Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [29]
But on Superintendent Spence, who knew men, he had not made that impression. Nor on Hercule Poirot…And now here was this girl.
‘What is your name, mademoiselle?’ he asked.
‘Maude Williams. Is there anything I could do—to help?’
‘I think there is. There are people who believe, Miss Williams, that James Bentley is innocent. They are working to prove that fact. I am the person charged with that investigation, and I may tell you that I have already made considerable progress—yes, considerable progress.’
He uttered that lie without a blush. To his mind it was a very necessary lie. Someone, somewhere, had got to be made uneasy. Maude Williams would talk, and talk was like a stone in a pond, it made a ripple that went on spreading outwards.
He said: ‘You tell me that you and James Bentley talked together. He told you about his mother and his home life. Did he ever mention anyone with whom he, or perhaps his mother, was on bad terms?’
Maude Williams reflected.
‘No—not what you’d call bad terms. His mother didn’t like young women much, I gather.’
‘Mothers of devoted sons never like young women. No, I mean more than that. Some family feud, some enmity. Someone with a grudge?’
She shook her head.
‘He never mentioned anything of that kind.’
‘Did he ever speak of his landlady, Mrs McGinty?’
She shivered slightly.
‘Not by name. He said once that she gave him kippers much too often—and once he said his landlady was upset because she had lost her cat.’
‘Did he ever—you must be honest, please—mention that he knew where she kept her money?’
Some of the colour went out of the girl’s face, but she threw up her chin defiantly.
‘Actually, he did. We were talking about people being distrustful of banks—and he said his old landlady kept her spare money under a floorboard. He said: “I could help myself any day to it when she’s out.” Not quite as a joke, he didn’t joke, more as though he were really worried by her carelessness.’
‘Ah,’ said Poirot. ‘That is good. From my point of view, I mean. When James Bentley thinks of stealing, it presents itself to him as an action that is done behind someone’s back. He might have said, you see, “Some day someone will knock her on the head for it.”’
‘But either way, he wouldn’t be meaning it.’
‘Oh no. But talk, however light, however idle, gives away, inevitably, the sort of person you are. The wise criminal would never open his mouth, but criminals are seldom wise and usually vain and they talk a good deal—and so most criminals are caught.’
Maude Williams said abruptly:
‘But someone must have killed the old woman.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Who did? Do you know? Have you any idea?’
‘Yes,’ said Hercule Poirot mendaciously. ‘I think I have a very good idea. But we are only at the beginning of the road.’
The girl glanced at her watch.
‘I must get back. We’re only supposed to take half an hour. One-horse place, Kilchester—I’ve always had jobs in London before. You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do—really do, I mean?’
Poirot took out one of his cards. On it he wrote Long Meadows and the telephone number.
‘That is where I am staying.’
His name, he noted with chagrin, made no particular impression on her. The younger generation, he could not but feel, were singularly lacking in knowledge of notable celebrities.
III
Hercule Poirot caught a bus back to Broadhinny feeling slightly more cheerful. At any rate there was one person who shared his belief in James Bentley’s innocence. Bentley was not so friendless as he had made himself out to be.
His mind went back