“The old gent in Number 12 is boozin’ again. Mr. Mortan, the super, had to help him out of his cab last night. Carry him in to the lift an’ up to his flat. I’ve a lovely bit of Leicester for you.”
He studied the curtained windows of the Clarkson apartment, across the Square, as he ate the cheese. Curious that someone — the caretaker or the dead woman’s solicitor — wouldn’t have those unsightly windows washed.
“Mrs. Heatherington’s off this afternoon on holiday. Her an’ that ol’ dog. This year she’s told Mrs. Price, her char, not to come in while she’s away. Paid her two weeks’ wages, she did. Told her to have herself a bit of a rest. Such a fine lady, Mrs. Heatherington.”
After lunch George placed his cushion on an afternoon bench near the northwest corner of the Square, his back to the sun. He filled his pipe again and as he smoked he watched the renewed activity around him.
The gardener was pruning some kind of shrub near the rose arbor. Most of the noisy older children had not reappeared. Probably having an afternoon nap. Several of the nannies had returned with their prams. Or were these different nursemaids? Some of them sat dozing in the warm sunlight.
He noticed that Willie Hoskins was now washing the windows of Mrs. Heatherington’s flat. Odd that the old lady would want them cleaned the afternoon she was going away. Except that she had given her char a holiday, so there would be no one, these next two weeks, to let Willie Hoskins or anyone else into the flat.
George opened the Simenon and immediately returned to Paris. He became so absorbed in Maigret’s progress that he was no longer aware of the others in the Square. Squealing children ran past him unheeded. The distant chime of the bells on the quarter hours did not penetrate to his inner ear. He was conscious only of the sounds and voices of Paris, just as Maigret heard them.
A sudden pentrating scream, shrill and sharp, pulled him back to London and Knightswood Square.
Some of the nursemaids still sat beside their prams. The gardener was sweeping one of the walks. No one in the Square seemed to have noticed the scream he had heard. Or had he heard it? And was the sound human or animal? Perhaps one of the older children playing in the distance? The sound was not repeated.
George raised his eyes to the windows of Mrs. Heatherington’s flat. Apparently the window cleaner had finished and gone on to his next job. One of the windows had been left open and the curtains had not been drawn together.
He took out his watch and checked the time. 4:27.
Mrs. Heatherington would have telephoned for a cab and left for Victoria Station long before this. Strange he hadn’t noticed her departure. He remembered the scene from other years. Luggage brought down by the cabbie. Last of all, the small wicker hamper containing the Pekinese. He wondered if the old lady had forgotten to shut that window and close the curtains in the flurry of her departure.
He saw that he had finished all but a dozen or so pages of the Simenon. The puzzle in the detective novel was nearly solved.
...Maigret was moving quickly now. Each of the clues which had seemed so innocent before, had become ominous as the great French detective linked them together.
“Pardon me, sir.”
George looked up from his book to see the gardener with a large bouquet of yellow roses in his hand.
“Told Mrs. Heatherington I’d have these for her. Fresh cut. So they’d last till she got to Hove.”
“They’re very beautiful.”
“Said she’d get them before she took off. But I never seen her go.”
“Didn’t notice her leave, myself. I was reading.”
“Guess I’ll take them home to the Missus. S’prise the old girl.” Purdy held the bouquet in front of him, carefully, as he started back up the walk.
George reopened the Simenon. As he read on, something seemed to shadow the final pages of the book. The printed words faded together and his thoughts wandered.
Why had Mrs. Heatherington forgotten the bouquet of roses?
And why hadn’t she shut that window before she left on her holiday? And closed those curtains?
...Maigret had crossed the street and was climbing the stairs to the floor where the murder had taken place.
There had been no fingerprints in the Clarkson apartment because the murderer had, obviously, worn gloves.
It was a dog that had screamed. George was certain of it now.
Could it have been Mrs. Heatherington’s dog? Why would the Pekinese make such a sound? It seldom even barked. Of course there were other dogs in the mansions around Knightswood Square.
...Maigret was now standing in the dark hall, outside the murder apartment, listening at the door.
Too bad Mrs. Clarkson had not owned a dog. Might have saved her life.
George glanced across to the curtained windows of the Clarkson flat again.
Those dirty windows. Disgraceful.
Dirty windows!
George whirled to look again at Mrs. Heatherington’s windows. Something wrong there!
The open window had been completely washed. All its panes sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. And the window next to it reflected blue sky in every rectangle of gleaming glass. But the other two windows were still dull with grime.
Half the windows of Mrs. Heatherington’s flat had not been cleaned—
Why?
Had Willie Hoskins seen something inside Mrs. Heatherington’s living room? Something that had stopped him in the middle of his job?
And why the devil hadn’t the old lady shut that window and closed those curtains before she left to catch her train?
Why had she gone off without that bouquet of roses the gardener had cut for her?
Yellow roses.
Something else yellow—
The window cleaner’s gloves! That was it! Willie Hoskins always wore yellow rubber gloves.
No fingerprints.
Why had the Pekinese screamed?
What possible reason—
“Murder!” The terrible word exploded from his throat. “Murder!” He was on his feet, pointing up at Mrs. Heatherington’s open window.
Everyone in Knightswood Square had turned to stare. Purdy was running toward him across the grass.
“Up there! Mrs. Heatherington! Hurry, man! Get the police!”
The gardener, without pausing to ask questions, raced toward the nearest gate, at the southern end of the Square.
George Drayton collapsed onto his leather cushion, exhausted and out of breath. All he would ever be able to remember of the next hours would be a blur of strangers.
Arrival of the first policeman.
Cars screeching to a stop.
Dark-suited men hurrying to Mrs. Heatherington’s flat.
The ambulance.
A clutter of curious people gathering on the sidewalk.
White-uniformed figures carrying something down the steps.
His bench surrounded. The dark-suited men. Polite questions. How did he know what had happened? What had he seen? Had he heard something? The dog? Questions ran together until they gave him a headache.
He finally managed to get home to the quiet of his flat where he stretched out gratefully on the sofa in his study...
Mrs. Higby wakened him. “You’re a hero! Saved the old lady’s life, you did! They say another hour an’ she’d have been a goner. Just like her dog. Poor little beast. His head bashed in—”
“Mrs. Heatherington? Is she—”
“In hospital. They had to operate. But she’s goin’ to be fine. I just talked to Mrs. Price, her char, and the police told her. They say the old lady’s money was stolen. What she took out of the bank for her holiday. Afraid your supper’s goin’ to be late this evenin’.”
The telephone rang.
Mrs. Higby hurried to snatch it from the desk. “Mr. Drayton’s residence... What is it, love? What’s happened now?... Fancy that!” She turned to pass on her information. “It’s me chum, Mrs. Price. They’ve caught Willie Hoskins! Drunk in a Chelsea pub. The old lady’s money still in his pocket.” Her eyes widened as she spoke into the phone again. “He didn’t! Well, I never.”