'But the whole thing is quite impossible,' cried Lord Mayfield. 'Yes, it is impossible, but Lady Julia does not know that. She does not know what I, Hercule Poirot, know, that young Reggie Carrington was not stealing papers last night, but instead was philandering with Mrs Vanderlyn's French maid.'
'The whole thing is a mare's nest!'
'Exactly.'
'And the case is not ended at all!'
'Yes, it is ended. I, Hercule Poirot, know the truth. You do not believe me? You did not believe me yesterday when I said I knew where the plans were. But I did know. They were very close at hand.'
'Where?'
'They were in your pocket, my lord.' There was a pause, then Lord Mayfield said: 'Do you really know what you are saying, M. Poirot?'
'Yes, I know. I know that I am speaking to a very clever man. From the first it worried me that you, who were admittedly short-sighted, should be so positive about the figure you had seen leaving the window. You wanted that solution - the convenient solution - to be accepted. Why? Later, one by one, I eliminated everyone else. Mrs Vanderlyn was upstairs, Sir George was with you on the terrace, Reggie Carrington was with the French girl on the stairs, Mrs Macatta was blamelessly in her bedroom. (It is next to the housekeeper's room, and Mrs Macatta snores!) Lady Julia clearly believed her son guilty. So there remained only two possibilities. Either Carlile did not put the papers on the desk but into his own pocket (and that is not reasonable, because, as you pointed out, he could have taken a tracing of them), or else - or else the plans were there when you walked over to the desk, and the only place they could have gone was into your pocket. In that case everything was clear. Your insistence on the figure you had seen, your insistence on Carlile's innocence, your disinclination to have me summoned. 'One thing did puzzle me - the motive. You were, I was convinced, an honest man, a man of integrity. That showed in your anxiety that no innocent person should be suspected. It was also obvious that the theft of the plans might easily affect your career unfavourably. Why, then, this wholly unreasonable theft? And at last the answer came to me. The crisis in your career, some years ago, the assurances given to the world by the Prime Minister that you had had no negotiations with the power in question. Suppose that that was not strictly true, that there remained some record - a letter, perhaps - showing that in actual fact you had done what you had publicly denied. Such a denial was necessary in the interests of public policy. But it is doubtful if the man in the street would see it that way. It might mean that at the moment when supreme power might be given into your hands, some stupid echo from the past would undo everything. 'I suspect that that letter has been preserved in the hands of a certain government, that that government offered to trade with you the letter in exchange for the plans of the new bomber. Some men would have refused. You - did not! You agreed. Mrs Vanderlyn was the agent in the matter. She came here by arrangement to make the exchange. You gave yourself away when you admitted that you had formed no definite stratagem for entrapping her. That admission made your reason for inviting her here incredibly weak. 'You arranged the robbery. Pretended to see the thief on the terrace - thereby clearing Carlile of suspicion. Even if he had not left the room, the desk was so near the window that a thief might have taken the plans while Carlile was busy at the safe with his back turned. You walked over to the desk, took the plans and kept them on your own person until the moment when, by prearranged plan, you slipped them into Mrs Vanderlyn's dressing-case. In return she handed you the fatal letter disguised as an unposted letter of her own.' Poirot stopped. Lord Mayfield said: 'Your knowledge is very complete, M. Poirot. You must think me an unutterable skunk.' Poirot made a quick gesture. 'No, no, Lord Mayfield. I think, as I said, that you are a very clever man. It came to me suddenly as we talked here last night. You are a first-class engineer. There will be, I think, some subtle alterations in the specifications of that bomber, alterations done so skilfully that it will be difficult to grasp why the machine is not the success it ought to be. A certain foreign power will find the type a failure... It will be a disappointment to them, I am sure...' Again there was a silence - then Lord Mayfield said: 'You are much too clever, M. Poirot . I will only ask you to believe one thing. I have faith in myself. I believe that I am the man to guide England through the days of crisis that I see coming. If I did not honestly believe that I am needed by my country to steer the ship of state, I would not have done what I have done - made the best of both worlds - saved myself from disaster by a clever trick.'
