The Monogram Murders (26 page)

isn’t signed or dated, so I don’t think much of the

artist, whoever he is—an amateur—but . . . it’s my

father smiling, and that’s why it’s up on the wall. If he

had smiled more in real life . . .” Nancy broke off and

turned to face Poirot. “You see?” she said. “St. John

Wallace is wrong! It is the job of art to replace

unhappy true stories with happier inventions.”

There was a loud knock at the door, followed by

the reappearance of Constable Stanley Beer. Poirot

knew what was coming from the way that Beer looked

only at him and avoided Nancy’s eye. “I’ve found

something, sir.”

“What is it?”

“Two keys. They were in a coat pocket, a dark

blue coat with fur cuffs. The maid tells me it belongs

to Mrs. Ducane.”

“Which two keys?” asked Nancy. “Let me see

them. I don’t keep keys in coat pockets, ever. I have a

drawer for them.”

Beer still didn’t look at her. Instead, he

approached Poirot’s chair. When he was standing

beside him, he opened his closed fist.

“What has he got there?” said Nancy impatiently.

“Two keys with room numbers engraved upon

them, belonging to the Bloxham Hotel,” said Poirot in

a solemn voice. “Room 121 and Room 317.”

“Should those numbers mean something to me?”

Nancy asked.

“Two of the three murders were committed in

those rooms, madame: 121 and 317. The witness who

saw you run from the Bloxham Hotel on the night of

the murders, he said that the two keys he saw you

drop had numbers on them: one hundred and

something, and three hundred and something.”

“Why, what an
extraordinary
coincidence! Oh,

Monsieur Poirot!” Nancy laughed. “Are you
sure

you’re clever? Can’t you see what’s in front of your

nose? Does that enormous mustache of yours impede

your view? Someone has taken it upon himself to

frame me for murder. It’s almost intriguing! I might

have some fun trying to work out who it is—as soon

as we’ve agreed I’m not on my way to the gallows.”

“Who has had the opportunity to put keys into your

coat pocket between last Thursday and now?” Poirot

asked her.

“How should I know? Anyone who passed me in

the street, I dare say. I wear that blue coat a lot. You

know, it’s ever so slightly irrational.”

“Please explain.”

For a few moments she appeared lost in a reverie.

Then she came to and said, “Anyone who disliked

Harriet, Ida and Richard enough to kill them . . . well,

they would almost certainly be favorably disposed

toward me. And yet here they are trying to frame me

for murder.”

“Shall I arrest her, sir?” Stanley Beer asked

Poirot. “Take her in?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” said Nancy wearily. “I

say ‘frame me for murder’ and you immediately

assume you must do it? Are you a policeman or a

parrot? If you want to arrest somebody, arrest your

witness. What if he’s not only a liar but a murderer?

Have you thought of that? You must go across the road

at once and hear the truth from St. John and Louisa

Wallace. That’s the only way to put a stop to this

nonsense.”

Poirot lifted himself out of his chair with some

difficulty; it was one of those armchairs that didn’t

make it easy for a person of his size and shape. “We

will do that
précisément,
” he said. Then, to Stanley

Beer, “No one is to be arrested at the present time,

Constable. I do not believe, madame, that you would

keep these two keys if you had indeed committed

murder in rooms 121 and 317 of the Bloxham Hotel.

Why would you not dispose of them?”

“Quite. I would have disposed of them at the first

opportunity, wouldn’t I?”

“I shall call upon Mr. and Mrs. Wallace

immediately.”

“Actually,” said Nancy, “it’s Lord and Lady

Wallace you’ll be calling on. Louisa wouldn’t care,

but St. John won’t forgive you if you deprive him of

his title.”

NOT LONG AFTERWARD, POIROT was standing by the

side of Louisa Wallace as she stared, enraptured, at

Nancy Ducane’s portrait of her that hung on the wall

of her drawing room. “Isn’t it perfect?” she breathed.

“Neither flattering nor insulting. With high color and a

round face like mine, there is always a danger I shall

end up looking like a farmer’s wife, but I don’t. I

don’t look ravishing, but I do look quite nice, I think.

St. John used the word ‘voluptuous,’ a word he has

never used about me before
—
but the picture made

him think of it.” She laughed. “Isn’t it wonderful that

there are people in the world as talented as Nancy?”

Poirot was having trouble concentrating on the

painting. Louisa Wallace’s equivalent of Nancy

Ducane’s smartly starched maid Tabitha was a clumsy

girl named Dorcas who had dropped Poirot’s coat

twice so far, and once dropped and stood on his hat.

The Wallace home might have been beautiful under

a different regime, but as Poirot found it that day, it

left a lot to be desired. Apart from the heavier items

of furniture that stood sensibly against walls,

everything in the house looked as if it had been blown

about by a strong wind before falling in a random and

inconvenient place. Poirot couldn’t abide disorder; it

prevented him from thinking clearly.

Eventually, having scooped up his coat and

trodden-on hat, the maid Dorcas withdrew, and Poirot

was left alone with Louisa Wallace. Stanley Beer had

stayed at Nancy Ducane’s house to complete his

search of the rooms, and His Lordship was not at

home; he had apparently set off for the family’s

country estate that morning. Poirot had spotted a few

“dreary old leaves and chilly-eyed cods and

haddocks” on the walls, as Nancy had called them,

and he wondered if those pictures were the work of

St. John Wallace.

