He bent over and just touched it with a fingertip. It was a dainty jewelled affair on a black moiré strap on the wrist of the hand that held the pistol.
“Rather a swell piece that,” observed Japp. “Must have cost money!” He cocked his head inquiringly at Poirot. “Something in that maybe?”
“It is possible—yes.”
Poirot strayed across to the writing bureau. It was the kind that has a front flap that lets down. This was daintily set out to match the general colour scheme.
There was a somewhat massive silver inkstand in the centre, in front of it a handsome green lacquer blotter. To the left of the blotter was an emerald glass pen tray containing a silver penholder—a stick of green sealing wax, a pencil and two stamps. On the right of the blotter was a movable calendar giving the day of the week, date and month. There was also a little glass jar of shot and standing in it a flamboyant green quill pen. Poirot seemed interested in the pen. He took it out and looked at it but the quill was innocent of ink. It was clearly a decoration—nothing more. The silver pen-holder with the ink-stained nib was the one in use. His eyes strayed to the calendar.
“Tuesday, November fifth,” said Japp. “Yesterday. That’s all correct.”
He turned to Brett.
“How long has she been dead?”
“She was killed at eleven thirty-three yesterday evening,” said Brett promptly.
Then he grinned as he saw Japp’s surprised face.
“Sorry, old boy,” he said. “Had to do the super doctor of fiction! As a matter of fact eleven is about as near as I can put it—with a margin of about an hour either way.”
“Oh, I thought the wristwatch might have stopped—or something.”
“It’s stopped all right, but it’s stopped at a quarter past four.”
“And I suppose she couldn’t have been killed possibly at a quarter past four.”
“You can put that right out of your mind.”
Poirot had turned back the cover of the blotter.
“Good idea,” said Japp. “But no luck.”
The blotter showed an innocent white sheet of blotting paper. Poirot turned over the leaves but they were all the same.
He turned his attention to the wastepaper basket.
It contained two or three torn-up letters and circulars. They were only torn once and were easily reconstructed. An appeal for money from some society for assisting ex-servicemen, an invitation to a cocktail party on November 3rd, an appointment with a dressmaker. The circulars were an announcement of a furrier’s sale and a catalogue from a department store.
“Nothing there,” said Japp.
“No, it is odd . . .” said Poirot.
“You mean they usually leave a letter when it’s suicide?”
“Exactly.”
“In fact, one more proof that it isn’t suicide.”
He moved away.
“I’ll have my men get to work now. We’d better go down and interview this Miss Plenderleith. Coming, Poirot?”
Poirot still seemed fascinated by the writing bureau and its appointments.
He left the room, but at the door his eyes went back once more to the flaunting emerald quill pen.
Two