Hercule Poirot's Christmas Read online

  Colonel Johnson commented:

  ‘Curious—very curious. What do you say, Poirot?’

  Hercule Poirot said:

  ‘May I ask, Superintendent, what conclusions you yourself drew?’

  The superintendent stroked his jaw as he replied carefully:

  ‘Well, various ideas occurred to me, but on the whole, I figured it out this way. There was no question of any practical joke. The diamonds had been stolen all right. But the old gentleman wasn’t sure who’d done it. It’s my opinion that he was speaking the truth when he said that it might have been one of two people—and of those two people one was a servant and the other was a member of the family.’

  Poirot nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Très bien. Yes, that explains his attitude very well.’

  ‘Hence his desire that I should return later. In the interval he meant to have an interview with the person in question. He would tell them that he had already spoken of the matter to the police but that, if restitution were promptly made, he could hush the matter up.’

  Colonel Johnson said:

  ‘And if the suspect didn’t respond?’

  ‘In that case, he meant to place the investigation in our hands.’

  Colonel Johnson frowned and twisted his moustache. He demurred.

  ‘Why not take that course before calling you in?’

  ‘No, no, sir.’ The superintendent shook his head. ‘Don’t you see, if he had done that, it might have been bluff. It wouldn’t have been half so convincing. The person might say to himself, “The old man won’t call the police in, no matter what he suspects!” But if the old gentleman says to him, “I’ve already spoken to the police, the superintendent has only just left.” Then the thief asks the butler, say, and the butler confirms that. He says, “Yes, the superintendent was here just before dinner.” Then the chief is convinced the old gentleman means business and it’s up to him to cough up the stones.’

  ‘H’m, yes, I see that,’ said Colonel Johnson. ‘Any idea, Sugden, who this “member of the family” might be?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No indication whatsoever?’

  ‘None.’

  Johnson shook his head. Then he said:

  ‘Well, let’s get on with it.’

  Superintendent Sugden resumed his official manner.

  ‘I returned to the house, sir, at nine-fifteen precisely. Just as I was about to ring the front door bell, I heard a scream from inside the house, and then a confused sound of shouts and a general commotion. I rang several times and also used the knocker. It was three or four minutes before the door was answered. When the footman at last opened it I could see that something momentous had occurred. He was shaking all over and looked as though he was about to faint. He gasped out that Mr Lee had been murdered. I ran hastily upstairs. I found Mr Lee’s room in a state of wild confusion. There had evidently been a severe struggle. Mr Lee himself was lying in front of the fire with his throat cut in a pool of blood.’

  The chief constable said sharply:

  ‘He couldn’t have done it himself?’

  Sugden shook his head.

  ‘Impossible, sir. For one thing, there were the chairs and tables overturned, and the broken crockery and ornaments, and then there was no sign of the razor or knife with which the crime had been committed.’

  The chief constable said thoughtfully:

  ‘Yes, that seems conclusive. Anyone in the room?’

  ‘Most of the family were there, sir. Just standing round.’

  Colonel Johnson said sharply:

  ‘Any ideas, Sugden?’

  The superintendent said slowly:

  ‘It’s a bad business, sir. It looks to me as though one of them must have done it. I don’t see how anyone from outside could have done it and got away in time.’

  ‘What about the window? Closed or open?’

  ‘There are two windows in the room, sir. One was closed and locked. The other was open a few inches at the bottom—but it was fixed in that position by a burglar screw, and moreover, I’ve tried it and it’s stuck fast—hasn’t been opened for years, I should say. Also the wall outside is quite smooth and unbroken—no ivy or creepers. I don’t see how anyone could have left that way.’

  ‘How many doors in the room?’

  ‘Just one. The room is at the end of a passage. That door was locked on the inside. When they heard the noise of the struggle and the old man’s dying scream, and rushed upstairs, they had to break down the door to get in.’

  Johnson said sharply:

  ‘And who was in the room?’

  Superintendent Sugden replied gravely:

  ‘Nobody was in the room, sir, except the old man who had been killed not more than a few minutes previously.’

  VII

  Colonel Johnson stared at Sugden for some minutes before he spluttered:

  ‘Do you mean to tell me, Superintendent, that this is one of those damned cases you get in detective stories where a man is killed in a locked room by some apparently supernatural agency?’

  A very faint smile agitated the superintendent’s moustache as he replied gravely:

  ‘I do not think it’s quite as bad as that, sir.’

