Agatha Christie - Hercule Poirot 38 - Poirot's Early Cases (1974) Page 2

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ said Japp. ‘That is, if the dénouement ever comes! But I say, you are an oyster, aren’t you?’ Poirot smiled. ‘Well, so long. I’m off to the Yard.’

  He strode off down the steet, and Poirot hailed a passing taxi.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ I asked in lively curiosity.

  ‘To Chelsea to see the Davidsons.’

  He gave the address to the driver.

  ‘What do you think of the new Lord Cronshaw?’ I asked.

  ‘What says my good friend Hastings?’

  ‘I distrust him instinctively.’

  ‘You think he is the “wicked uncle” of the story-books, eh?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Me, I think he was most amiable towards us,’ said Poirot noncommittally.

  ‘Because he had his reasons!’

  Poirot looked at me, shook his head sadly, and murmured something that sounded like: ‘No method.’

  III

  The Davidsons lived on the third floor of a block of ‘mansion’ flats. Mr Davidson was out, we were told, but Mrs Davidson was at home. We were ushered into a long, low room with garish Oriental hangings. The air felt close and oppressive, and there was an overpowering fragrance of joss-sticks. Mrs Davidson came to us almost immediately, a small, fair creature whose fragility would have seemed pathetic and appealing had it not been for the rather shrewd and calculating gleam in her light blue eyes.

  Poirot explained our connection with the case, and she shook her head sadly.

  ‘Poor Cronch — and poor Coco too! We were both so fond of her, and her death has been a terrible grief to us. What is it you want to ask me? Must I really go over all that dreadful evening again?’

  ‘Oh, madame, believe me, I would not harass your feelings unnecessarily. Indeed, Inspector Japp has told me all that is needful. I only wish to see the constume you wore at the ball that night.’

  The lady looked somewhat surprised, and Poirot continued smoothly: ‘You comprehend, madame, that I work on the system of my country. There we always “reconstruct” the crime. It is possible that I may have an actual représentation, and if so, you understand, the costumes would be important.’

  Mrs Davidson still looked a bit doubtful.

  ‘I’ve heard of reconstructing a crime, of course,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t know you were so particular about details. But I’ll fetch the dress now.’

  She left the room and returned almost immediately with a dainty wisp of white satin and green. Poirot took it from her and examined it, handing it back with a bow.

  ‘Merci, madame! I see you have had the misfortune to lose one of your green pompons, the one on the shoulder here.’

  ‘Yes, it got torn off at the ball. I picked it up and gave it to poor Lord Cronshaw to keep for me.’

  ‘That was after supper?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not long before the tragedy, perhaps?’

  A faint look of alarm came into Mrs Davidson’s pale eyes, and she replied quickly: ‘Oh no — long before that. Quite soon after supper, in fact.’

  ‘I see. Well, that is all. I will not derange you further. Bonjour, madame.’

  ‘Well,’ I said as we emerged from the building, ‘that explains the mystery of the green pompon.’

  ‘I wonder.’

  ‘Why, what do you mean?’

  ‘You saw me examine the dress, Hastings?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Eh bien, the pompon that was missing had not been wrenched off, as the lady said. On the contrary, it had been cut off, my friend, cut off with scissors. The threads were all quite even.’

  ‘Dear me!’ I exclaimed. ‘This becomes more and more involved.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ replied Poirot placidly, ‘it becomes more and more simple.’

  ‘Poirot,’ I cried, ‘one day I shall murder you! Your habit of finding everything perfectly simple is aggravating to the last degree!’

  ‘But when I explain, mon ami, is it not always perfectly simple?’

  ‘Yes; that is the annoying part of it! I feel then that I could have done it myself.’

  ‘And so you could, Hastings, so you could. If you would but take the trouble of arranging your ideas! Without method —’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I said hastily, for I knew Poirot’s eloquence when started on his favourite theme only too well. ‘Tell me, what do we do next? Are you really going to reconstruct the crime?’

  ‘Hardly that. Shall we say that the drama is over, but that I propose to add a — harlequinade?’

  IV

  The following Tuesday was fixed upon by Poirot as the day for this mysterious performance. The preparations greatly intrigued me. A white screen was erected at one side of the room, flanked by heavy curtains at either side. A man with some lighting apparatus arrived next, and finally a group of members of the theatrical profession, who disappeared into Poirot’s bedroom, which had been rigged up as a temporary dressing-room.

  Shortly before eight, Japp arrived, in no very cheerful mood. I gathered that the official detective hardly approved of Poirot’s plan.

  ‘Bit melodramatic, like all his ideas. But there, it can do no harm, and as he says, it might save us a good bit of trouble. He’s been very smart over the case. I was on the same scent myself, of course —’ I felt instinctively that Japp was straining the truth here — ‘but there, I promised to let him play the thing out his own way. Ah! Here is the crowd.’

  His Lordship arrived first, escorting Mrs Mallaby, whom I had not as yet seen. She was a pretty, dark-haired woman, and appeared perceptibly nervous. The Davidsons followed. Chris Davidson also I saw for the first time. He was handsome enough in a rather obvious style, tall and dark, with the easy grace of the actor.

  Poirot had arranged seats for the party facing the screen. This was illuminated by a bright light. Poirot switched out the other lights so that the room was in darkness except for the screen. Poirot’s voice rose out of the gloom.

  ‘Messieurs, mesdames, a word of explanation. Six figures in turn will pass across the screen. They are familiar to you. Pierrot and his Pierrette; Punchinello the buffoon, and elegant Pulcinella; beautiful Columbine, lightly dancing, Harlequin, the sprite, invisible to man!’

  With these words of introduction, the show began. In turn each figure that Poirot had mentioned bounded before the screen, stayed there a moment poised, and then vanished. The lights went up, and a sigh of relief went round. Everyone had been nervous, fearing they knew not what. It seemed to me that the proceedings had gone singularly flat. If the criminal was among us, and Poirot expected him to break down at the mere sight of a familiar figure the device had failed signally — as it was almost bound to do. Poirot, however, appeared not a whit discomposed. He stepped forward, beaming.

  ‘Now, messieurs and mesdames, will you be so good as to tell me, one at a time, what it is that we have just seen? Will you begin, milor’?’

  The gentleman looked rather puzzled. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘Just tell me what we have been seeing.’

  ‘I — er — well, I should say we have seen six figures passing in front of a screen and dressed to represent the personages in the old Italian Comedy, or — er — ourselves the other night.’

  ‘Never mind the other night, milor’,’ broke in Poirot. ‘The first part of your speech was what I wanted. Madame, you agree with Milor’ Cronshaw?’

  He had turned as he spoke to Mrs Mallaby.

  ‘I — er — yes, of course.’

  ‘You agree that you have seen six figures representing the Italian Comedy?’

  ‘Why, certainly.’

  ‘Monsieur Davidson? You too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hastings? Japp? Yes? You are all in accord?’

  He looked around upon us; his face grew rather pale, and his eyes were green as any cat’s.

  ‘And yet — you are
all wrong! Your eyes have lied to you — as they lied to you on the night of the Victory Ball. To “see” things with your eyes, as they say, is not always to see the truth. One must see with the eyes of the mind; one must employ the little cells of grey! Know, then, that tonight and on the night of the Victory Ball, you saw not six figures but five! See!’

  The lights went out again. A figure bounded in front of the screen — Pierrot!

  ‘Who is that?’ demanded Poirot. ‘Is it Pierrot?’

  ‘Yes,’ we all cried.

  ‘Look again!’

  With a swift movement the man divested himself of his loose Pierrot garb. There in the limelight stood glittering Harlequin! At the same moment there was a cry and an overturned chair.

  ‘Curse you,’ snarled Davidson’s voice. ‘Curse you! How did you guess?’

  Then came the clink of handcuffs and Japp’s calm official voice. ‘I arrest you, Christopher Davidson — charge of murdering Viscount Cronshaw — anything you say will be used in evidence against you.’

  V

  It was a quarter of an hour later. A recherché little supper had appeared; and Poirot, beaming all over his face, was dispensing hospitality and answering our eager questions.

  ‘It was all very simple. The circumstances in which the green pompon was found suggested at once that it had been torn from the costume of the murderer. I dismissed Pierrette from my mind (since it takes considerable strength to drive a table-knife home) and fixed upon Pierrot as the criminal. But Pierrot left the ball nearly two hours before the murder was committed. So he must either have returned to the ball later to kill Lord Cronshaw, or — eh bien, he must have killed him before he left! Was that impossible? Who had seen Lord Cronshaw after supper that evening? Only Mrs Davidson, whose statement, I suspected, was a deliberate fabrication uttered with the object of accounting for the missing pompon, which, of course, she cut from her own dress to replace the one missing on her husband’s costume. But then, Harlequin, who was seen in the box at one-thirty, must have been an impersonation. For a moment, earlier, I had considered the possibility of Mr Beltane being the guilty party. But with his elaborate costume, it was clearly impossible that he could have doubled the roles of Punchinello and Harlequin. On the other hand, to Davidson, a young man of about the same height as the murdered man and an actor by profession, the thing was simplicity itself.

  ‘But one thing worried me. Surely a doctor could not fail to perceive the difference between a man who had been dead two hours and one who had been dead ten minutes! Eh bien, the doctor did perceive it! But he was not taken to the body and asked, ‘How long has this man been dead?’ On the contrary, he was informed that the man had been seen alive ten minutes ago, and so he merely commented at the inquest on the abnormal stiffening of the limbs for which he was quite unable to account!

  ‘All was now marching famously for my theory. Davidson had killed Lord Cronshaw immediately after supper, when, as you remember, he was seen to draw him back into the supper–room. Then he departed with Miss Courtenay, left her at the door of her flat (instead of going in and trying to pacify her as he affirmed) and returned post-haste to the Colossus — but as Harlequin, not Pierrot — a simple transformation effected by removing his outer costume.’

  VI

  The uncle of the dead man leaned forward, his eyes perplexed.

  ‘But if so, he must have come to the ball prepared to kill his victim. What earthly motive could he have had? The motive, that’s what I can’t get.’

  ‘Ah! There we come to the second tragedy — that of Miss Courtenay. There was one simple point which everyone overlooked. Miss Courtenay died of cocaine poisoning — but her supply of the drug was in the enamel box which was found on Lord Cronshaw’s body. Where, then, did she obtain the dose which killed her? Only one person could have supplied her with it — Davidson. And that explains everything. It accounts for her friendship with the Davidsons and her demand that Davidson should escort her home. Lord Cronshaw, who was almost fanatically opposed to drug-taking, discovered that she was addicted to cocaine, and suspected that Davidson supplied her with it. Davidson doubtless denied this, but Lord Cronshaw determined to get the truth from Miss Courtenay at the ball. He could forgive the wretched girl, but he would certainly have no mercy on the man who made a living by trafficking in drugs. Exposure and ruin confronted Davidson. He went to the ball determined that Cronshaw’s silence must be obtained at any cost.’

  ‘Was Coco’s death an accident, then?’

  ‘I suspect that it was an accident cleverly engineered by Davidson. She was furiously angry with Cronshaw, first for his reproaches, and secondly for taking her cocaine from her. Davidson supplied her with more, and probably suggested her augmenting the dose as a defiance to “old Cronch”!’

  ‘One other thing,’ I said. ‘The recess and the curtain? How did you know about them?’

  ‘Why, mon ami, that was the most simple of all. Waiters had been in and out of that little room, so, obviously, the body could not have been lying where it was found on the floor. There must be some place in the room where it could be hidden. I deduced a curtain and a recess behind it. Davidson dragged the body there, and later, after drawing attention to himself in the box, he dragged it out again before finally leaving the Hall. It was one of his best moves. He is a clever fellow!’

  But in Poirot’s green eyes I read unmistakably the unspoken remark: ‘But not quite so clever as Hercule Poirot!’