“I’m so sorry about Dorcas,” Louisa said. “She’s

very new and quite the most hopeless girl ever to

inflict herself upon us, but I won’t admit defeat. It has

only been three days. She will learn, with time and

patience. If only she wouldn’t worry so! I know that’s

what it is: she tells herself that she absolutely mustn’t

drop the important gentleman’s hat and coat, and that

puts the idea of dropping them into her mind, and then

it happens. It’s maddening!”

“Quite so,” Poirot agreed. “Lady Wallace, about

last Thursday . . .”

“Oh, yes, that’s where we’d got to—and then I

brought you in here to show you the portrait. Yes,

Nancy was here that evening.”

“From what time and until what time, madame?”

“I can’t recall precisely. I know we agreed that she

would come at six to bring the painting, and I don’t

remember noticing that she was late at all. I’m afraid I

don’t remember when she left. If I had to guess, I

would say ten o’clock or shortly thereafter.”

“And she was here that whole time—that is to say,

until she left? She did not, for instance, leave and then

return?”

“No.” Louisa Wallace looked puzzled. “She came

at six with the picture, and then we were together until

she left for good. What is this about?”

“Can you confirm that Mrs. Ducane left here no

earlier than half past eight?”

“Oh, gracious, yes. She left much later than that. At

half past eight we were still at the table.”

“Who is ‘we?’ ”

“Nancy, St. John and me.”

“Your husband, if I were to speak to him, would

confirm this?”

“Yes. I hope you’re not suggesting that I’m not

telling you the truth, Monsieur Poirot.”

“No, no.
Pas du tout.
”

“Good,” said Louisa Wallace decisively. She

turned back to the picture of herself on the wall.

“Color’s her special talent, you know. Oh, she can

capture personality in a face, but her greatest strength

is her use of color. Look at the way the light falls on

my green dress.”

Poirot saw what she meant. The green seemed

brighter one moment, then darker the next. There was

not one consistent shade. The light seemed to change

as one regarded the picture; such was Nancy

Ducane’s skill. The portrait depicted Louisa Wallace

sitting in a chair, wearing a green low-necked dress,

with a blue jug and bowl set behind her on a wooden

table. Poirot walked up and down the room,

inspecting the picture from different angles and

positions.

“I wanted to pay Nancy her usual rate for a

portrait, but she wouldn’t hear of it,” said Louisa

Wallace. “I’m so lucky to have such a generous

friend. You know, I think my husband is a little

jealous of it—the painting, I mean. The whole house

is full of his pictures—we’ve barely a free wall left.

Only
his pictures, until this one arrived. He and

Nancy have this silly rivalry between them. I take no

notice. They’re both brilliant in their different ways.”

So Nancy Ducane had given the painting to Louisa

Wallace as a gift, thought Poirot. Did she really want

nothing in return, or did she perhaps hope for an

alibi? Some loyal friends would be unable to resist if

asked to tell one small, harmless lie after being given

such a lavish present. Poirot wondered if he ought to

tell Louisa Wallace that he was here in connection

with a murder case. He had not yet done so.

He was distracted from his train of thought by the

sudden appearance of Dorcas the maid, who bounded

into the room with an air of urgency and anxiety.

“Excuse me, sir!”

“What is the matter?” Poirot half expected her to

say that she had accidentally set fire to his hat and

coat.

“Would you like a cup of tea or coffee, sir?”

“This is what you have come to ask me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There is nothing else? Nothing has happened?”

“No, sir.” Dorcas sounded confused.

“
Bon.
In that case, yes, please, I will take a coffee.

Thank you.”

“Right you are, sir.”

“Did you see that?” Louisa Wallace grumbled as

the girl lolloped out of the room. “Can you credit it? I

thought she was about to announce that she had to

leave at once for her mother’s deathbed! She really is

the limit. I should dismiss her without further ado, but

even help that’s no help at all is better than none. It’s

impossible to find decent girls these days.”

Poirot made appropriate noises of concern. He did

not wish to discuss domestic servants. He was far

more interested in his own ideas, especially the one

that had struck him while Louisa Wallace had been

complaining about Dorcas and he had been staring at

a blue painted jug and bowl set.

“Madame, if I might take a little more of your time

. . . these other pictures here on the walls, they are by

your husband?”

“Yes.”

“As you say, he too is an excellent artist. I would

be honored, madame, if you would show me around

your beautiful house. I would very much like to look

at your husband’s paintings. You said they are on

every wall?”

“Yes. I’ll happily give you the St. John Wallace art

tour, and you will see that I wasn’t exaggerating.”

Louisa beamed and clapped her hands together. “What

fun! Though I do wish St. John were here—he would

be able to tell you so much more about the pictures

than I can. Still, I shall do my best. You would be

amazed, Monsieur Poirot, by the number of people

who come to the house and don’t look at the paintings

or ask about them or anything. Dorcas is a case in

point. There could be five hundred framed dishcloths

hanging on the walls and she wouldn’t notice the

difference. Let’s start in the hall, shall we?”

It was lucky, thought Poirot as he made the tour of

the house and had many species of spider, plant and

fish pointed out to him, that he was an appreciator of

art. As far as the rivalry between St. John Wallace

and Nancy Ducane went, he knew what he thought

about that. Wallace’s pictures were meticulous and

worthy, but they made one feel nothing. Nancy

Ducane’s was the greater talent. She had encapsulated

the essence of Louisa Wallace and made her live on