Murder in the Mews. Agatha Christie
rel="nofollow" href="#ubbf3d30a-8bc3-527f-a54a-6ddced19ae6c">Chapter 7
‘Penny for the guy, sir?’
A small boy with a grimy face grinned ingratiatingly.
‘Certainly not!’ said Chief Inspector Japp. ‘And, look here, my lad—’
A short homily followed. The dismayed urchin beat a precipitate retreat, remarking briefly and succinctly to his youthful friends:
‘Blimey, if it ain’t a cop all togged up!’
The band took to its heels, chanting the incantation:
Remember, remember
The fifth of November
Gunpowder treason and plot.
We see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
The chief inspector’s companion, a small, elderly man with an egg-shaped head and large, military-looking moustaches, was smiling to himself.
‘Très bien, Japp,’ he observed. ‘You preach the sermon very well! I congratulate you!’
‘Rank excuse for begging, that’s what Guy Fawkes’ Day is!’ said Japp.
‘An interesting survival,’ mused Hercule Poirot. ‘The fireworks go up—crack—crack—long after the man they commemorate and his deed are forgotten.’
The Scotland Yard man agreed.
‘Don’t suppose many of those kids really know who Guy Fawkes was.’
‘And soon, doubtless, there will be confusion of thought. Is it in honour or in execration that on the fifth of November the feu d’artifice are sent up? To blow up an English Parliament, was it a sin or a noble deed?’
Japp chuckled.
‘Some people would say undoubtedly the latter.’
Turning off the main road, the two men passed into the comparative quiet of a mews. They had been dining together and were now taking a short cut to Hercule Poirot’s flat.
As they walked along the sound of squibs was still heard periodically. An occasional shower of golden rain illuminated the sky.
‘Good night for a murder,’ remarked Japp with professional interest. ‘Nobody would hear a shot, for instance, on a night like this.’
‘It has always seemed odd to me that more criminals do not take advantage of the fact,’ said Hercule Poirot.
‘Do you know, Poirot, I almost wish sometimes that you would commit a murder.’
‘Mon cher!’
‘Yes, I’d like to see just how you’d set about it.’
‘My dear Japp, if I committed a murder you would not have the least chance of seeing—how I set about it! You would not even be aware, probably, that a murder had been committed.’
Japp laughed good-humouredly and affectionately.
‘Cocky little devil, aren’t you?’ he said indulgently.
At half-past eleven the following morning, Hercule Poirot’s telephone rang.
‘’Allo? ’Allo?’
‘Hullo, that you, Poirot?’
‘Oui, c’est moi.’
‘Japp speaking here. Remember we came home last night through Bardsley Gardens Mews?’
‘Yes?’
‘And that we talked about how easy it would be to shoot a person with all those squibs and crackers and the rest of it going off?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Well, there was a suicide in that mews. No. 14. A young widow—Mrs Allen. I’m going round there now. Like to come?’
‘Excuse me, but does someone of your eminence, my dear friend, usually get sent to a case of suicide?’
‘Sharp fellow. No—he doesn’t. As a matter of fact our doctor seems to think there’s something funny about this. Will you come? I kind of feel you ought to be in on it.’
‘Certainly I will come. No. 14, you say?’
‘That’s right.’
Poirot arrived at No. 14 Bardsley Gardens Mews almost at the same moment as a car drew up containing Japp and three other men.
No. 14 was clearly marked out as the centre of interest. A big circle of people, chauffeurs, their wives, errand boys, loafers, well-dressed passers-by and innumerable children were drawn up all staring at No. 14 with open mouths and a fascinated stare.
A police constable in uniform stood on the step and did his best to keep back the curious. Alert-looking young men with cameras were busy and surged forward as Japp alighted.
‘Nothing