Two Recollections
WHILE I STRUGGLED IN vain to persuade Margaret Ernst to tell me the story of Patrick and Frances Ive before 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 did, as you know, Mr. Poirot, and forward I came. But, like I said the other day, at first I couldn’t put a name to a face. Well, now I can!”
“That is excellent news, Mr. Kidd. It will be more excellent still if you can put that name into the next sentence that you speak, so that I may hear it.”
“That’s where I’ve seen her, you see: her photograph, in the newspaper. That’s why looking at a newspaper made me think of her. She’s a famous lady, sir. Her name’s Nancy Ducane.”
Poirot’s eyes widened. “Nancy Ducane the artist?”
“Yes, sir. She’s the one, and no other. I’d swear to it. Paints portraits, she does. And got a face worth painting of her own, which is probably why I remembered it. I said to meself, ‘Sammy, that was Nancy Ducane you saw running from the Bloxham Hotel on the night of the murders.’ And now I’m here saying it to you.”