Adventure of the Christmas Pudding and other stories Read online

  Trefusis shook his head.

  "I was fast asleep by that time."

  Poirot nodded. He looked slowly round the room.

  "Eh bien!" he said at last. "I do not think there is any thing further here, unless - perhaps you would be so kind as to draw the curtains."

  Obediently Trefusis pulled the heavy black curtains across the window at the far end of the room. Poirot switched on the light - which was masked by a big alabaster bowl hanging from the ceiling.

  "There was a desk light?" he asked.

  For reply the secretary clicked on a powerful green-shaded hand lamp, which stood on the writing table. Poirot switched the other light off, then on, then off again.

  "C'est bien! I have finished here."

  "Dinner is at half-past seven," murmured the secretary.

  "I thank you, M. Trefusis, for your many amiabilities."

  "Not at all."

  Poirot went thoughtfully along the corridor to the room appointed for him. The immovable George was there laying out his master's things.

  "My good George," he said presently, "I shall, I hope, meet at dinner a certain gentleman who begins to intrigue me greatly. A man who has come home from the tropics, George. With a tropical temper - so it is said. A man whom Parsons tries to tell me about, and whom Lily Margrave does not mention. The late Sir Reuben had a temper of his own, George. Supposing such a man to come into contact with a man whose temper was worse than his own - how do you say it? The fur would jump about, eh?"

  "'Would fly' is the correct expression, sir, and it is not always the case, sir, not by a long way."

  "No?"

  "No, sir. There was my Aunt Jemima, sir, a most shrewish tongue she had, bullied a poor sister of hers who lived with her, something shocking she did. Nearly worried the life out of her. But if anyone came along who stood up to her, well, it was a very different thing. It was meekness she couldn't bear."

  "Ha!" said Poirot, "it is suggestive - that."

  George coughed apologetically.

  "Is there anything I can do in any way," he inquired delicately, "to - er - assist you, sir?"

  "Certainly," said Poirot promptly. "You can find out for me what color evening dress Miss Lily Margrave wore that night, and which housemaid attends her."

  George received these commands with his usual stolidity.

  "Very good. sir, I will have the information for you in the morning."

  Poirot rose from his seat and stood gazing into the fire.

  "You are very useful to me, George," he murmured. "Do you know, I shall not forget your Aunt Jemima?"

  Poirot did not, after all, see Victor Astwell that night. A telephone message came from him that he was detained in London.

  "He attends to the affairs of your late husband's business, eh?" asked Poirot of Lady Astwell.

  "Victor is a partner," she explained. "He went out to Africa to look into some mining concessions for the firm. It was mining, wasn't it, Lily?"

  "Yes, Lady Astwell."

  "Gold mines, I think, or was it copper or tin? You ought to know, Lily, you were always asking Reuben questions about it all. Oh, do be careful, dear, you will have that vase over!"

  "It is dreadfully hot in here with the fire," said the girl. "Shall I - shall I open the window a little?"

  "If you like, dear," said Lady Astwell placidly.

  Poirot watched while the girl went across to the window and opened it. She stood there a minute or two breathing in the cool night air. When she returned and sat down in her seat, Poirot said to her politely:

  "So Mademoiselle is interested in mines?"

  "Oh, not really," said the girl indifferently, "I listened to Sir Reuben, but I don't know anything about the subject."

  "You pretended very well, then," said Lady Astwell. "Poor Reuben actually thought you had some ulterior motive in asking all those questions."

  The little detective's eyes had not moved from the fire, into which he was steadily staring, but nevertheless, he did not miss the quick flush of vexation on Lily Margrave's face. Tactfully he changed the conversation. When the hour for good nights came, Poirot said to his hostess:

  "May I have just two little words with you, Madame?"

  Lily Margrave vanished discreetly. Lady Astwell looked inquiringly at the detective.

  "You were the last person to see Sir Reuben alive that night?"

  She nodded. Tears sprang into her eyes, and she hastily held a black-edged handkerchief to them.

  "Ah, do not distress yourself, I beg of you do not distress yourself."

  "It's all very well, M. Poirot, but I can't help it."

