Hercule Poirot's Casebook

m an oostmate man - a man vth a little idea - and nothing to

support it! By the way, did Henry Gascoigne have false teeth?'

'No, his own teeth were in excellent preservation. Very

creditable indeed at his age.'

'He looked after them well - they were white and welt

brushed?'

'Yes, I noticed them particularly. Teeth tend to grow a little

yellow as one grows older, but they were in good condition.'

'Not discoloured in any way?'

'No I don't think he was a smoker if that Is what you mean.

'I did not mean that precisely-it was just a long shot- whit:

probably will not come offi Goodbye, Dr MacAndrew, and

thank you for your kindness.'

He shook the doctor's hand and departed.

'And now,' he said, or the long shot.

At the Gallant Endeavour, he sat down at the same table wificb

he had shared with Bonnington. The girl who served him

not Molly. Molly, the girl told him, was away on a holiday.

178

It was only just seven and Hercule Poirot found no difficulty

in entering into conversation with the girl on the subject of old

Mr Gascoigue.

'Yes,' she said. 'He'd been here for years and years. But none

of us girls ever knew his name. We saw about the inquest in the

paper, and there was a picture of him. "There," I said to Molly.

"If that isn't our 'Old Father Time'" as we used to call him.'

'He dined here on the evening of his death, did he not?'

'That's right, Thursday, the third. He was always here on a

Thursday. Tuesdays and Thursdays punctual as a dock.'

'You don't remember, I suppose, what he had for dinner?'

'Now let me see, it was mulligatawny soup, that's right, and

beefsteak pudding or was it the mutton? - no pudding, that's

right, and blackberry and'apple pie and cheese. And then to

think of him going home and falling down those stairs that very

same evening. A frayed dressing-gown cord they said it was as

caused it. Of course, his clothes were always something awful -old-fashioned

and put on anyhow, and all tattered, and yet he

had a kind of air, all the same, as though he was somebody! Oh,

we get all sorts of interesting customers here.'

She moved off.

Hercule Poirot ate his filleted sole. His eyes showed a green

light.

'It is odd,' he said to himself, 'how the cleverest people slip

over details. Bonnington will be interested.'

But the time had not yet come for leisurely discussion with

Bonnington.

Armed with introductions from a certain influential .quarter,

Hercule Poirot found no difficulty at all in dealing with the

coroner for the district. ·

'A curious figure, the deceased man Gascoigne,' he ob-served.

'A lonely, eccentric old fellow. But his decease seems to

arouse an unusual amount of attention?'

He looked with some curiosity at his visitor as he spoke.

179

Hercule Poirot chose his words carefully.

'There are circumstances connected with it, Monsieur,

which make investigation desirable.'

'Well, how can I help you?'

'It is, I believe, within your province to order documents

produced in your court to be destroyed, or to be impounded-as

you think fit. A certain letter was found in the pocket of

Henry Gascoigne's dressing-gown, was it not?'

'That is so.'

'A letter from his nephew, Dr George Lorrimer?'

'Quite correct. The letter was produced at the inquest as

helping to fix the time of death.'

'Which was corroborated by the medical evidence?'

'Exactly.'

'Is that letter still available?'

Hercule Poirot waited rather anxiously for the reply.

When he heard that the letter was still available for ex-amination

he drew a sigh of relief.

When it was family produced he studied it with some care. It

was written in a slightly cramped handwriting with a

stylographic pen.

It ran as follows:

Dear Uncle Henry,

I am sorry to tell you that I have had no success as regards

Uncle Amhony. He showed no enthusiasm for a visit from you

and would give me no reply to your request that he would le

bygones be bygones. He is, of course, extremely ill, and his mind

is inclined to wander. I should fancy that the end is zry near. He

seemed hardly to remember who you were.

I am sorry to have failedyou, but I can assure you that I did

my best.

180

Your affectionate nephew,

George Lorrimer

The letter itself was dated 3rd November. Poimt glanced at the

envelope's postmark- 4.30 p.m. 3 Nov.

He murmured:

'It is beautifully in order, is it not?'

Kingston Hill was his next objective. After a little trouble, with

the exercise of good-humoured pertinacity, he obtained an

'interview with Amelia Hill, cook-housekeeper to the late

Anthony Gascoigne.

Mrs Hill was inclined to be stiff and suspicious at fu'st, but the

charming geniality of this strange-looking foreigner would have

had its effect on a stone. Mrs Amelia Hill began to unbend.

She found herself, as had so many other women before her,

pouring out her troubles to a really sympathetic listener.

For fourteen years she had had charge of Mr Gascoigne's

household- not an easy job! No, indeed! Many a woman would

have quailed under the burdens she had had to bear! Eccentric

the poor gentleman was and no denying it. Remarkably close

with his money - a kind of mania with him it was - and he as