“Good Lord, no,” said Rowley horrified. “Matter of fact,” he hesitated, “I heard a fellow I know talk about you—said you were
a wizard at these sort of things. I don't know about your fees—expensive, I expect—we're rather a stony-broke lot, but I dare say we could cough it up amongst the lot of us. That is, if you'll take it on.”

Hercule Poirot said slowly:

“Yes, I think perhaps I can help you.”

His memory, a very precise and definite memory, went back. The club bore, the rustling newspapers, the monotonous voice.

The name—he had heard the name—it would come back to him presently. If not, he could always ask Mellon…No, he had got it. Porter. Major Porter.

Hercule Poirot rose to his feet.

“Will you come back here this afternoon, Mr. Cloade?”

“Well—I don't know. Yes, I suppose I could. But surely you can't do anything in that short time?”

He looked at Poirot with awe and incredulity. Poirot would have been less than human if he could have resisted the temptation to show off. With memories of a brilliant predecessor in his mind, he said solemnly:

“I have my methods, Mr. Cloade.”

It was clearly the right thing to say. Rowley's expression became respectful in the extreme.

“Yes—of course—really—I don't know how you people do these things.”

Poirot did not enlighten him. When Rowley had gone, he sat down and wrote a short note. Giving it to George he instructed him to take it to the Coronation Club and wait for an answer.

The answer was highly satisfactory. Major Porter presented his compliments to M. Hercule Poirot and would be happy to see him
and his friend at 79 Edgeway Street, Campden Hill, that afternoon at five o'clock.

II

At four-thirty Rowley Cloade reappeared.

“Any luck, M. Poirot?”

“But yes, Mr. Cloade, we go now to see an old friend of Captain Robert Underhay's.”

“
What?
” Rowley's mouth fell open. He stared at Poirot with the amazement a small boy shows when a conjurer produces rabbits out of a hat. “But it's
incredible!
I don't understand how you can do these things—why, it's only a few hours.”

Poirot waved a deprecating hand and tried to look modest. He had no intention of revealing the simplicity with which his conjuring trick had been done. His vanity was pleased to impress this simple Rowley.

The two men went out together, and hailing a taxi they drove to Campden Hill.

III

Major Porter had the first floor of a small shabby house. They were admitted by a cheerful blowsy-looking woman who took them up. It was a square room with bookshelves round it and some rather bad sporting prints. There were two rugs on the floor—good rugs with lovely dim colour but very worn. Poirot noticed that the centre of the floor was covered with a new heavy varnish whereas the varnish round the edge was old and rubbed. He realized then that there
had been other better rugs until recently—rugs that were worth good money in these days. He looked up at the man standing erect by the fireplace in his well-cut shabby suit. Poirot guessed that for Major Porter, retired Army officer, life was lived very near the bone. Taxation and increased cost of living struck hardest at the old war-horses. Some things, he guessed, Major Porter would cling to until the end. His club subscription, for instance.

Major Porter was speaking jerkily.

“'Fraid I don't remember meeting you, M. Poirot. At the club, you say? Couple of years ago? Know your
name
of course.”

“This,” said Poirot, “is Mr. Rowland Cloade.”

Major Porter jerked his head in honour of the introduction.

“How d'ye do?” he said. “'Fraid I can't ask you to have a glass of sherry. Matter of fact my wine merchant has lost his stock in the Blitz. Got some gin. Filthy stuff,
I
always think. Or what about some beer?”

They accepted beer. Major Porter produced a cigarette case. “Smoke?” Poirot accepted a cigarette. The Major struck a match and lighted Poirot's cigarette.

“
You
don't, I know,” said the Major to Rowley: “Mind if I light my pipe?” He did so with a good deal of sucking and blowing.

“Now then,” he said when all these preliminaries had been accomplished. “What's all this about?”

He looked from one to the other of them.

Poirot said: “You may have read in the paper of the death of a man at Warmsley Vale?”

Porter shook his head.

“May have. Don't think so.”

“His name was Arden. Enoch Arden?”

Porter still shook his head.

“He was found at the Stag Inn with the back of his head smashed in.”

Porter frowned.

“Let me see—yes, did see something about it, I believe—some days ago.”

“Yes. I have here a photograph—it is a press photograph and not very clear, I'm afraid! What we should like to know, Major Porter, is whether you have ever seen this man before?”