  Colonel Johnson said:

  ‘Suicide. It must be suicide!’

  ‘Where’s the weapon, if so? No, sir, suicide won’t do.’

  ‘Then how did the murderer escape? By the window?’ Sugden shook his head.

  ‘I’ll take my oath he didn’t do that.’

  ‘But the door was locked, you say, on the inside.’

  The superintendent nodded. He drew a key from his pocket and laid it on the table.

  ‘No fingerprints,’ he announced. ‘But just look at that key, sir. Take a look at it with that magnifying glass there.’

  Poirot bent forward. He and Johnson examined the key together. The chief constable uttered an exclamation.

  ‘By Jove, I get you. Those faint scratches on the end of the barrel. You see ’em, Poirot?’

  ‘But yes, I see. That means, does it not, that the key was turned from outside the door—turned by means of a special implement that went through the keyhole and gripped the barrel—possibily an ordinary pair of pliers would do it.’

  The superintendent nodded.

  ‘It can be done all right.’

  Poirot said: ‘The idea being, then, that the death would be thought to be suicide, since the door was locked and no one was in the room?’

  ‘That was the idea, M. Poirot, not a doubt of it, I should say.’

  Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

  ‘But the disorder in the room! As you say, that by itself wiped out the idea of suicide. Surely the murderer would first of all have set the room to rights.’

  Superintendent Sugden said: ‘But he hadn’t time, Mr Poirot. That’s the whole point. He hadn’t time. Let’s say he counted on catching the old gentleman unawares. Well, that didn’t come off. There was a struggle—a struggle heard plainly in the room underneath; and, what’s more, the old gentleman called out for help. Everyone came rushing up. The murderer’s only got time to nip out of the room and turn the key from the outside.’

  ‘That is true,’ Poirot admitted. ‘Your murderer, he may have made the bungle. But why, oh why, did he not at least leave the weapon? For naturally, if there is no weapon, it cannot be suicide! That was an error most grave.’

  Superintendent Sugden said stolidly:

  ‘Criminals usually make mistakes. That’s our experience.’

  Poirot gave a light sigh. He murmured:

  ‘But all the same, in spite of his mistakes, he has escaped this criminal.’

  ‘I don’t think he has exactly escaped.’

  ‘You mean he is in the house still?’

  ‘I don’t see where else he can be. It was an inside job.’

  ‘But, tout de même,’ Poirot pointed out gently, ‘he has escaped to this extent: You do not know who he is.’

  Superi
ntendent Sugden said gently bur firmly:

  ‘I rather fancy that we soon shall. We haven’t done any questioning of the household yet.’

  Colonel Johnson cut in:

  ‘Look here, Sugden, one thing strikes me. Whoever turned that key from the outside must have had some knowledge of the job. That’s to say, he probably has had criminal experience. These sort of tools aren’t easy to manage.’

  ‘You mean it was a professional job, sir?’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘It does seem like it,’ the other admitted. ‘Following that up, it looks as though there were a professional thief among the servants. That would explain the diamonds being taken and the murder would follow on logically from that.’

  ‘Well, anything wrong with that theory?’

  ‘It’s what I thought myself to begin with. But it’s difficult. There are eight servants in the house; six of them are women, and of those six, five have been here for four years and more. Then there’s the butler and the footman. The butler has been here for close on forty years—bit of a record that, I should say. The footman’s local, son of the gardener, and brought up here. Don’t see very well how he can be a professional. The only other person is Mr Lee’s valet attendant. He’s comparatively new, but he was out of the house—still is—went out just before eight o’clock.’

  Colonel Johnson said:

  ‘Have you got a list of just who exactly was in the house?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I got it from the butler.’ He took out his note-book. ‘Shall I read it to you?’

  ‘Please, Sugden.’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Alfred Lee. Mr George Lee, M.P., and his wife, Mr Henry Lee, Mr and Mrs David Lee. Miss’—the superintendent paused a little, taking the words carefully—‘Pilar’—he pronounced it like a piece of architecture—‘Estravados. Mr Stephen Farr. Then for the servants: Edward Tressilian, butler. Walter Champion, footman. Emily Reeves, cook. Queenie Jones, kitchenmaid. Gladys Spent, head housemaid. Grace Best, second housemaid. Beatrice Moscombe, third housemaid. Joan Kench, betweenmaid. Sydney Horbury, valet attendant.’

  ‘That’s the lot, eh?’

