the occasional stray hairs growing out of his ears and nose.
The constable who’d met them outside told the inspector that Doris Jouannet was known in the neighborhood to be a “good-time girl,” a part-time prostitute who seemed to have been in the game for thrills as much as extra money.
Her husband appeared unaware of this. He had taken British citizenship ten years ago. Presently he was night manager at the Royal Court Hotel in Sloane Square, Chelsea. This explained his spiffy dress, in the midst of this squalor, Agatha knew: the Royal Court was a reasonably fashionable hotel.
The old fellow sat at the table, slumped and in shock, but responding to the inspector’s questions. Talking helped keep his wife alive, for just a little while longer.
“I sleep here,” the hotelier said in his musical French accent, “only on my night off—t’night, T’ursday. Other night, I sleep at the Royal Court, you know.”
The inspector asked, “When did you see your wife last?”
“Yesterday. We eat together, every night. Last night, she cook the meal, we eat at this table. Then she accompany me to the station, Paddington Station. She say to me, ‘Good night, Henri,’ very sweet. Her last words to me were, ‘Don’t be late tomorrow, my darling.’ ”
He covered his face and wept quietly. Agatha offered Mr. Jouannet a handkerchief from her purse, and he accepted gratefully.
“Merci.” He shook his head. “Who could do such a terrible t’ing?”
The inspector did not reply, instead saying, “I know you’ve been over this, sir, but please tell me what happened this evening. From the beginning, if you would.”
Mr. Jouannet nodded, swallowing, drying his eyes with the hanky. “I return to the flat not long ago… hour ago, maybe. I am surprised to see the milk bottle, it was not taken in. I go in to the flat and I shout out, ‘Doris!’ But there is no reply. And the supper things from last night, they are still on the table. This is not like my wife. She is a good wife, you know, good housekeeper.”
Agatha could hardly agree—the layer of dust in this apartment had taken longer than overnight to accumulate. But she of course said nothing; the old man’s high opinion of his late wife’s housekeeping abilities seemed the least of his illusions about her.
“I was worry, and see the bedroom, it is locked, and now I know something, something is… what is the word? Amiss. Something is very amiss! I could get no reply, for my knocking and my shouting, so I go to the building manager, and we send for the police.”
“Neither you nor the manager had a key to the bedroom.”
“No! Well, I have a key, I tried the key, but it did not work. For some reason, unknown to me, my Doris, she put a new lock on the bedroom door.”
He wept again, but talked through it, describing the arrival of a pair of constables, one of whom had broken down the door while the other held the husband back.
“The bobby, he come out, and he look pale, like the bottle of milk. He say, ‘Sir, don’t go in, sir,’ and then he tell me… my wife. She is dead.”
He sat forward now, leaning on both elbows, covering his face with his hands and Agatha’s handkerchief. She rose and stood next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing from time to time.
Finally, Inspector Greeno said, “Mr. Jouannet—do you have any reason to think there would be another man in your flat last night?”
“No! None at all. We have been happy, these six years. Some, they say the age difference, it would be… difficult. But no. We are in love.”
“I see.” Inspector Greeno shifted in his chair. “I’m going to request that you return to your quarters at the hotel, sir. We’ll need to do some work here, and you really need to sleep elsewhere, tonight.”
“I don’t want to leave her!”
Agatha said, softly, “Mr. Jouannet… your wife is not here. She’s with God now. You must get some rest.”
He swallowed and looked up at her. “You are very kind. I will have your handkerchief laundered and return.”
“Please, no.” She patted his shoulder. “The inspector can arrange to have you driven back to your hotel.”
And that was done for the old fellow.
Then Agatha and Inspector Greeno were seated at the filthy kitchen table, alone but for a pair of uniformed men milling out on the landing.
“As if this weren’t horror enough,” Agatha said, “that poor man will