Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [89]
‘Now let us go back to the three women who received telephone messages. Mrs Carpenter got the message but says she did not go to Laburnums that night. Mrs Rendell meant to go, but fell asleep in her chair. Miss Henderson did go to Laburnums but the house was dark and she could not make anyone hear and she came away again.
‘That is the story these three woman tell—but there is conflicting evidence. There is that second coffee cup with lipstick on it, and an outside witness, the girl Edna, states positively that she saw a fair-haired woman go in to the house. There is also the evidence of scent—an expensive and exotic scent which Mrs Carpenter uses alone of those concerned.’
There was an interruption. Eve Carpenter cried out:
‘It’s a lie. It’s a wicked cruel lie. It wasn’t me! I never went there! I never went near the place. Guy, can’t you do something about these lies?’
Guy Carpenter was white with anger.
‘Let me inform you, M. Poirot, that there is a law of slander and all these people present are witnesses.’
‘Is it slander to say that your wife uses a certain scent—and also, let me tell you, a certain lipstick?’
‘It’s ridiculous,’ cried Eve. ‘Absolutely ridiculous! Anyone could go splashing my scent about.’
Unexpectedly Poirot beamed on her.
‘Mais oui, exactly! Anyone could. An obvious, not very subtle thing to do. Clumsy and crude. So clumsy that, as far as I was concerned, it defeated its object. It did more. It gave me, as the phrase goes, ideas. Yes, it gave me ideas.
‘Scent—and traces of lipstick on a cup. But it is so easy to remove lipstick from a cup—I assure you every trace can be wiped off quite easily. Or the cups themselves could be removed and washed. Why not? There was no one in the house. But that was not done. I asked myself why? And the answer seemed to be a deliberate stress on femininity, an underlining of the fact that it was a woman’s murder. I reflected on the telephone calls to those three women—all of them had been messages. In no case had the recipient herself spoken to Mrs Upward. So perhaps it was not Mrs Upward who had telephoned. It was someone who was anxious to involve a woman—any woman—in the crime. Again I asked why? And there can only be one answer—that it was not a woman who killed Mrs Upward—but a man.’
He looked round on his audience. They were all very still. Only two people responded.
Eve Carpenter said with a sigh: ‘Now you’re talking sense!’
Mrs Oliver, nodding her head vigorously, said: ‘Of course.’
‘So I have arrived at this point—a man killed Mrs Upward and a man killed Mrs McGinty! What man? The reason for the murder must still be the same—it all hinges on a photograph. In whose possession was that photograph? That is the first question. And why was it kept?’
‘Well, that is perhaps not so difficult. Say that it was kept originally for sentimental reasons. Once Mrs McGinty is—removed, the photograph need not be destroyed. But after the second murder, it is different. This time the photograph has definitely been connected with the murder. The photograph is now a dangerous thing to keep. Therefore you will all agree, it is sure to be destroyed.’
He looked round at the heads that nodded agreement.
‘But, for all that, the photograph was not destroyed! No, it was not destroyed! I know that—because I found it. I found it a few days ago. I found it in this house. In the drawer of the bureau that you see standing against the wall. I have it here.’
He held out the faded photograph of a simpering girl with roses.
‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘It is Eva Kane. And on the back of it are written two words in pencil. Shall I tell you what they are? “My mother”…’
His eyes, grave and accusing, rested on Maureen Summerhayes. She pushed back the hair from her face and stared at him with wide bewildered eyes.
‘I don’t understand.