  "I am a triple imbecile thus to vex you."

  "No, no, go on. What were you going to say?"

  "It was about 11 o'clock, I fancy, when you went into the Tower room, and Sir Reuben dismissed Mr Trefusis. Is that right?"

  "It must have been about then."

  "How long were you with him?"

  "It was just a quarter to twelve when I got up to my room; I remember glancing at the clock."

  "Lady Astwell, will you tell me what your conversation with your husband was about?"

  Lady Astwell sank down on the sofa and broke down completely. Her sobs were vigorous.

  "We - qua - qua - quarreled," she moaned.

  "What about?" Poirot's voice was coaxing, almost tender.

  "L - l - lots of things. It b - b - began with L - Lily. Reuben took a dislike to her - for no reason, and said he had caught her interfering with his papers. He wanted to send her away, and I said she was a dear girl, and I would not have it. And then he s - s - started shouting me down, and I wouldn't have that, so I just told him what I thought of him.

  "Not that I really meant it, M. Poirot, and he said he had taken me out of the gutter to marry me, and I said - ah, but what does it all matter now? I shall never forgive myself. You know how it is, M Poirot, I always did say a good row clears the air, and how was I to know someone was going to murder him that very night? Poor old Reuben."

  Poirot had listened sympathetically to all this outburst.

  "I have caused you suffering," he said. "I apologize. Let us now be very business-like - very practical, very exact. You still cling to your idea that Mr Trefusis murdered your husband?"

  Lady Astwell drew herself up.

  "A woman's instinct, M. Poirot," she said solemnly, "never lies."

  "Exactly, exactly," said Poirot. "But when did he do it?"

  "When? After I left him, of course."

  "You left Sir Reuben at a quarter to twelve. At five minutes to twelve Mr Leverson came in. In that ten minutes you say the secretary came down from his bedroom and murdered him?"

  "It is perfectly possible."

  "So many things are possible," said Poirot. "It could be done in ten minutes. Oh, yes! But was it?"

  "Of course he says he was in bed and fast asleep," said Lady Astwell, "but who is to know if he was or not?"

  "Nobody saw him about," Poirot reminded her.

  "Everybody was in bed and fast asleep," said Lady Astwell triumphantly. "Of course nobody saw him."

  "I wonder," said Poirot to himself.

  A short pause.

  "Eh bien, Lady Astwell, I will wish you good night."

  George deposited a tray of early morning coffee by his master's bedside.

  "Miss Margrave, sir, wore a dress of light green chiffon on the night in question."

  "Thank you, George, you are most reliable."

  "The third housemaid looks after Miss Margrave, sir. Her name is Gladys."

  "Thank you, George. You are invaluable."

  "Not at at all, sir."

  "It is a fine morning," said Poirot, looking out of the window, "and no one is likely to be astir very early. I think, my good George, that we shall have the Tower room to ourselves if we proceed there to make a little experiment."

  "You need me, sir?"

  "The experiment'," said Poirot, "will not be painful."

  The cu
rtains were still drawn in the Tower room when they arrived there. George was about to pull them, when Poirot restrained him.

  "We will leave the room as it is. Just turn on the desk lamp."

  The valet obeyed.

  "Now, my good George, sit down in that chair. Dispose yourself as though you were writing. Très bien. Me, I seize a club, I steal up behind you, so, and I hit you on the back of the head."

  "Yes, sir," said George.

  "Ah!" said Poirot, "but when I hit you, do not continue to write. You comprehend I cannot be exact. I cannot hit you with the same force with which the assassin hit Sir Reuben. When it comes to that point, we must do the make-believe. I hit you on the head, and you collapse, so. The arms well relaxed, the body limp. Permit me to arrange you. But no, do not flex your muscles."

  He heaved a sigh of exasperation.

  "You press admirably the trousers, George," he said, "but the imagination, you possess it not. Get up and let me take your place."

  Poirot in his turn sat down at the writing table.

  "I write," he declared, "I write busily. You steal up behind me you hit me on the head with the club. Crash! The pen slips from my fingers, I drop forward, but not very far forward, for the chair is low, and the desk is high, and, moreover, my arms support me. Have the goodness, George, to go back to the door, stand there, and tell me what you see."

