House,’ said Poirot distinctly.
‘You’ve got a large bill of it here,’ I remarked, pointing to the wall.
She looked at me coldly. Two to one, she seemed to think, was an unfair way of playing the game. She called up her own reinforcements.
‘You don’t know anything about Littlegreen House, do you, John?’
‘No, miss. Should be in the file.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the young woman without looking so in the least. ‘I rather fancy we must have sent all the particulars out.’
‘C’est dommage.’
‘Pardon?’
‘A pity.’
‘We’ve a nice bungalow at Hemel End, two bed., one sitt.’
She spoke without enthusiasm, but with the air of one willing to do her duty by her employer.
‘I thank you, no.’
‘And a semi-detached with small conservatory. I could give you particulars of that.’
‘No, thank you. I desired to know what rent you were asking for Littlegreen House.’
‘It’s not to be rented,’ said the young woman, abandoning her position of complete ignorance of anything to do with Littlegreen House in the pleasure of scoring a point. ‘Only to be sold outright.’
‘The board says, “To be Let or Sold.”’
‘I couldn’t say as to that, but it’s for sale only.’
At this stage in the battle the door opened and a grey-haired, middle-aged man entered with a rush. His eye, a militant one, swept over us with a gleam. His eyebrows asked a question of his employee.
‘This is Mr Gabler,’ said the young woman.
Mr Gabler opened the door of an inner sanctum with a flourish.
‘Step in here, gentlemen.’ He ushered us in, an ample gesture swept us into chairs and he himself was facing us across a flat-topped desk.
‘And now what can I do for you?’
Poirot began again perseveringly.
‘I desired a few particulars of Littlegreen House—’
He got no further. Mr Gabler took command.
‘Ah! Littlegreen House—there’s a property! An absolute bargain. Only just come into the market. I can tell you gentlemen, we don’t often get a house of that class going at the price. Taste’s swinging round. People are fed up with jerry-building. They want sound stuff. Good, honest building. A beautiful property—character—feeling—Georgian throughout. That’s what people want nowadays—there’s a feeling for period houses if you understand what I mean. Ah, yes, Littlegreen House won’t be long in the market. It’ll be snapped up. Snapped up! A member of Parliament came to look at it only last Saturday. Liked it so much he’s coming down again this weekend. And there’s a stock exchange gentleman after it too. People want quiet nowadays when they come to the country, want to be well away from main roads. That’s all very well for some people, but we attract class here. And that’s what that house has got. Class! You’ve got to admit, they knew how to build for gentlemen in those days. Yes, we shan’t have Littlegreen long on our books.’
Mr Gabler, who, it occurred to me, lived up to his name very happily, paused for breath.
‘Has it changed hands often in the last few years?’ inquired Poirot.
‘On the contrary. Been in one family over fifty years. Name of Arundell. Very much respected in the town. Ladies of the old school.’
He shot up, opened the door and called:
‘Particulars of Littlegreen House, Miss Jenkins. Quickly now.’
He returned to the desk.
‘I require a house about this distance from London,’ said Poirot. ‘In the country, but not in the dead country, if you understand me—’
‘Perfectly—perfectly. Too much in the country doesn’t do. Servants don’t like it for one thing. Here, you have the advantages of the country but not the disadvantages.’ Miss Jenkins flitted in with a typewritten sheet of paper which she placed in front of her employer who dismissed her with a nod.
‘Here we are,’ said Mr Gabler, reading with practised rapidity. ‘Period House of character: four recep., eight bed and dressing, usual offices, commodious kitchen premises, ample outbuildings, stables, etc. Main water, old-world gardens, inexpensive upkeep, amounting in all to three acres, two summer-houses, etc., etc. Price £2,850 or near offer.’
‘You can give me an order to view?’
‘Certainly, my dear sir.’ Mr Gabler began writing in a flourishing fashion. ‘Your name and address?’
Slightly to my surprise, Poirot gave his name as Mr Parotti.
‘We have one or two other properties on our books which might interest you,’ Mr Gabler went on.
Poirot allowed him to add two further additions.
‘Littlegreen House can be viewed any time?’ he inquired.
‘Certainly, my dear sir. There are servants in residence. I might perhaps ring up to make certain. You will be going there immediately? Or after lunch?’
‘Perhaps after lunch would be better.’
‘Certainly—certainly. I’ll ring up and tell them to expect you about two o’clock—eh? Is that right?’
‘Thank you. Did you say the owner of the house—a Miss Arundell, I think you said?’
‘Lawson. Miss Lawson. That is the name of the present owner. Miss Arundell, I am sorry to say, died a short time ago. That is how the place has come into the market. And I can assure you it will be snapped up. Not a doubt of it. Between you and me, just in confidence, if you do think of making an offer I should make it quickly. As I’ve told you, there are two gentlemen after it already, and I shouldn’t be surprised to get an offer for it any day from one or other of them. Each of them knows the other’s after it, you see. And there’s no doubt that competition spurs a man on. Ha, ha! I shouldn’t like you to be disappointed.’
‘Miss Lawson is anxious to sell, I gather.’
Mr Gabler lowered his voice confidentially.
‘That’s just it. The place is larger than she wants—one middle-aged lady living by herself. She wants to get rid of this and take a house in London. Quite understandable. That’s why the place is going so ridiculously cheap.’
‘She would be open, perhaps, to an offer?’
‘That’s the idea, sir. Make an offer and set the ball rolling. But you can take it from me that there will be no difficulty in getting a price very near the figure named. Why, it’s ridiculous! To build a house like that nowadays would cost every penny of six thousand, let alone the land value and the valuable frontages.’
‘Miss Arundell died very suddenly, didn’t she?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Anno domini—anno domini. She had passed her three-score and ten some time ago. And she’d been ailing for a long time. The last of her family—you know something about the family, perhaps?’
‘I know some people of the same name who have relations in this part of the world. I fancy it must be the same family.’
‘Very likely. Four sisters there were. One married fairly late in life and the other three lived on here. Ladies of the old school. Miss Emily was the last of them. Very highly thought of in the town.’
He leant forward and handed Poirot the orders.
‘You’ll