Taken at the Flood (14 page)

“I
was afraid they'd do it,” said the coroner apologetically. “Local prejudice! Feeling rather than logic.”

The coroner, the Chief Constable, Superintendent Spence and Hercule Poirot were all in consultation together after the inquest.

“You did your best,” said the Chief Constable.

“It's premature, to say the least of it,” said Spence frowning. “And it hampers us. Do you know M. Hercule Poirot? He was instrumental in bringing Porter forward.”

The coroner said graciously:

“I have heard of you, M. Poirot,” and Poirot made an unsuccessful attempt to look modest.

“M. Poirot's interested in the case,” said Spence with a grin.

“Truly, that is so,” said Poirot. “I was in it, as you might say, before there
was
a case.”

And in answer to their interested glances he told of the queer
little scene in the club when he had first heard a mention of Robert Underhay's name.

“That's an additional point in Porter's evidence when the case comes to trial,” said the Chief Constable thoughtfully. “Underhay actually
planned
a pretended death—and spoke of using the name of Enoch Arden.”

The Chief Constable murmured: “Ah, but will that be admissible as evidence? Words spoken by a man who is now dead?”

“It may not be admissible as evidence,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “But it raises a very interesting and suggestive line of thought.”

“What
we
want,” said Spence, “is not suggestion, but a few concrete facts. Someone who actually saw David Hunter at the Stag or near it on Tuesday evening.”

“It ought to be easy,” said the Chief Constable, frowning.

“If it was abroad in my country it would be easy enough,” said Poirot. “There would be a little café where someone takes the evening coffee—but in provincial England!” He threw up his hands.

The Superintendent nodded.

“Some of the folks are in the pubs, and will stay in the pubs till closing time, and the rest of the population are inside their houses listening to the nine o'clock news. If you ever go along the main street here between eight thirty and ten it's completely deserted. Not a soul.”

“He counted on that?” suggested the Chief Constable.

“Maybe,” said Spence. His expression was not a happy one.

Presently the Chief Constable and the coroner departed. Spence and Poirot were left together.

“You do not like the case, no?” asked Poirot sympathetically.

“That young man worries me,” said Spence. “He's the kind that you never know where you are with them. When they're most innocent of a business, they act as though they were guilty. And when they're guilty—why, you'd take your oath they were angels of light!”

“
You
think he
is
guilty?” asked Poirot.

“Don't you?” Spence countered.

Poirot spread out his hands.

“I should be interested to know,” he said, “just exactly how much you have against him?”

“You don't mean legally? You mean in the way of probability?”

Poirot nodded.

“There's the lighter,” said Spence.

“Where did you find it?”

“Under the body.”

“Fingerprints on it?”

“None.”

“Ah,” said Poirot.

“Yes,” said Spence. “I don't like that too much myself. Then the dead man's watch has stopped at 9:10. That fits in with the medical evidence quite nicely—and with Rowley Cloade's evidence that Underhay was expecting his client at any minute—presumably that client was almost due.”

Poirot nodded.

“Yes—it is all very neat.”

“And the thing you can't get away from, to my mind, M. Poirot, is that he's the only person (he and his sister, that is to say) who has the ghost or shadow of a motive. Either David Hunter killed Underhay—or else Underhay was killed by some outsider who fol
lowed him here for some reason that we know nothing about—and that seems wildly improbable.”

“Oh, I agree, I agree.”

“You see, there's no one in Warmsley Vale who could possibly have a motive—unless by a coincidence someone is living here (other than the Hunters) who had a connection with Underhay in the past. I never rule out coincidence, but there hasn't been a hint or suggestion of anything of the kind. The man was a stranger to every one but that brother and sister.”

Poirot nodded.

“To the Cloade family Robert Underhay would be the apple of their eye to be kept alive by every possible precaution. Robert Underhay, alive and kicking, means the certainty of a large fortune divided amongst them.”

“Again,
mon ami,
I agree with you enthusiastically. Robert Underhay, alive and kicking, is what the Cloade family needs.”

“So back we come—Rosaleen and David Hunter are the only two people who have a motive. Rosaleen Cloade was in London. But David, we know, was in Warmsley Vale that day. He arrived at 5:30 at Warmsley Heath station.”

“So now we have Motive, written very big and the fact that at 5:30 and onward to some unspecified time, he was on the spot.”

“Exactly. Now take Beatrice Lippincott's story. I believe that story. She overheard what she says she overheard, though she may have gingered it up a little, as is only human.”

“Only human as you say.”

“Apart from knowing the girl, I believe her because she couldn't have invented some of the things. She'd never heard of Robert Un
derhay before, for instance. So I believe her story of what passed between the two men and not David Hunter's.”

“I, too,” said Poirot. “She strikes me as a singularly truthful witness.”

“We've confirmation that her story is true. What do you suppose the brother and sister went off to London for?”

“That is one of the things that has interested me most.”

“Well, the money position's like this. Rosaleen Cloade has only a life interest in Gordon Cloade's estate. She can't touch the capital—except, I believe, for about a thousand pounds. But jewellery, etc., is hers. The first thing she did on going to town was to take some of the most valuable pieces round to Bond Street and sell them. She wanted a large sum of cash quickly—in other words she had to pay a blackmailer.”

“You call that evidence against David Hunter?”

“Don't you?”

Poirot shook his head.

