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“Why didn’t they report to the police?”
“Because, mon cher, supposing that a lady does happen to stay out for a night (however unlikely it may seem from her appearance) she will be justifiably annoyed by finding on her return that the police have been called in. Mrs. Harrison, the manageress in question, called up various hospitals in case there had been an accident. She was considering notifying the police when I called. My appearance seemed to her like an answer to a prayer. I charged myself with everything, and explained that I would enlist the help of a very discreet police officer.”
“The discreet police officer being yours truly, I suppose?”
“You suppose rightly.”
Japp groaned:
“All right. I’ll meet you at the Glengowrie Court Hotel after the inquest.”
V
Japp grumbled as they were waiting for the manageress.
“What does the woman want to disappear for?”
“It is curious, you admit?”
They had no time for more.
Mrs. Harrison, proprietor of the Glengowrie Court, was with them.
Mrs. Harrison was voluble and almost tearful. She was so worried about Miss Sainsbury Seale. What could have happened to her? Rapidly she went over every possibility of disaster. Loss of memory, sudden illness, haemorrhage, run down by an omnibus, robbery and assault—
She paused at last for breath, murmuring:
“Such a nice type of woman—and she seemed so happy and comfortable here.”
She took them, at Japp’s request, up to the chaste bedroom occupied by the missing lady. Everything was neat and orderly. Clothes hung in the wardrobe, nightclothes were folded ready on the bed, in a corner were Miss Sainsbury Seale’s two modest suitcases. A row of shoes stood under the dressing
table—some serviceable Oxfords, two pairs of rather meretricious glacé fancy shoes with court heels and ornament with bows of leather, some plain black satin evening shoes, practically new, and a pair of moccasins. Poirot noted that the evening shoes were a size smaller than the day ones—a fact that might be put down to corns or to vanity. He wondered whether Miss Sainsbury Seale had found time to sew the second buckle on her shoe before she went out. He hoped so. Slovenliness in dress always annoyed him.
Japp was busy looking through some letters in a drawer of the dressing table. Hercule Poirot gingerly pulled open a drawer of the chest of drawers. It was full of underclothing. He shut it again modestly, murmuring that Miss Sainsbury Seale seemed to believe in wearing wool next to the skin, and opened another drawer which contained stockings.
Japp said:
“Got anything, Poirot?”
Poirot said sadly, as he dangled a pair: “Ten inch, cheap shiny silk, price probably two-and-eleven.”
Japp said:
“You’re not valuing for probate, old boy. Two letters here from India, one or two receipts from charitable organizations, no bills. Most estimable character, our Miss Sainsbury Seale.”
“But very little taste in dress,” said Poirot sadly.
“Probably thought dress wordly.” Japp was noting down an address from an old letter dated two months back.
“These people may know something about her,” he said. “Address up Hampstead way. Sound as though they were fairly intimate.”
There was nothing more to be gleaned at the Glengowrie Court Hotel except the negative fact that Miss Sainsbury Seale had not seemed excited or worried in any way when she went out, and it would appear that she had definitely intended to return since on passing her friend Mrs. Bolitho in the hall, she had called out:
“After dinner I will show you that Patience I was telling you about.”
Moreover, it was the custom at the Glengowrie Court to give notice in the dining room if you intended to be out for a meal. Miss Sainsbury Seale had not done so. Therefore it seemed clear that she had intended returning for dinner which was served from seven thirty to eight thirty.
But she had not returned. She had walked out into the Cromwell Road and disappeared.
