Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [61]
‘Even murder,’ said Hercule Poirot.
Chapter 7
Poirot entered the Stag in a thoughtful mood, and shivering slightly for there was a sharp east wind. The hall was deserted. He pushed open the door of the lounge on the right. It smelt of stale smoke and the fire was nearly out. Poirot tiptoed along to the door at the end of the hall labelled ‘Residents Only’. Here there was a good fire, but in a large arm-chair, comfortably toasting her toes, was a monumental old lady who glared at Poirot with such ferocity that he beat an apologetic retreat.
He stood for a moment in the hall looking from the glass-enclosed empty office to the door labelled in firm old-fashioned style COFFEE-ROOM. By experience of country hotels Poirot knew well that the only time coffee was served there was somewhat grudgingly for breakfast and that even then a good deal of watery hot milk was its principal component. Small cups of a treacly and muddy liquid called Black Coffee were served not in the COFFEE-ROOM but in the Lounge. The Windsor Soup, Vienna Steak and Potatoes, and Steamed Pudding which comprised Dinner would be obtainable in the COFFEE-ROOM at seven sharp. Until then a deep peace brooded over the residential area of the Stag.
Poirot went thoughtfully up the staircase. Instead of turning to the left where his own room, No. 11, was situated, he turned to the right and stopped before the door of No. 5. He looked round him. Silence and emptiness. He opened the door and went in.
The police had done with the room. It had clearly been freshly cleaned and scrubbed. There was no carpet on the floor. Presumably the ‘old-fashioned Axminster’ had gone to the cleaners. The blankets were folded on the bed in a neat pile.
Closing the door behind him, Poirot wandered round the room. It was clean and strangely barren of human interest. Poirot took in its furnishings — a writing-table, a chest of drawers of good old-fashioned mahogany, an upright wardrobe of the same (the one presumably that masked the door into No. 4), a large brass double bed, a basin with hot and cold water — tribute to modernity and the servant shortage — a large but rather uncomfortable arm-chair, two small chairs, an old-fashioned Victorian grate with a poker and a pierced shovel belonging to the same set as the fire-tongs; a heavy marble mantelpiece and a solid marble fire-curb with squared corners.
It was at these last that Poirot bent and looked. Moistening his finger he rubbed it along the right-hand corner and then inspected the result. His finger was slightly black. He repeated the performance with another finger on the left-hand corner of the curb. This time his finger was quite clean.
‘Yes,’ said Poirot thoughtfully to himself. ‘Yes.’
He looked at the fitted washbasin. Then he strolled to the window. It looked out over some leads — the roof of a garage, he fancied, and then to a small back alley. An easy way to come and go unseen from room No. 5. But then it was equally easy to walk upstairs to No. 5 unseen. He had just done it himself.
Quietly, Poirot withdrew, shutting the door noiselessly behind him. He went along to his own room. It was decidedly chilly. He went downstairs again, hesitated, and then, driven by the chill of the evening, boldly entered the Residents Only, drew up a second arm-chair to the fire and sat down.
The monumental old lady was even more formidable seen close at hand. She had iron-grey hair, a flourishing moustache and, when presently she spoke, a deep and awe-inspiring voice.
‘This Lounge,’ she said, ‘is Reserved for Persons staying in the hotel.’
‘I am staying in the hotel,’ replied Hercule Poirot.
The old lady meditated for a moment or two before returning to the attack. Then she said accusingly: