The Monogram Murders(10)
“Hardly ‘half the morning,’ Poirot,” I said, for he was prone to exaggeration.
“Mademoiselle Fee also was not there. The other waitresses, they were able to tell me nothing.”
“Bad luck,” I said, unsurprised by the news. I hadn’t for a moment imagined that Jennie might revisit the coffee house, and I felt guilty. I should perhaps have tried harder to make Poirot see sense: she had run away from him and from Pleasant’s, having declared that confiding in him had been a mistake. Why on earth would she return the following day and allow him to take charge of protecting her?
“So!” Poirot looked at me expectantly. “What do you have to tell me?”
“I too am here to provide the information you need,” said Lazzari, beaming. “Luca Lazzari, at your disposal. Have you visited the Bloxham Hotel before, Monsieur Poirot?”
“Non.”
“Is it not superb? Like a palace of the belle époque, no? Majestic! I hope you notice and admire the artistic masterpieces that are all around us!”
“Oui. It is superior to the lodging house of Mrs. Blanche Unsworth, though that house has the better view from the window,” Poirot said briskly. His glum spirits had certainly dug themselves in.
“Ah, the views from my charming hotel!” Lazzari clasped his hands together in delight. “From the rooms facing the hotel gardens there are sights of great beauty, and on the other side there is splendid London—another exquisite scene! Later I will show you.”
“I would prefer to be shown the three rooms in which murders have taken place,” Poirot told him.
That put a momentary crimp in Lazzari’s smile. “Monsieur Poirot, you may rest assured that this terrible crime—three murders on one night, it is scarcely credible to me!—that this will never happen again at the world-renowned Bloxham Hotel.”
Poirot and I exchanged a look. The point was not so much preventing it from happening again but dealing with the fact that it had happened on this occasion.
I decided I had better take the reins and not allow Lazzari the chance to say too much more. Poirot’s mustache was already twitching with suppressed rage.
“The victims’ names are Mrs. Harriet Sippel, Miss Ida Gransbury and Mr. Richard Negus,” I told Poirot. “All three were guests in the hotel and each one was the sole occupant of his or her room.”
“Each one? His or her room, you say?” Poirot smiled at his little joke. I attributed the rapid improvement in his spirits to the fact that Lazzari had fallen silent. “I do not mean to interrupt you, Catchpool. Continue.”
“All three victims arrived here at the hotel on Wednesday, the day before they were murdered.”
“Did they arrive together?”
“No.”
“Most definitely not,” said Lazzari. “They arrived separately, one by one. They checked in one by one.”
“And they were murdered one by one,” said Poirot, which happened to be exactly what I was thinking. “You are certain of this?” he asked Lazzari.
“I could not be more so. I have the word of my clerk, Mr. John Goode, the most dependable man of my entire acquaintance. You will meet him. We have only the most impeccable persons working here at the Bloxham Hotel, Monsieur Poirot, and when my clerk tells me a thing is so, I know that it is so. From across the country and across the world, people come to ask if they can work at the Bloxham Hotel. I say yes only to the best.”
It’s funny but I didn’t realize how well I had come to know Poirot until that moment—until I saw that Lazzari did not know how to manage him at all. If he had written “Suspect This Man of Murder” on a large sign and hung it around Mr. John Goode’s neck, he could not have done a better job of inciting Poirot to distrust the fellow. Hercule Poirot will not allow anyone else to dictate to him what his opinion should be; he will, rather, determine to believe the opposite, contrary old cove that he is.
“So,” he said now, “it is a remarkable coincidence, is it not? Our three murder victims—Mrs. Harriet Sippel, Miss Ida Gransbury and Mr. Richard Negus—they arrive separately and appear to have nothing to do with one another. And yet all three share not merely the date of their deaths, which was yesterday, but also their date of arrival at the Bloxham Hotel: Wednesday.”
“What’s remarkable about it?” I asked. “Plenty of other guests must also have arrived on Wednesday in a hotel of this size. I mean, ones that have not been murdered.”
Poirot’s eyes looked as if they were about to burst forth from his head. I couldn’t see that I had said anything particularly shocking, so I pretended not to notice his consternation, and continued to tell him the facts of the case.
“Each of the victims was found inside his or her locked bedroom,” I said, feeling rather self-conscious about the “his or her” part. “The killer locked all three doors and made off with the keys—”
“Attendez,” Poirot interrupted. “You mean that the keys are missing. You cannot know that the murderer took them or has them now.”
I took a deep breath. “We suspect that the killer took the keys away with him. We’ve done a thorough search, and they are certainly not inside the rooms, nor anywhere else in the hotel.”
“My excellent staff have checked and confirmed that this is true,” said Lazzari.