Hercule Poirot - Murder in the Spotlight

Chapter Two - Thursday at the Admiral

The morning of the 4th dawned bright and sunny.

Poirot woke to a sound that he could not quite place at first. A sort of squirting and stamping followed by bumps and cries of 'Ouch!'. He emerged from his hotel suite to find one of the women he had seen in the lunchroom, the previous day. In her hand she held a metallic can which she was waving frantically, whilst kicking at the floor.

Seeing Poirot, her face turned crimson, and the lady composed herself, straightening up.

'Rats.' she explained, 'I've never been a big fan.'

'I too do not favour the pests. I find them most embêtant.' Poirot smiled.

'Christine Redlaw.' She stretched out her hand. Poirot shook it.

'Hercule Poirot.'

She had a firm grip. A woman who has character, he decided.

The pair descended to the breakfast room, where only the spectacled man was present.

'Where is your friend?' Christine looked at him.

'Ah, you mean Monsieur Dubois. He, I am afraid to say is not an early riser.' Poirot chuckled.

They seated themselves at a table in the far corner of the room, and Poirot soon found his companion to be a well-educated lady. She was, he judged, the kind of woman who could take care of herself with perfect ease wherever she went. There was a kind of cool efficiency in the way she was eating her breakfast and the way she called to the attendant to bring her more coffee. He rather liked the severe regularity of her features and the pallor of her delicate skin, but she was too independent to be what he called a mademoiselle.

They discussed the subject of fabrics, on which Christine, due to working in the industry for some time, was an expert, but the conversation soon turned to the arrival of Betty Tipton.

"I have never heard her sing," Christine said, "yet my brother went to a concert of hers just last winter. He said she is the best."

"I too am looking forward to the spectacle," Poirot smiled.

Christine suddenly let out a small exclamation.

"Why look! I believe that is Mr Kerslake, the fiction extraordinaire."

Poirot followed her gaze.

The subject of this remark had just entered the room. His tall, lean figure towered above the other diners. He might have been powerful, strong, for that was the impression he originally gave, but on closer examination, a ferret like man emerged, with darting eyes and fidgeting hands which clutched a novel.

Christine, to Poirot's interest, waved him over.

"My mother," she explained, turning to her companion, "was at school with the fellow. Fancy finding him here!"

Poirot stood as the man reached their table, and with a little bow, introduced himself.

"I've heard of you." The author seemed to sneer, "You're the renowned detective, aren't you Mr Poirot?"

He was successful, respected, and knew it.

"You flatter me Monsieur, but I assure you my somewhat small talents are most overrated."

Poirot's eyebrows rose slightly as, instead of listening to the little man's reply, Gerald Kerslake, without waiting to be invited, placed himself in the vacant chair and with an authoritative gesture, summoned the waiter.

'Well...' thought Poirot, 'quelle arrogance.'

The company of Mr Kerslake, as Poirot soon discovered, was not one sought after in the hotel. That afternoon, he caught the sight of various faces holding the expression of disgust at this man's appalling manners. At luncheon, he was good manneredly refused a seat at several tables, and ended up re-joining Poirot and Christine, to both of their dismays. It was, once again, a dreary meal.

***

At around 5 in the evening, Inspector Gleb entered the hotel, accompanied by a small squadron of regulars. Poirot was reclining in the lounge, when an attendant informed him of the Police's arrival.

'Well M. Poirot,' Inspector Gleb greeted him warmly, 'we've taken every precaution necessary. Tonight shouldn't be eventful.'

'Je l'espère...' Poirot muttered.

The stage crew had started to assemble the equipment for Betty Tipton's arrival, and the guests of the Admiral made their way down to take their seats by the hotels 'petite stage'. Instead of chattering excitedly, like one about to witness a great spectacle usually would, the spectators, with the exception of bouncing Christine, were a gloomy silent bunch.

The 'stage' was a small wooden platform in the corner of one of the Hotels lounges. It was often used for entertainment in the evenings, and was a popular trait of the Admiral Hotel. The sofas and chairs from around the room had been moved to form a makeshift seating area for the audience, and they now slipped into their seats to wait for the show to begin.

There were, altogether, eight guests staying at the Admiral hotel. The spectacled man, Mr Kerslake - who had resided, to the short mans annoyance, right in front of Hercule Poirot - and the old lady and her daughter had occupied the front row. Poirot, the good looking young man and Christine sat behind them, a vacant seat beside the Belgian.

"Where's your friend?" Christine repeated the question she had used earlier in the day.

"Je n'ai pas the slightest idea, madame. I believe he went on a petite promenade, a stroll as you English put it."

Their conversation was interrupted as the big doors burst open and the regulars swarmed in, followed by a meek looking M. Dubois. He slipped into his seat beside Poirot, and the lights went down.

'Ah, my good friend! We were wondering what had become of you.' Poirot whispered.

'Sorry Poiort. There was a crash and a fire at one of the junctions. I was caught up in a huge crowd.'

Inspector Gleb had been true to his word. A dozen Policemen positioned themselves around the room, and some backstage. There was no chance now of any of the audience secretly pulling out a pistol or something without being observed. Suddenly, a drumroll shook the room, and, with all the dramatic qualities of a demon in a pantomime, Betty Tipton burst onto the stage.

She was more beautiful than imaginable, her golden curls sparkling in the bright spotlight. The dress she wore, a silver cascade of sequins, made her shimmer like a fish whenever she moved. Head held high, Betty Tipton looked down on nineteen gaping faces, and nineteen people thought: 'What a beauty'. Then the band struck up, and raising her arms high in the air to give the audience a last look at her incredible dress, she began to sing.

Poirot did not like Elizebeth Tipton, but her voice was like nothing he had ever heard before. It carried like a spring breeze, floating over the soprano notes with the air of a nightinggale. The Belgian shut his eyes and let the music envelop him, spreading a warm glow through his veins. She sang Verdi then moved on to Tchaikovsky finally ending with a daring piece by Georges Bizet. And then it was over, just like that. And nothing had happened.

Everyone seemed in a kind of trance as they made their way back to their hotel suits. Poirot met Betty Tipton and the Inspector behind stage.

'Well Madame, you are safe and sound.'

She looked relieved, 'It turned out to be nothing then, just stupid hate mail.'

'Yes,' the inspector smiled warmly, 'no need to worry any more Miss.'

'I don't see why people must write horrible things like this. One must learn to accept that some have more in life than others, there's no reason to be so darn mean about it.'

Inspector Gleb congratulated her on her performance, then stated that him and his men must get straight back to Scotland Yard.

'We must waste no more valuable time, but it was nice meeting you Miss Tipton.'

Suddenly there was a shout, and one of the attendants came running towards them.

'Inspector!'

He was shaking violently.

'Spit it out man! What's happened?'

'It's Ms Redlaw, she's dead!'

There was a cry, and Betty Tipton fainted.