The Mystery of Three Quarters: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery. Agatha Christie
way back to Scotland Yard and discovered that Poirot had been there, asking for me, and even waited a short while, but was now gone. There was no sign of Superintendent Bewes either, so I could not ask him how I ought to proceed. I tried Pleasant’s Coffee House, but Poirot was not there either. In the end, exasperated, I decided to visit Rowland McCrodden’s offices alone. I reasoned that he would prefer to know as soon as possible that his son did not stand accused of murder by Hercule Poirot; the word of a Scotland Yard inspector ought to be enough even for Rowland Rope.
Donaldson & McCrodden Solicitors occupied the top two floors of a tall stucco-fronted terrace on Henrietta Street, next to the Covent Garden Hotel. I was greeted by a smiling young woman with a pink face and dark brown hair cut into a short and severely geometrical style. She wore a white blouse and checked skirt that brought to mind a picnic blanket.
She introduced herself as Miss Mason before asking me a series of questions that prevented me from stating the nature of my business as easily as I might have if I had simply been asked ‘How may I help you?’ Instead, an absurd amount of time was wasted by her ‘And if I might enquire as to your name, sir?’, ‘And if I might ask to whom you wish to speak, sir?’, ‘And might I enquire as to whether you have an appointment, sir?’, ‘And are you able to divulge the purpose of your visit?’ Her method of enquiry ensured that I was only able to utter two words at a time, and all the while she stared with undisguised prurience at the envelope in my hand, which was the letter sent by somebody to John McCrodden, accusing him of murder.
By the time Miss Mason led me along a narrow corridor lined on both sides with leather-bound books about the law, I was tempted to run in the opposite direction rather than follow her anywhere. I noticed—no one could fail to—that she did not so much walk as forward-bounce, on two of the tiniest feet I have ever observed.
We reached a black-painted door with the name ‘Rowland McCrodden’ painted on it in white. Miss Mason knocked and a deep voice said, ‘Come!’ We entered, and were met by a man with curly grey hair, a vast expanse of forehead that seemed to occupy an unreasonable amount of his face, and small beady black eyes that were closer to his chin than eyes should be.
Since McCrodden had agreed to see me, I was expecting to be able to commence our conversation at once, but I had not accounted for Miss Mason’s capability to hinder progress. There ensued a frustrating attempt to persuade McCrodden to allow her to enter my name in his appointments diary. ‘What would be the point of that?’ asked McCrodden with obvious impatience. He had a thin, reedy voice that brought to mind a woodwind instrument. ‘Inspector Catchpool is already here.’
‘But, sir, the rule is that no one can be admitted without an appointment.’
‘Inspector Catchpool has already been admitted, Miss Mason. There he is—you admitted him!’
‘Sir, if you’re meeting Inspector Catchpool, shouldn’t I make an appointment for, well, now, and record it in—?’
‘No,’ Rowland McCrodden cut her off mid-question. ‘Thank you, Miss Mason, that will be all. Please be seated, Inspector—’ He broke off, blinked several times, then said, ‘What is it, Miss Mason?’
‘I was only going to ask, sir, if Inspector Catchpool might wish to partake of some tea. Or coffee. Or perhaps a glass of water? Or if, indeed, you might wish to—’
‘Not for me,’ said McCrodden. ‘Inspector?’
I could not immediately produce an answer. A cup of tea was exactly what I wanted, but it would necessitate the return of Miss Mason.
‘Why don’t you have a little think, Inspector Catchpool, and I’ll come back in a few moments and—’
‘I’m sure the inspector can make up his mind,’ said McCrodden briskly.
‘Nothing for me, thank you,’ I said with a smile.
Finally, mercifully, Miss Mason withdrew. I was determined to waste no more time, so I pulled the letter out of the envelope, laid it on McCrodden’s desk and told him that there was no question of it having come from Hercule Poirot. McCrodden asked how I could be sure of this, and I explained that both the tone and the message left me in no doubt.
‘So, if Poirot did not write the letter, who did?’ asked McCrodden.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘Does Poirot know?’
‘I have not yet had the chance to speak to him.’
‘And why did they pretend to be Hercule Poirot?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then your general bearing, if I may say so, is erroneous.’
‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean,’ I confessed.
‘You said you were here to clear something up, and your manner suggests that you now believe it to be cleared up: Hercule Poirot has not accused my son of murder, therefore I have nothing to worry about. Is that your opinion?’
‘Well …’ I cast about for the correct answer. ‘I can see that it’s an upsetting thing to happen, but if the accusation was some sort of prank, then I wouldn’t concern myself unduly, if I were you.’
‘I disagree. I am, if anything, more disturbed now.’ McCrodden stood up and walked over to the window. He looked down at the street below for a moment before moving two steps to the right and staring at the wall. ‘When I thought it was Poirot, I was confident of a proper resolution. He would eventually admit his error, I thought. I have heard that he is proud, but also honourable and, most importantly of all, amenable to reason. He treats character as if it were a concrete fact, I’m told. Is this true?’
‘He certainly believes knowledge of character is essential to the solving of crime,’ I said. ‘Without knowing the motive, you can’t solve anything, and without understanding character, motive is unknowable. I have also heard him say that no man can act in a way that is contrary to his own nature.’
‘Then I would have been able to convince him that John could never commit a murder—to do so would be at odds with his principles. The idea is laughable. Now, however, I learn that Hercule Poirot is not the one I need to convince, for he did not write the letter. Furthermore, I am able to draw the inescapable conclusion that the letter’s true author is a liar and a fraudster. That sort of person might stop at nothing in his quest to destroy my son.’
McCrodden returned quickly to his chair as if the wall at which he had been staring had silently instructed him to do so. ‘I must know who wrote and sent the letter,’ he said. ‘It is imperative, if I’m to ensure John’s safety. I should like to engage the services of Hercule Poirot. Do you think he would agree to investigate for me?’
‘He might, but … it’s not at all certain that the letter-writer believes what he claims to believe. What if it’s no more than a horribly misjudged joke? This might be the end of it. If your son receives no further communi-cations—’
‘You are naïve in the extreme if you think that,’ said McCrodden. He picked up the letter and threw it at me. It landed on the floor at my feet. ‘When someone sends something like that, they mean you harm. You ignore them at your peril.’
‘My superintendent tells me the death of Barnabas Pandy was an accident,’ I said. ‘He drowned while taking a bath.’
‘That is the story, yes. Officially, there is no suspicion that the death was a murder.’
‘You sound as if you think it could have been,’ I said.
‘Once the possibility is raised, one has a duty to consider it,’ said McCrodden.
‘But the likelihood is that Pandy was not murdered, and you say your son could never commit a murder, so …’
‘I see,’ said McCrodden. ‘You think I am guilty of wilful paternal blindness? No, it’s not that. No one knows John better than I do. He has many faults, but