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He had come, he explained, to return M. Hercule Poirot’s visit.
Poirot professed himself delighted to see Mr. Barnes.
George was instructed to bring some coffee unless his visitor preferred tea or whisky and soda?
“Coffee will be admirable,” said Mr. Barnes. “I imagine that your manservant prepares it well. Most English servants do not.”
Presently, after a few interchanges of polite remarks, Mr. Barnes gave a little cough and said:
“I will be frank with you, M. Poirot. It was sheer curiosity that brought me here. You, I imagined, would be well posted in all the details of this rather curious case. I see by the papers that the missing Miss Sainsbury Seale has been found. That an inquest was held and adjourned for further evidence. Cause of death was stated to have been an overdose of medinal.”
“That is quite correct,” said Poirot.
There was a pause and then Poirot asked:
“Have you ever heard of Albert Chapman, Mr. Barnes?”
“Ah, the husband of the lady in whose flat Miss Sainsbury Seale came to die? Rather an elusive person, it would seem.”
“But hardly nonexistent?”
“Oh no,” said Mr. Barnes. “He exists. Oh yes, he exists—or did exist. I had heard he was dead. But you can’t trust these rumours.”
“Who was he, Mr. Barnes?”
“I don’t suppose they’ll say at the inquest. Not if they can help it. They’ll trot out the armaments firm traveller story.”
“He was in the Secret Service then?”
“Of course he was. But he had no business to tell his wife so—no business at all. In fact he ought not to have continued in the Service after his marriage. It isn’t usually done—not, that is, when you’re one of the really hush-hush people.”
“And Albert Chapman was?”
“Yes. Q.X.912. That’s what he was known as. Using a name is most irregular. Oh, I don’t mean that Q.X.912 was specially important—or anything of that kind. But he was useful because he was an insignificant kind of chap—the kind whose face isn’t easily remembered. He was used a lot as a messenger up and down Europe. You know the sort of thing. One dignified letter sent via our Ambassador in Ruritania—one unofficial ditto containing the dirt per Q.X.912—that is to say: Mr. Albert Chapman.”
“Then he knew a lot of useful information?”
“Probably didn’t know a thing,” said Mr. Barnes cheerfully. “His job was just hopping in and out of trains and boats and aero-planes and having the right story to explain why he was going where he was going!”
“And you heard he was dead?”
“That’s what I heard,” said Mr. Barnes. “But you can’t believe all you hear. I never do.”
Looking at Mr. Barnes intently, Poirot asked:
“What do you think has happened to his wife?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Mr. Barnes. He looked, wide-eyed at Poirot. “Can you?”
Poirot said:
“I had an idea—” He stopped.
He said slowly:
“It is very confusing.”
Mr. Barnes murmured sympathetically: “Anything worrying you in particular?”