'My lord,' said Poirot, 'if you could not make the best of both worlds, you could not be a politician!'
Dead Man's Mirror
Chapter 1
I The flat was a modern one. The furnishings of the room were modern, too. The armchairs were squarely built, the upright chairs were angular. A modern writing-table was set squarely in front of the window, and at it sat a small, elderly man. His head was practically the only thing in the room that was not square. It was egg-shaped. M. Hercule Poirot was reading a letter:
Station: Whimperley. Hamborough Close, Telegrams: Hamborough St Mary Hamborough St. John. Westshire.
M. Hercule Poirot.
September 24th, 1936. Dear Sir, - A matter has arisen which requires handling with great delicacy and discretion. I have heard good accounts of you, and have decided to entrust the matter to you. I have reason to believe that I am the victim of fraud, but for family reasons I do not wish to call in the police. I am taking certain measures of my own to deal with the business, but you must be prepared to come down here immediately on receipt of a telegram. I should be obliged if you will not answer this letter. Yours faithfully, Gervase Chevenix-Gore. The eyebrows of M. Hercule Poirot climbed slowly up his forehead until they nearly disappeared into his hair. 'And who, then,' he demanded of space, 'is this Gervase Chevenix-
Gore?' He crossed to a bookcase and took out a large, fat book. He found what he wanted easily enough. Chevenix-Gore, Sir Gervase Francis Xavier, 10th Bt. cr. 1694; formerly Captain 17th Lancers; b. 18th May, 1878; e.s. of Sir Guy Chevenix-Gore, 9th Bt., and Lady Claudia Bretherton, 2nd. d. of 8th Earl of Wallingford. S. father, 1911; m. 1912, Vanda Elizabeth, e.d. of Colonel Frederick Arbuthnot, q.v.; educ. Eton. Served European War, 1914–18. Recreations: travelling, big-game hunting. Address:
Hamborough St Mary, Westshire, and 218 Lowndes Square, S.W.1.
Clubs: Cavalry. Travellers. Poirot shook his head in a slightly dissatisfied manner. For a moment or two he remained lost in thought, then he went to the desk, pulled open a drawer and took out a little pile of invitation cards. His face brightened. 'A la bonne heure! Exactly my affair! He will certainly be there.' II
A duchess greeted M. Hercule Poirot in fulsome tones. 'So you could manage to come after all, M. Poirot! Why, that's splendid.'
'The pleasure is mine, madame,' murmured Poirot, bowing. He escaped from several important and splendid beings - a famous diplomat, an equally famous actress and a well-known sporting peer - and found at last the person he had come to seek, that invariably 'also present' guest, Mr Satterthwaite. Mr Satterthwaite twittered amiably. 'The dear duchess - I always enjoy her parties... Such a personality, if you know what I mean. I saw a lot of her in Corsica some years ago...' Mr Satterthwaite's conversation was apt to be unduly burdened by mentions of his titled acquaintances. It is possible that he may sometimes have found pleasure in the company of Messrs. Jones, Brown or Robinson, but, if so, he did not mention the fact. And yet, to describe Mr Satterthwaite as a mere snob and leave it at that would have been to do him an injustice. He was a keen observer of human nature, and if it is true that the looker-on knows most of the game, Mr Satterthwaite knew a good deal. 'You know, my dear fellow, it is really ages since I saw you. I always feel myself privileged to have seen you work at close quarters in the Crow's Nest business. I feel since then that I am in the know, so to speak. I saw Lady Mary only last week, by the way. A charming creature - pot-pourri and lavender!' After passing lightly on one or two scandals of the
moment - the indiscretions of an earl's daughter, and the lamentable conduct of a viscount - Poirot succeeded in introducing the name of Gervase Chevenix-Gore. Mr Satterthwaite responded immediately. 'Ah, now, there is a character, if you like! The Last of the Baronets that's his nickname.'
'Pardon, I do not quite comprehend.' Mr Satterthwaite unbent indulgently to the lower comprehension of a foreigner. 'It's a joke, you know – a joke. Naturally, he's not really the last baronet in England - but he does represent the end of an era. The Bold Bad Baronet - the mad harum-scarum baronet so popular in the novels of the last century - the kind of fellow who laid impossible wagers and won 'em.' He went on to expound what he meant in more detail. In younger years, Gervase Chevenix-Gore had sailed round the world in a windjammer. He had been on an expedition to the Pole. He had challenged a racing peer to a duel. For a wager he had ridden his favourite mare up the staircase of a ducal house. He had once leapt from a box to the stage and carried off a well-known actress in the middle of her rôle. The anecdotes of him were innumerable. 'It's an old family,' went on Mr Satterthwaite. 'Sir Guy de Chevenix went on the first crusade. Now, alas, the line looks like coming to an end. Old Gervase is the last Chevenix-Gore.'
'The estate, it is impoverished?'
'Not a bit of it. Gervase is fabulously wealthy. Owns valuable house property - coalfields - and in addition he staked out a claim to some mine in Peru or somewhere in South America, when he was a young man, which has yielded him a fortune. An amazing man. Always lucky in everything he's undertaken.'
'He is now an elderly man, of course?'
'Yes, poor old Gervase.' Mr Satterthwaite sighed, shook his head. 'Most people would describe him to you as mad as a hatter. It's true, in a way. He is mad - not in the sense of being certifiable or having delusions - but mad in the sense of being abnormal. He's always been a man of great originality of character.'
'And originality becomes eccentricity as the years go by?' suggested Poirot. 'Very true. That's exactly what's happened to poor old Gervase.'
'He has perhaps, a swollen idea of his own importance?'
'Absolutely. I should imagine that , in Gervase's mind, the world has always been divided into two parts - there are the Chevenix-Gores, and the other people!'
'An exaggerated sense of family!'
'Yes. The Chevenix-Gores are all arrogant as the devil - a law unto themselves. Gervase, being the last of them, has got it badly. He is well, really, you know, to hear him talk, you might imagine him to be er, the Almighty!' Poirot nodded his head slowly and thoughtfully. 'Yes, I imagined that. I have had, you see, a letter from him. It was an unusual letter. It did not demand. It summoned!'
'A royal command,' said Mr Satterthwaite, tittering a little. 'Precisely. It did not seem to occur to this Sir Gervase that I, Hercule Poirot, am a man of importance, a man of infinite affairs! That it was extremely unlikely that I should be able to fling everything aside and come hastening like an obedient dog - like a mere nobody, gratified to receive a commission!' Mr Satterthwaite bit his lip in an effort to suppress a smile. It may have occurred to him that where egoism was concerned, there was not much to choose between Hercule Poirot and Gervase Chevenix-
Gore. He murmured: 'Of course, if the cause of the summons was urgent - ?'
'It was not!' Poirot's hands rose in the air in an emphatic gesture. 'I was to hold myself at his disposition, that was all, in case he should require me! Enfin, je vous demande! '
Again the hands rose eloquently, expressing better than words could do M. Hercule Poirot's sense of utter outrage. 'I take it,' said Mr Satterthwaite, 'that you refused?'
'I have not yet had the opportunity,' said Poirot slowly. 'But you will refuse?' A new expression passed over the little man's face. His brow furrowed itself perplexedly. He said: 'How can I express myself? To refuse - yes, that was my first instinct. But I do not know... One has, sometimes, a feeling. Faintly, I seem to smell the fish...' Mr Satterthwaite received this last statement without any sign of amusement. 'Oh?' he said. 'That is interesting...'