  ‘That’s the lot, sir.’

  ‘Any idea where everybody was at the time of the murder?’

  ‘Only roughly. As I told you, I haven’t questioned anybody yet. According to Tressilian, the gentlemen were in the dining-room still. The ladies had gone to the drawing-room. Tressilian had served coffee. According to his statement, he had just got back to his pantry when he heard a noise upstairs. It was followed by a scream. He ran out into the hall and upstairs in the wake of the others.’

  Colonel Johnson said:

  ‘How many of the family live in the house, and who are just staying here?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Alfred Lee live here. The others are just visiting.’

  Johnson nodded.

  ‘Where are they all?’

  ‘I asked them to stay in the drawing-room until I was ready to take their statements.’

  ‘I see. Well, we’d better go upstairs and take a look at the doings.’

  The superintendent led the way up the broad stairs and along the passage.

  As he entered the room where the crime had taken place, Johnson drew a deep breath.

  ‘Pretty horrible,’ he commented.

  He stood for a minute studying the overturned chairs, the smashed china, and the blood-bespattered débris.

  A thin elderly man stood up from where he had been kneeling by the body and gave a nod.

  ‘Evening, Johnson,’ he said. ‘Bit of a shambles, eh?’

  ‘I should say it was. Got anything for us, doctor?’

  The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He grinned.

  ‘I’ll let you have the scientific language at the inquest! Nothing complicated about it. Throat cut like a pig. He bled to death in less than a minute. No sign of the weapon.’

  Poirot went across the room to the windows. As the superintendent had said, one was shut and bolted. The other was open about four inches at the bottom. A thick patent screw of the kind known many years ago as an anti-burglar screw secured it in that position.

  Sugden said: ‘According to the butler, that window was never shut wet or fine. There’s a linoleum mat underneath it in case rain beat in, but it didn’t much, as the overhanging roof protects it.’

  Poirot nodded.

  He came back to the body and stared down at the old man.

  The lips were drawn back from the bloodless gums in something that looked like a snarl. The fingers were curved like claws.

  Poirot said:

  ‘He does not seem a strong man, no.’

  The doctor said:

  ‘He was pretty tough, I believe. He’d survived several pretty bad illnesses that would have killed most men.’

  Poirot said: ‘I do not mean that. I mean, he was not big, not strong physically.’

  ‘No, he’s frail enough.’

  Poirot turned from the dead man. He bent to examine an overturned chair, a big chair of mahogany. Beside it was a round mahogany table and the fragments of a big china lamp. Two other smaller chairs lay nearby, also the smashed fragments of a decanter and two glasses, a heavy glass paperweight was unbroken, some miscellaneous books, a big Japanese vase smashed in pieces, and a bronze statuette of a naked girl completed the débris.

  Poirot bent over all these exhibits, studying them gravely, but without touching them. He frowned to himself as though perplexed.

  The chief constable said:

  ‘Anything strike you, Poirot?’

  Hercule Poirot sighed. He murmured:

  ‘Such a frail shrunken old man—and yet—all this.’

  Johnson looked puzzled. He turned away and said to the sergeant, who was busy at his work:

  ‘What about prints?’

  ‘Plenty of them, sir, all over the room.’

  ‘What about the safe?’

  ‘No good. Only prints on that are those of the old gentleman himself.’

  Johnson turned to the doctor.

  ‘What about bloodstains?’ he asked. ‘Surely whoever killed him must have got blood on him.’

  The doctor said doubtfully:

  ‘Not necessarily. Bleeding was almost entirely from the jugular vein. That wouldn’t spout like an artery.’

  ‘No, no. Still, there seems a lot of blood about.’

  Poirot said:

  ‘Yes, there is a lot of blood—it strikes one, that. A lot of blood.’

  Superintendent Sugden said respectfully:

  ‘Do you—er—does that suggest anything to you, Mr Poirot?’

  Poirot looked about him. He shook his head perplexedly.

  He said:

  ‘There is something here—some violence…’ He stopped a minute, then went on: ‘Yes, that is it—violence…And blood—an insistence on blood…There is—how shall I put it?—there is too much blood. Blood on the chairs, on the tables, on the carpet…The blood ritual? Sacrificial blood? Is that it? Perhaps. Such a frail old man, so thin, so shrivelled, so dried up—and yet—in his death—so much blood…’

  His voice died away. Superintendent Sugden, staring at him with round, startled eyes, said in an awed voice: