Adventure of the Christmas Pudding and other stories Read online

  She was staring at him, wide-eyed, horror-struck. Almost unconsciously she breathed:

  "Perhaps... I don't know..."

  Inspector Miller spoke with sudden authority.

  "This is all very well, Poirot. It's a theory, nothing more. There's not a shred of evidence, probably not a word of it is true."

  "It is all true."

  "But there's no evidence. There's nothing we can act on."

  "You are wrong. I think that McLaren, if this is put to him, will admit it. That is, if it is made clear to him that Margharita Clayton knows..."

  Poirot paused and added:

  "Because, once he knows that, he has lost. The perfect murder has been in vain."

  THE UNDER DOG

  Lily Margrave smoothed her gloves out on her knee with a nervous gesture, and darted a glance at the occupant of the big chair opposite her.

  She had heard of M. Hercule Poirot, the well-known investigator, but this was the first time she had seen him in the flesh.

  The comic, almost ridiculous, aspect that he presented disturbed her conception of him. Could this funny little man, with the egg-shaped head and the enormous mustaches, really do the wonderful things that were claimed for him? His occupation at the moment struck her as particularly childish. He was piling small blocks of colored wood one upon the other, and seemed far more interested in the result than in the story she was telling.

  At her sudden silence, however, he looked sharply across at her.

  "Mademoiselle, continue, I pray of you. It is not that I do not attend; I attend very carefully, I assure you."

  He began once more to pile the little blocks of wood one upon the other, while the girl's voice took up the tale again. It was a gruesome tale, a tale of violence and tragedy, but the voice was so calm and unemotional, the recital was so concise that something of the savor of humanity seemed to have been left out of it.

  She stopped at last.

  "I hope," she said anxiously, "that I have made everything clear."

  Poirot nodded his head several times in emphatic assent. Then he swept his hand across the wooden blocks, scattering them over the table, and, leaning back in his chair, his fingertips pressed together and his eyes on the ceiling, he began to recapitulate.

  "Sir Reuben Astwell was murdered ten days ago. On Wednesday, the day before yesterday, his nephew, Charles Leverson, was arrested by the police. The facts against him as far as you know are - you will correct me if I am wrong, Mademoiselle.

  "Sir Reuben was sitting up late writing in his own special sanctum, the Tower room. Mr Leverson came in late, letting himself in with a latch key. He was overheard quarreling with his uncle by the butler, whose room was directly below the Tower room. The quarrel ended with a sudden thud as of a chair being thrown over and a half-smothered cry.

  "The butler was alarmed, and thought of getting up to see what was the matter, but as a few seconds later he heard Mr Leverson leave the room gaily whistling a tune, he thought nothing more of it. On the following morning, however, a housemaid discovered Sir Reuben dead by his desk. He had been struck down by some heavy instrument. The butler, I gather, did not at once tell the story to the police. That was natural, I think, eh, Mademoiselle?"

  The sudden question made Lily Margrave start.

  "I beg your pardon?" she said.

  "One looks for humanity in these matters, does one not?" said the little man. "As you recited the story to me - so admirably, so concisely - you made of the actors in the drama machines - puppets. But me, I look always for human nature. I say to myself, this butler, this - what did you say his name was?"

  "His name is Parsons."

  "This Parsons, then, he will have the characteristics of his class, he will object very strongly to the police, he will tell them as little as possible. Above all, he will say nothing that might seem to incriminate a member of the household. A housebreaker, a burglar, he will cling to that idea with all the strength of extreme obstinacy. Yes, the loyalties of the servant class are an interesting study."

  He leaned back beaming.

  "In the meantime," he went on, "everyone in the household has told his or her tale, Mr Leverson among the rest, and his tale was that he had come in late and gone up to bed without seeing his uncle."

  "That is what he said."

  "And no one saw reason to doubt that tale," mused Poirot, "except, of course, Parsons. Then there comes down an inspector from Scotland Yard, Inspector Miller you said, did you not? I know him, I have come across him once or twice in the past. He is what they call the sharp man, the ferret, the weasel.

  "Yes I know him! And the sharp Inspector Miller, he sees what the local inspector has not seen, that Parsons is ill at ease and uncomfortable, and knows something that he has not told. Eh bien, he makes short work of Parsons. By now it has been clearly proved that no one broke into the house that night, that the murderer must be looked for inside the house and not outside. And Parsons is unhappy and frightened, and feels very relieved to have his secret knowledge drawn out of him.

  "He has done his best to avoid scandal, but there are limits; and so Inspector Miller listens to Parsons' story, and asks a question or two, and then makes some private investigations of his own. The case he builds up is very strong - very strong.

  "Blood-stained fingers rested on the corner of the chest in the Tower room and the fingerprints were those of Charles Leverson. The housemaid told him she emptied a basin of blood-stained water in Mr Leverson's room the morning after the crime. He explained to her that he had cut his finger, and he had a little cut there, oh yes, but such a very little cut! The cuff of his evening shirt had been washed, but they found blood stains in the sleeve of his coat. He was hard pressed for money, and he inherited money at Sir Reuben's death. Oh, yes, a very strong case, Mademoiselle," He paused.

  "And yet you come to me today."

  Lily Margrave shrugged her slender shoulders.

  "As I told you, M. Poirot, Lady Astwell sent me."

  "You would not have come of your own accord, eh?"

  The little man glanced at her shrewdly. The girl did not answer.

  "You do not reply to my question."

  Lily Margrave began smoothing her gloves again.

  "It is rather difficult for me, M. Poirot. I have my loyalty to Lady Astwell to consider. Strictly speaking, I am only her paid companion, but she has treated me more as though I were a daughter or a niece. She has been extraordinarily kind, and whatever her faults, I should not like to appear to criticise her actions, or - well, to prejudice you against taking up the case."

  "Impossible to prejudice Hercule Poirot, cela ne se fait pas," declared the little man cheerily. I perceive that you think Lady Astwell has in her bonnet the buzzing bee. Come now, is it not so?"

  "If I must say -"

  "Speak, Mademoiselle."

  "I think the whole thing is simply silly."

  "It strikes you like that, eh?"

  "I don't want to say anything against Lady Astwell -"

  "I comprehend," murmured Poirot gently. "I comprehend perfectly." His eyes invited her to go on.

  "She really is an awfully good sort, and frightfully kind, but she isn't - how can I put it? She isn't an educated woman. You know she was an actress when Sir Reuben married her, and she has all sorts of prejudices and superstitions. If she says a thing, it must be so, and she simply won't listen to reason. The Inspector was not very tactful with her, and it put her back up. She says it is nonsense to suspect Mr Leverson and just the sort of stupid, pigheaded mistake the police would make, and that, of course, dear Charles did not do it."

  "But she has no reasons, eh?"

  "None whatever."

  "Ha! Is that so? Really, now."

  "I told her," said Lily, "that it would be no good coming to you with a mere statement like that and nothing to go on."

  "You told her that," said Poirot, "did you really? That is interesting."

  His eyes swept over Lily Margrave in a quick c
omprehensive survey, taking in the details of her neat black tailor-made, the touch of white at her throat, an expensive crêpe de Chine blouse showing dainty tucks, and the smart little black felt hat. He saw the elegance of her, the pretty face with its slightly pointed chin, and the dark blue long-lashed eyes. Insensibly his attitude changed; he was interested now, not so much in the case as in the girl sitting opposite him.

  "Lady Astwell is, I should imagine, Mademoiselle, just a trifle inclined to be unbalanced and hysterical?"

  Lily Margrave nodded eagerly.

  "That describes her exactly. She is, as I told you, very kind, but it is impossible to argue with her or to make her see things logically."

  "Possibly she suspects someone on her own account," suggested Poirot, "someone quite absurd."

  "That is exactly what she does do," cried Lily. "She has taken great dislike to Sir Reuben's secretary, poor man. She says she knows he did it, and yet it has been proved quite conclusively that poor Mr Owen Trefusis cannot possibly have done it.

  "And she has no reasons?"

  "Of course not; it is all intuition with her."

  Lily Margrave's voice was very scornful.

  "I perceive, Mademoiselle, said Poirot, smiling, "that you do not believe in intuition?"

  "I think it is nonsense," replied Lily.

  Poirot leaned back in his chair.

  "Les femmes," he murmured, "they like to think that it is a special weapon that the good God has given them, and for every once that it shows them the truth, at least nine times it leads them astray."

  "I know," said Lily, "but I have told you what Lady Astwell is like. You simply cannot argue with her."

  "So you, Mademoiselle, being wise and discreet, came along to me as you were bidden, and have managed to put me au courant of the situation."

  Something in the tone of his voice made the girl look up sharply.

  "Of course, I know," said Lily apologetically, "how very valuable your time is."

  "You are too flattering, Mademoiselle," said Poirot, "but indeed - yes, it is true, at this present time I have many cases of moment on hand."

  "I was afraid that might be so," said Lily, rising. "I will tell Lady Astwell -"

  But Poirot did not rise also. Instead he lay back in his chair and looked steadily up at the girl.

  "You are in haste to be gone, Mademoiselle? Sit down one more little moment, I pray of you."

  He saw the color flood into her face and ebb out again. She sat down once more slowly and unwillingly.

  "Mademoiselle is quick and decisive," said Poirot. "She must make allowances for an old man like myself, who comes to his decisions slowly. You mistook me, Mademoiselle. I did not say that I would not go down to Lady Astwell."

  "You will come, then?"

  The girl's tone was flat. She did not look at Poirot, but down at the ground, and so was unaware of the keen scrutiny with which he regarded her.

  "Tell Lady Astwell, Mademoiselle, that I am entirely at her service. I will be at - Mon Repos, is it not? - this afternoon."

  He rose. The girl followed suit.

  "I - I will tell her. It is very good of you to come, M. Poirot. I am afraid, though, you will find you have been brought on a wild goose chase."

  "Very likely, but - who knows?"

  He saw her out with punctilious courtesy to the door. Then he returned to the sitting-room, frowning, deep in thought. Once or twice he nodded his head, then he opened the door and called to his valet.

  "My good George, prepare me, I pray of you, a little valise. I go down to the country this afternoon."

  "Very good, sir," said George.

  He was an extremely English-looking person. Tall, cadaverous and unemotional.

  "A young girl is a very interesting phenomenon, George," said Poirot, as he dropped once more into his armchair and lighted a tiny cigarette. "Especially, you understand, when she has brains. To ask someone to do a thing and at the same time to put them against doing it, that is a delicate operation. It requires finesse. She was very adroit - oh, very adroit - but Hercule Poirot, my good George, is of a cleverness quite exceptional."

  "I have heard you say so, sir."

  "It is not the secretary she has in mind," mused Poirot. "Lady Astwell's accusation of him she treats with contempt. Just the same she is anxious that no one should disturb the sleeping dogs. I, my good George, I go to disturb them, I go to make the dogs fight! There is a drama there, at Mon Repos. A human drama, and it excites me. She was adroit, the little one, but not adroit enough. I wonder - I wonder what I shall find there?"

  Into the dramatic pause which succeeded these words George's voice broke apologetically:

  "Shall I pack dress clothes, sir?"

  Poirot looked at him sadly.

  "Always the concentration, the attention to your own job. You are very good for me, George."

  When the 4:55 drew up at Abbots Cross station, there descended from it M. Hercule Poirot, very neatly and foppishly attired, his mustaches waxed to a stiff point. He gave up his ticket, passed through the barrier, and was accosted by a tall chauffeur.

  "Mr Poirot?"

  The little man beamed upon him.

  "That is my name."

  "This way, sir, if you please."

  He held open the door of the big Rolls Royce limousine.

  The house was a bare three minutes from the station.

  The chauffeur descended once more and opened the door of the car, and Poirot stepped out. The butler was already holding the front door open.

  Poirot gave the outside of the house a swift appraising glance before passing through the open door. It was a big, solidly built red brick mansion, with no pretensions to beauty, but with an air of solid comfort.

  Poirot stepped into the hall. The butler relieved him deftly of his hat and overcoat, then murmured with that deferential undertone only to be achieved by the best servants:

  "Her Ladyship is expecting you, sir."

  Poirot followed the butler up the soft carpeted stairs. This, without doubt, was Parsons, a very well-trained servant, with a manner suitably devoid of emotion. At the top of the staircase he turned to the right along a corridor. He passed through a door into a little anteroom, from which two more doors led. He threw open the lefthand one of these, and announced:

  "M. Poirot, m'lady."

  The room was not a very large one, and it was crowded with furniture and knickknacks. A woman, dressed in black, got up from a sofa and came quickly toward Poirot.

  "M. Poirot," she said with outstretched hand. Her eye ran rapidly over the dandified figure. She paused a minute, ignoring the little man's bow over her hand, and his murmured "My Lady," and then, releasing his hand after a sudden vigorous pressure, she exclaimed:

  "I believe in small men! They are the clever ones."

  "Inspector Miller," murmured Poirot, "is, I think, a tall man?"

  "He is a bumptious idiot," said Lady Astwell. "Sit down here by me, will you, M. Poirot?"

  She indicated the sofa and went on:

  "Lily did her best to put me off sending for you, but I have not come to my time of life without knowing my own mind."

  "A rare accomplishment," said Poirot, as he followed her to the settee.

  Lady Astwell settled herself comfortably among the cushions and turned so as to face him.

  "Lily is a dear girl," said Lady Astwell, "but she thinks she knows everything, and as often as not in my experience those sort of people are wrong. I am not clever, M. Poirot, I never have been, but I am right where many a more stupid person is wrong. I believe in guidance. Now do you want me to tell you who is the murderer, or do you not? A woman knows, M. Poirot."

  "Does Miss Margrave know?"

  "What did she tell you?" asked Lady Astwell sharply.

  "She gave me the facts of the case."

  "The facts? Oh, of course they are dead against Charles, but I tell you, M. Poirot, he didn't do it. I know he didn't!"

  She bent upon him an e
arnestness that was almost disconcerting.

  "You are very positive, Lady Astwell?"

  "Trefusis killed my husband, M. Poirot. I am sure of it."

  "Why?"

  "Why should he kill him, do you mean, or why am I sure? I tell you I know it! I am funny about those things. I made up my mind at once, and I stick to it."

  "Did Mr Trefusis benefit in any way by Sir Reuben's death?"

  "Never left him a penny," returned Lady Astwell promptly. "Now that shows you dear Reuben couldn't have liked or trusted him."

  "Had he been with Sir Reuben long, then?"

  "Close on nine years."

  "That is a long time," said Poirot softly, "a very long time to remain in the employment of one man. Yes, Mr Trefusis, he must have known his employer well."

  Lady Astwell stared at him.

  "What are you driving at? I don't see what that has to do with it."

  "I was following out a little idea of my own," said Poirot. "A little idea, not interesting, perhaps, but original, on the effects of service."

  Lady Astwell still stared.

  "You are very clever, aren't you?" she said in rather a doubtful tone. "Everybody says so."

  Hercule Poirot laughed.

  "Perhaps you shall pay me that compliment, too, Madame, one of these days. But let us return to the motive. Tell me now of your household, of the people who were here in the house on the day of the tragedy."

  "There was Charles, of course."

  "He was your husband's nephew, I understand, not yours."

  "Yes, Charles was the only son of Reuben's sister. She married a comparatively rich man, but one of those crashes came - they do in the city - and he died, and his wife, too, and Charles came to live with us. He was twenty-three at the time, and going to be a barrister. But when the trouble came, Reuben took him into his office."

  "He was industrious, M. Charles?"

  "I like a man who is quick on the uptake," said Lady Astwell with a nod of approval. "No, that's just the trouble, Charles was not industrious. He was always having rows with his uncle over some muddle or other that he had made. Not that poor Reuben was an easy man to get on with. Many's the time I've told him that he had forgotten what it was to be young himself. He was very different in those days, M. Poirot."