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Mrs. Merton said uncertainly:
“I don’t know, I’m sure—what I ought to do! I mean, I don’t exactly want to betray a confidence and of course I never have repeated what Sylvia told me—except just to one or two intimates whom I knew were really safe—”
Mrs. Merton leaned forward and lowered her voice:
“It just—slipped out, as it were, one day. When we were seeing a film—about the Secret Service and Mrs. Chapman said you could see that whoever had written it didn’t know much about their subject, and then it came out—only she swore me to secrecy. Mr. Chapman was in the Secret Service, I mean. That was the real reason he had to go abroad so much. The armament firm was only a blind. And it was terribly worrying for Mrs. Chapman because she couldn’t write to him or get letters from him while he was away. And, of course, it was terribly dangerous!”
IV
As they went down the stairs again to No. 42, Japp ejaculated with feeling: “Shades of Phillips Oppenheim, Valentine Williams and William le Queux, I think I’m going mad!”
That smart young man, Sergeant Beddoes, was waiting for them.
He said respectfully:
“Haven’t been able to get anything helpful from the maid, sir. Mrs. Chapman changed maids pretty often, it seems. This one only worked for her for a month or two. She says Mrs. Chapman was a nice lady, fond of the radio and pleasant spoken. Girl was of the opinion the husband was a gay deceiver but that Mrs. Chapman didn’t suspect it. She got letters from abroad sometimes, some from Germany, two from America, one from Italy and one from Russia. The girl’s young man collects stamps, and Mrs. Chapman used to give them to her off the letters.”
“Anything among Mrs. Chapman’s papers?”
“Absolutely nothing, sir. She didn’t keep much. A few bills and receipted accounts—all local. Some old theatre programmes, one or two cookery recipes cut out of the papers, and a pamphlet about Zenana Missions.”
“And we can guess who brought that here. She doesn’t sound like a murderess, does she? And yet that’s what it seems to be. She’s bound to be an accomplice anyway. No strange men seen about that evening?”
“The porter doesn’t remember any—but then I don’t suppose he would by now, and anyway it’s a big block of flats—people always going in and out. He can only fix the date of Miss Sainsbury Seale’s visit because he was taken off to the hospital the next day and was actually feeling rather bad that evening.”
“Anybody in the other flats hear anything out of the way?”
The younger man shook his head.
“I’ve inquired at the flat above this and the one below. Nobody can remember hearing anything unusual. Both of them had their radios on, I gather.”
The divisional surgeon came out of the bathroom where he had been washing his hands.
“Most unsavoury corpse,” he said cheerfully. “Send her along when you’re ready and I’ll get down to brass tacks.”
“No idea of the cause of death, doctor?”
“Impossible to say until I’ve done the autopsy. Those face injuries were definitely inflicted after death, I should say. But I shall know better when I’ve got her at the mortuary. Middle-aged woman, quite healthy—grey hair at the roots but tinted blonde. There may be distinguishing marks on the body—if there isn’t, it may be a job to identify her—oh, you know who she is, splendid? What? Missing woman there’s been all the fuss about? Well, you know, I never read the papers. Just do the crosswords.”
Japp said bitterly:
“And that’s publicity for you!” as the doctor went out.
Poirot was hovering over the desk. He picked up a small brown address book.
The indefatigable Beddoes said:
“Nothing of special interest there—most hairdressers, dressmakers, etc. I’ve noted down any private names and addresses.”
Poirot opened the book at the letter D.
He read:
Dr. Davis, 17, Prince Albert Road,
Drake and Pomponetti, Fishmongers.
And below it:
