him to drop his
poison into—drinks that were delivered by hotel staff
at precisely a quarter past seven? He stands beside
his victim, watching as the drink is consumed, and
then he stands for a little longer as he waits for each
one to die? And he stops to eat supper with one of
them, Ida Gransbury, who has ordered a cup of tea for
him too? All these visits to rooms, all these murders
and putting of cufflinks in mouths and very formal
arranging of bodies in straight lines, with feet pointing
toward the door, he is able to do between a quarter
past seven and ten past eight? This seems most
unlikely, my friend. Most unlikely indeed.”
“Yes, it does. Have you got any better ideas,
Poirot? That’s why you’re here—to have better ideas
than mine. Do please start any time you wish.” I was
regretting my outburst by the time I’d finished the
sentence.
“I started long ago,” said Poirot, who thankfully
had not taken umbrage. “You said that the killer left a
note on the front desk, informing of his crimes—show
it to me.”
I took it out of my pocket and passed it across to
him. John Goode, Lazzari’s idea of perfection in the
form of a hotel clerk, had found it on the front desk ten
minutes after eight o’clock. It read, “MAY THEY
NEVER REST IN PEACE. 121. 238. 317.”
“So the murderer, or an accomplice of the
murderer, was brazen enough to approach the desk—
the main desk in the lobby of the hotel—with a note
that would incriminate him if anyone saw him leaving
it,” said Poirot. “He is audacious. Confident. He did
not disappear into the shadows, using the back door.”
“After Lazzari read the note, he checked the three
rooms and found the bodies,” I said. “Then he
checked all the other rooms in the hotel, he was very
proud to tell me. Fortunately, no other dead guests
were found.”
I knew I oughtn’t to say vulgar things, but it made
me feel better somehow. If Poirot had been English, I
probably would have made a greater effort to keep
myself in check.
“And did it occur to Monsieur Lazzari that one of
his still-living guests might be a murderer? Non. It did
not. Any person who chooses to stay at the Bloxham
Hotel must have a character of the utmost virtue and
integrity!”
I coughed and inclined my head toward the door.
Poirot turned. Lazzari had let himself into the room
and was standing in the doorway. He could hardly
have looked happier. “So true, so true, Monsieur
Poirot,” he said.
“Every single person who was in this hotel on
Thursday must speak to Mr. Catchpool and account
for their movements,” Poirot told him sternly. “Every
guest, everyone who was here to work. All of them.”
“With the greatest pleasure, you may speak to
whomsoever you wish, Mr. Catchpool.” Lazzari
bowed in deference. “And our dining room will soon
be at your disposal, once we have cleared away the
breakfast—ah, how do you say?— paraphernalia, and
gathered everybody together.”
“ Merci. Meanwhile, I will conduct a thorough
examination of the three rooms,” said Poirot. This
came as a surprise to me. I thought that was what we
had just done. “Catchpool, find out the addresses of
Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus.
Find out who in the hotel took their reservations, what
food and drinks they each requested to be delivered to
their rooms, and when. And from whom.”
I started to edge toward the door, fearing that
Poirot would never stop dreaming up more tasks to
add to the list.
He called after me, “Find out if anyone by the
name of Jennie is staying in the hotel, or working
here.”
“There is not a Jennie employed at the Bloxham,
Monsieur Poirot,” said Lazzari. “Instead of asking
Mr. Catchpool you should ask me. Everybody here is
well known to me. We are a very large happy family
here at the Bloxham Hotel!”
The Frame Widens
SOMETIMES, REMEMBERING SOMETHING A person said
months or even
poison into—drinks that were delivered by hotel staff
at precisely a quarter past seven? He stands beside
his victim, watching as the drink is consumed, and
then he stands for a little longer as he waits for each
one to die? And he stops to eat supper with one of
them, Ida Gransbury, who has ordered a cup of tea for
him too? All these visits to rooms, all these murders
and putting of cufflinks in mouths and very formal
arranging of bodies in straight lines, with feet pointing
toward the door, he is able to do between a quarter
past seven and ten past eight? This seems most
unlikely, my friend. Most unlikely indeed.”
“Yes, it does. Have you got any better ideas,
Poirot? That’s why you’re here—to have better ideas
than mine. Do please start any time you wish.” I was
regretting my outburst by the time I’d finished the
sentence.
“I started long ago,” said Poirot, who thankfully
had not taken umbrage. “You said that the killer left a
note on the front desk, informing of his crimes—show
it to me.”
I took it out of my pocket and passed it across to
him. John Goode, Lazzari’s idea of perfection in the
form of a hotel clerk, had found it on the front desk ten
minutes after eight o’clock. It read, “MAY THEY
NEVER REST IN PEACE. 121. 238. 317.”
“So the murderer, or an accomplice of the
murderer, was brazen enough to approach the desk—
the main desk in the lobby of the hotel—with a note
that would incriminate him if anyone saw him leaving
it,” said Poirot. “He is audacious. Confident. He did
not disappear into the shadows, using the back door.”
“After Lazzari read the note, he checked the three
rooms and found the bodies,” I said. “Then he
checked all the other rooms in the hotel, he was very
proud to tell me. Fortunately, no other dead guests
were found.”
I knew I oughtn’t to say vulgar things, but it made
me feel better somehow. If Poirot had been English, I
probably would have made a greater effort to keep
myself in check.
“And did it occur to Monsieur Lazzari that one of
his still-living guests might be a murderer? Non. It did
not. Any person who chooses to stay at the Bloxham
Hotel must have a character of the utmost virtue and
integrity!”
I coughed and inclined my head toward the door.
Poirot turned. Lazzari had let himself into the room
and was standing in the doorway. He could hardly
have looked happier. “So true, so true, Monsieur
Poirot,” he said.
“Every single person who was in this hotel on
Thursday must speak to Mr. Catchpool and account
for their movements,” Poirot told him sternly. “Every
guest, everyone who was here to work. All of them.”
“With the greatest pleasure, you may speak to
whomsoever you wish, Mr. Catchpool.” Lazzari
bowed in deference. “And our dining room will soon
be at your disposal, once we have cleared away the
breakfast—ah, how do you say?— paraphernalia, and
gathered everybody together.”
“ Merci. Meanwhile, I will conduct a thorough
examination of the three rooms,” said Poirot. This
came as a surprise to me. I thought that was what we
had just done. “Catchpool, find out the addresses of
Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus.
Find out who in the hotel took their reservations, what
food and drinks they each requested to be delivered to
their rooms, and when. And from whom.”
I started to edge toward the door, fearing that
Poirot would never stop dreaming up more tasks to
add to the list.
He called after me, “Find out if anyone by the
name of Jennie is staying in the hotel, or working
here.”
“There is not a Jennie employed at the Bloxham,
Monsieur Poirot,” said Lazzari. “Instead of asking
Mr. Catchpool you should ask me. Everybody here is
well known to me. We are a very large happy family
here at the Bloxham Hotel!”
The Frame Widens
SOMETIMES, REMEMBERING SOMETHING A person said
months or even
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