  "Ahem!"

  "Yes, George?" encouragingly. "I see you, sir, sitting at the desk."

  "Sitting at the desk?"

  "It is a little difficult to see plainly, sir," explained George, "being such a long way away, sir, and the lamp being so heavily shaded. If I might turn on this light, sir?"

  His hand reached out to the switch.

  "Not at all," said Poirot sharply. "We shall do very well as we are. Here am I bending over the desk, there are you standing by the door. Advance now, George, advance, and put your hand on my shoulder."

  George obeyed.

  "Lean on me a little, George, to steady yourself on your feet, as it were. Ah! Voilà."

  Hercule Poirot's limp body slid artistically sideways.

  "I collapse - so!" he observed. "Yes, it is very well imagined. There is now something most important that must be done."

  "Indeed, sir?" said the valet.

  "Yes it is necessary that I should breakfast well."

  The little man laughed heartily at his own joke.

  "The stomach, George; it must not be ignored."

  George maintained a disapproving silence. Poirot went downstairs chuckling happily to himself. He was pleased at the way things were shaping. After breakfast he made the acquaintance of Gladys, the third housemaid. He was very interested in what she could tell him of the crime. She was sympathetic toward Charles, although she had no doubt of his guilt.

  "Poor young gentleman, sir, it seems hard, it does, him not being quite himself at the time."

  "He and Miss Margrave should have got on well together," suggested Poirot, "as the only two young people in the house."

  Gladys shook her head.

  "Very stand-offish Miss Lily was with him. She wouldn't have no carryings-on, and she made it plain."

  "He was fond of her, was he?"

  "Oh, only in passing, so to speak; no harm in it, sir. Mr Victor Astwell, now he is properly gone on Miss Lily."

  She giggled.

  "Ah vraiment!"

  Gladys giggled again.

  "Sweet on her straight away he was. Miss Lily is just like a lily, isn't she, sir? So tall and such a lovely shade of gold hair."

  "She should wear a green evening frock," mused Poirot. "There is a certain shade of green -"

  "She has one, sir," said Gladys. "Of course, she can't wear it now, being in mourning, but she had it on the very night Sir Reuben died."

  "It should be a light green, not a dark green," said Poirot.

  "It is a light green, sir. If you wait a minute I'll show it to you. Miss Lily has just gone out with the dogs."

  Poirot nodded. He knew that as well as Gladys did. In fact, it was only after seeing Lily safely off the premises that he had gone in search of the housemaid. Gladys hurried away, and returned a few minutes later with a green evening dress on a hanger.

  "Exquis!" murmured Poirot, holding up hands of admiration. "Permit me to take it to the light a minute."

  He took the dress from Gladys, turned his back on her and hurried to the window. He bent over it, then held it out at arm's length.

  "It is perfect," he declared. "Perfectly ravishing. A thousand thanks for showing it to me."

  "Not at ail, sir," said Gladys. "We all know that Frenchmen are interested in ladies' dresses."

  "You are too kind," murmured Poirot.

  He watched her hurry away again with the dress. Then he looked down at his two hands and smiled. In the right hand was a tiny pair of small nail scissors, in the left was a neatly clipped fragment of green chiffon.

  "And now," he murmured, "to be heroic."

  He returned to his own apartment and summoned George.

  "On the dressing-table, my good George, you will perceive a gold scarf pin."

  "Yes, sir."

  "On the washstand is a solution of carbolic. Immerse, I pray you, the point of the pin in the carbolic."

  George did as he was bid. He had long ago ceased to wonder at the vagaries of his master.

  "I have done that, sir."

  "Très bien! Now approach. I tender to you my first finger; insert the point of the pin in it."

  "Excuse me, sir, you want me to prick you, sir?"

  "But, yes, you have guessed correctly. You must draw blood, you understand, but not too much."

  George took hold of his master's finger. Poirot shut his eyes and leaned back. The valet stabbed at the finger with the scarf pin, and Poirot uttered a shrill yell.