“Evidence that there was blackmail, yes. Evidence of intent to commit murder, no. You cannot have it both ways,
mon cher.
Either that young man was going to pay up, or else he was planning to kill. You have produced evidence that he was planning to
pay.
”

“Yes—yes, perhaps that is so. But he may have changed his mind.”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“I know his type,” said the Superintendent thoughtfully. “It's a type that's done well during the war. Any amount of physical courage. Audacity and a reckless disregard of personal safety. The sort that will face any odds. It's the kind that is likely to win the V.C.—
though, mind you, it's often a posthumous one. Yes, in wartime, a man like that is a hero. But in peace—well, in peace such men usually end up in prison. They like excitement and they can't run straight, and they don't give a damn for society—and finally they've no regard for human life.”

Poirot nodded.

“I tell you,” the Superintendent repeated, “I
know
the type.”

There was some few minutes of silence.

“
Eh bien,
” said Poirot at last. “We agree that we have here the
type
of a killer. But that is all. It takes us no further.”

Spence looked at him with curiosity.

“You're taking a great interest in this business, M. Poirot?”

“Yes.”

“Why, if I may ask?”

“Frankly,” Poirot spread out his hands, “I do not quite know. Perhaps it is because when two years ago, I am sitting very sick in my stomach (for I did not like air raids, and I am not very brave though I endeavour to put up the good appearance) when, as I say, I am sitting with a sick feeling here,” Poirot clasped his stomach expressively, “in the smoking room of my friend's club, there, droning away, is the club bore, the good Major Porter, recounting a long history to which nobody listens; but me, I listen, because I am wishful to distract myself from the bombs, and because the facts he is relating seem to me interesting and suggestive. And I think to myself that it is possible that some day something may come of the situation he recounts. And now something
has
come of it.”

“The unexpected has happened, eh?”

“On the contrary,” Poirot corrected him. “It is the
expected
that has happened—which in itself is sufficiently remarkable.”

“You expected murder?” Spence asked sceptically.

“No, no, no! But a wife remarries. Possibility that first husband is still alive? He
is
alive. He may turn up? He
does
turn up! There may be blackmail. There
is
blackmail! Possibility, therefore, that blackmailer may be silenced?
Ma foi,
he is silenced!”

“Well,” said Spence, eyeing Poirot rather doubtfully. “I suppose these things run pretty close to type. It's a common sort of crime—blackmail resulting in murder.”

“Not interesting, you would say? Usually, no. But this case is interesting, because, you see,” said Poirot placidly, “
it is all wrong.
”

“All wrong? What do you mean by all wrong?”

“None of it is, how shall I put it,
the right shape?
”

Spence stared. “Chief Inspector Japp,” he remarked, “always said you have a tortuous mind. Give me an instance of what you call wrong?”

“Well, the dead man, for instance,
he
is all wrong.”

Spence shook his head.

“You do not feel that?” Poirot asked. “Oh, well, perhaps I am fanciful. Then take this point. Underhay arrives at the Stag. He writes to David Hunter. Hunter receives that letter the next morning—at breakfast time?”

“Yes, that's so. He admits receiving a letter from Arden then.”

“That was the first intimation, was it not, of the arrival of Underhay in Warmsley Vale? What is the first thing he does—
bundles his sister off to London!
”

“That's quite understandable,” said Spence. “He wants a clear hand to deal with things his own way. He may have been afraid the woman would have been weak. He's the leading spirit, remember. Mrs. Cloade is entirely under his thumb.”

“Oh, yes, that shows itself plainly. So he sends her to London and calls on this Enoch Arden. We have a pretty clear account of their conversation from Beatrice Lippincott, and the thing that sticks out, a mile, as you say, is that David Hunter
was not sure whether the man he was talking to was Robert Underhay or not. He suspected
it, but he didn't
know.
”

“But there's nothing odd about that, M. Poirot. Rosaleen Hunter married Underhay in Cape Town and went with him straight to Nigeria. Hunter and Underhay never met. Therefore though, as you say, Hunter
suspected
that Arden was Underhay, he couldn't
know
it for a fact—because he had never met the man.”

Poirot looked at Superintendent Spence thoughtfully.

“So there is nothing there that strikes you as—peculiar?” he asked.

“I know what you're driving at. Why didn't Underhay say straight out that he
was
Underhay? Well, I think that's understandable, too. Respectable people who are doing something crooked like to preserve appearances. They like to put things in such a way that it keeps them in the clear—if you know what I mean. No—I don't think that that is so very remarkable. You've got to allow for human nature.”

“Yes,” said Poirot. “Human nature. That, I think, is perhaps the real answer as to why I am interested in this case. I was looking round the Coroner's Court, looking at all the people, looking particularly at the Cloades—so many of them, all bound by a common interest, all so different in their characters, in their thoughts and feelings. All of them dependent for many years on the strong man, the power in the family, on Gordon Cloade! I do not mean, perhaps, directly dependent. They had all their independent means
of existence. But they had come, they must have come, consciously or unconsciously, to lean on him. And what happens—I will ask you this, Superintendent—
What happens to the ivy when the oak round which it clings is struck down?
”

“That's hardly a question in my line,” said Spence.

“You think not? I think it is. Character,
mon cher,
does not stand still. It can gather strength. It can also deteriorate. What a person really
is,
is only apparent when the test comes—that is, the moment when you stand or fall on your own feet.”

“I don't really know what you are getting at, M. Poirot.” Spence looked bewildered. “Anyway, the Cloades are all right now. Or will be, once the legal formalities are through.”

That, Poirot reminded him, might take some time. “There is still Mrs. Gordon Cloade's evidence to shake. After all, a woman should know her own husband when she sees him?”

He put his head a little on one side and gazed inquiringly at the big Superintendent.

“Isn't it worth while to a woman
not
to recognize her husband if the income of a couple of million pounds depends on it?” asked the Superintendent cynically. “Besides, if he wasn't Robert Underhay, why was he killed?”

“That,” murmured Poirot, “is indeed the question.”