  The Adventure of

  the Clapham Cook

  I

  At the time that I was sharing rooms with my friend Hercule Poirot, it was my custom to read aloud to him the headlines in the morning newspaper, the Daily Blare.

  The Daily Blare was a paper that made the most of any opportunity for sensationalism. Robberies and murders did not lurk obscurely in its back pages. Instead they hit you in the eye in large type on the front page.

  ABSCONDING BANK CLERK DISAPPEARS WITH FIFTY THOUSAND POUNDS’ WORTH OF NEGOTIABLE SECURITIES, I read.

  HUSBAND PUTS HIS HEAD IN GAS-OVEN. UNHAPPY HOME LIFE. MISSING TYPIST. PRETTY GIRL OF TWENTY-ONE. WHERE IS EDNA FIELD?

  ‘There you are, Poirot, plenty to choose from. An absconding bank clerk, a mysterious suicide, a missing typist — which will you have?’

  My friend was in a placid mood. He quietly shook his head.

  ‘I am not greatly attracted to any of them, mon ami. Today I feel inclined for the life of ease. It would have to be a very interesting problem to tempt me from my chair. See you, I have affairs of importance of my own to attend to.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘My wardrobe, Hastings. If I mistake not, there is on my new grey suit the spot of grease — only the unique spot, but it is sufficient to trouble me. Then there is my winter overcoat — I must lay him aside in the powder of Keatings. And I think — yes, I think — the moment is ripe for the trimmings of my moustaches — and afterwards I must apply the pomade.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, strolling to the window, ‘I doubt if you’ll be able to carry out this delirious programme. That was a ring at the bell. You have a client.’

  ‘Unless the affair is one of national importance, I touch it not,’ declared Poirot with dignity.

  A moment later our privacy was invaded by a stout red–faced lady who panted audibly as a result of her rapid ascent of the stairs.

  ‘You’re M. Poirot?’ she demanded, as she sank into a chair.

  ‘I am Hercule Poirot, yes, madame.’

  ‘You’re not a bit like what I thought you’d be,’ said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour. ‘Did you pay for the bit in the paper saying what a clever detective you were, or did they put it in themselves?’

  ‘Madame!’ said Poirot, drawing himself up.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sure, but you know what these papers are nowadays. You begin reading a nice article: “What a bride said to her plain unmarried friend”, and it’s all about a simple thing you buy at the chemist’s and shampoo you
r hair with. Nothing but puff. But no offence taken, I hope? I’ll tell you what I want you to do for me. I want you to find my cook.’

  Poirot stared at her; for once his ready tongue failed him. I turned aside to hide the broadening smile I could not control.

  ‘It’s all this wicked dole,’ continued the lady. ‘Putting ideas into servants’ heads, wanting to be typists and what nots. Stop the dole, that’s what I say. I’d like to know what my servants have to complain of — afternoon and evening off a week, alternate Sundays, washing put out, same food as we have — and never a bit of margarine in the house, nothing but the very best butter.’

  She paused for want of breath and Poirot seized his opportunity. He spoke in his haughtiest manner, rising to his feet as he did so.

  ‘I fear you are making a mistake, madame. I am not holding an inquiry into the conditions of domestic service. I am a private detective.’

  ‘I know that,’ said our visitor. ‘Didn’t I tell you I wanted you to find my cook for me? Walked out of the house on Wednesday, without so much as a word to me, and never came back.’

  ‘I am sorry, madame, but I do not touch this particular kind of business. I wish you good morning.’

  Our visitor snorted with indignation.

  ‘That’s it, is it, my fine fellow? Too proud, eh? Only deal with Government secrets and countesses’ jewels? Let me tell you a servant’s every bit as important as a tiara to a woman in my position. We can’t all be fine ladies going out in our motors with our diamonds and our pearls. A good cook’s a good cook — and when you lose her, it’s as much to you as her pearls are to some fine lady.’

  For a moment or two it appeared to be a toss up between Poirot’s dignity and his sense of humour. Finally he laughed and sat down again.