  "Je vous remercie, George," he said. "What you have done is ample."

  Taking a small piece of green chiffon from his pocket, he dabbed his finger with it gingerly.

  "The operation has succeeded to a miracle," he remarked, gazing at the result. "You have no curiosity, George? Now, that is admirable!"

  The valet had just taken a discreet look out of the window.

  "Excuse me, sir," he murmured, "a gentleman has driven up in a large car."

  "Ah! Ah!" said Poirot. He rose briskly to his feet. "The elusive Mr Victor Astwell. I go down to make his acquaintance."

  Poirot was destined to hear Mr Victor Astwell some time before he saw him. A loud voice rang out from the hall.

  "Mind what you are doing, you damned idiot! That case has got glass in it. Curse you, Parsons, get out of the way! Put it down, you fool!"

  Poirot skipped nimbly down the stairs. Victor Astwell was a big man. Poirot bowed to him politely.

  "Who the devil are you?" roared the big man.

  Poirot bowed again.

  "My name is Hercule Poirot."

  "Lord!" said Victor Astwell. "So Nancy sent for you, after all, did she?"

  He put a hand on Poirot's shoulder and steered him into the library.

  "So you are the fellow they make such a fuss about," he remarked, looking him up and down. "Sorry for my language just now. That chauffeur of mine is a damned ass, and Parsons always does get on my nerves, blithering old idiot.

  "I don't suffer fools gladly, you know," he said, half apologetically, "but by all accounts you are not a fool, eh, M. Poirot?"

  He laughed breezily.

  "Those who have thought so have been sadly mistaken," said Poirot placidly.

  "Is that so? Well, so Nancy has carted you down here - got a bee in her bonnet about the secretary. There is nothing in that; Trefusis is as mild as milk - drinks milk, too, I believe. The fellow is a teetotaler. Rather waste of your time, isn't it?"

  "If one has an opportunity to observe human nature, time is never wasted," said Poirot quietly.

  "Human nature, eh?"

  Victor Astwell stared at him, then he flung himself dow
n in a chair.

  "Anything I can do for you?"

  "Yes, you can tell me what your quarrel with your brother was about that evening."

  Victor Astwell shook his head.

  "Nothing to do with the case," he said decisively.

  "One can never be sure," said Poirot.

  "It had nothing to do with Charles Leverson."

  "Lady Astwell thinks that Charles had nothing to do with the murder."

  "Oh, Nancy!"

  "Parsons assumes that it was M. Charles Leverson who came in that night, but he didn't see him. Remember nobody saw him."

  "You are wrong there," said Astwell. "I saw him."

  "You saw him?"

  "It's very simple. Reuben had been pitching into young Charles - not without good reason, I must say. Later on he tried to bully me. I told him a few home truths and, just to annoy him, I made up my mind to back the boy. I meant to see him that night, so as to tell him how the land lay. When I went up to my room I didn't go to bed. Instead, I left the door ajar and sat on a chair smoking. My room is on the second floor, M. Poirot, and Charles's room is next to it."

  "Pardon my interrupting you - Mr Trefusis, he, too, sleeps on that floor?"

  Astwell nodded.

  "Yes, his room is just beyond mine."

  "Nearer the stairs?"

  "No, the other way."

  A curious light came into Poirot's face, but the other didn't notice it and went on:

  "As I say, I waited up for Charles. I heard the front door slam, as I thought, about five minutes to twelve, but there was no sign of Charles for about ten minutes. When he did come up the stairs I saw that it was no good tackling him that night.

  He lifted his elbows significantly.

  "I see," murmured Poirot.

  "Poor devil couldn't walk straight," said Astwell. "He was looking pretty ghastly, too. I put it down to his condition at the time. Of course, now I realize that he had come straight from committing the crime."

  Poirot interposed a quick question.

  "You heard nothing from the Tower room?"

  "No but you must remember that I was right at the other end of the building. The walls are thick, and I don't believe you would even hear a pistol shot fired from there."

  Poirot nodded.

  "I asked if he would like some help getting to bed," continued Astwell. "But he said he was all right and went into his room and banged the door. I undressed and went to bed."