'It seems to me,' went on Hercule Poirot, 'that a man such as you have described might be very vulnerable - '
'Vulnerable?' queried Mr Satterthwaite. For the moment he was surprised. The word was not one that he would naturally have associated with Gervase Chevenix-Gore. But he was a man of perception, quick in observation. He said slowly: 'I think I see what you mean.'
'Such a one is encased, is he not, in an armour - such an armour!
The armour of the crusaders was nothing to it - an armour of arrogance, of pride, of complete self-esteem. This armour, it is in some ways a protection, the arrows, the everyday arrows of life glance off it. But there is this danger: sometimes a man in armour might not even know he was being attacked. He will be slow to see, slow to hear - slower still to feel.' He paused, then asked with a change of manner: 'Of what does the family of this Sir Gervase consist?'
'There's Vanda - his wife. She was an Arbuthnot - very handsome girl. She's still quite a handsome woman. Frightfully vague, though.
Devoted to Gervase. She's got a leaning towards the occult, I believe. Wears amulets and scarabs and gives out that she's the reincarnation of an Egyptian Queen... Then there's Ruth - she's their adopted daughter. They've no children of their own. Very attractive girl in the modern style. That's all the family. Except, of course, for Hugo Trent. He's Gervase's nephew. Pamela Chevenix-Gore married Reggie Trent and Hugo was their only child. He's an orphan. He can't inherit the title, of course, but I imagine he'll come in for most of Gervase's money in the end. Good-looking lad, he's in the Blues.' Poirot nodded his head thoughtfully. Then he asked: 'It is a grief to Sir Gervase, yes, that he has no son to inherit his name?'
'I should imagine that it cuts pretty deep.'
'The family name, it is a passion with him?'
'Yes.' Mr Satterthwaite was silent a moment or two. He was very intrigued.
Finally he ventured: 'You see a definite reason for going down to Hamborough Close?' Slowly, Poirot shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'As far as I can see, there is no reason at all. But, all the same, I fancy I shall go.'
Chapter 2
Hercule Poirot sat in the corner of a first-class carriage speeding through the English countryside. Meditatively he took from his pocket a neatly-folded telegram, which he opened and re-read: Take four-thirty from St Pancras instruct guard have express stopped at
Whimperley. Chevenix-Gore. He folded up the telegram again and put it back in his pocket. The guard on the train had been obsequious. The gentleman was going to Hamborough Close? Oh, yes, Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore's guests always had the express stopped at Whimperley. 'A special kind of prerogative, I think it is, sir.' Since then the guard had paid two visits to the carriage - the first in order to assure the traveller that everything would be done to keep the carriage for himself, the second to an nounce that the express was running ten minutes late. The train was due to arrive at 7.50, but it was exactly two minutes past eight when Hercule Poirot descended on to the platform of the little country station and pressed the expected half-crown into the attentive guard's hand. There was a whistle from the engine, and the Northern Express began to move once more. A tall chauffeur in dark green uniform stepped up to Poirot. 'Mr Poirot? For Hamborough Close?' He picked up the detective's neat valise and led the way out of the station. A big Rolls was waiting. The chauffeur held the door open for Poirot to get in, arranged a sumptuous fur rug over his knees, and they drove off. After some ten minutes of cross-country driving, round sharp corners and down country lanes, the car turned in at a wide gateway flanked with huge stone griffons. They drove through a park and up to the house. The door of it was opened as they drew up, and a butler of imposing proportions showed himself upon the front step. 'Mr Poirot? This way, sir.' He led the way along the hall and threw open a door half-way along it on the right. 'Mr Hercule Poirot,' he announced. The room contained a number of people in evening dress, and as Poirot walked in his quick eyes perce
ived at once that his appearance was not expected. The eyes of all present rested on him in unfeigned surprise. Then a tall woman, whose dark hair was threaded with grey, made an uncertain advance towards him. Poirot bowed over her hand. 'My apologies, madame,' he said. 'I fear that my train was late.'
'Not at all,' said Lady Chevenix-Gore vaguely. Her eyes still stared at him in a puzzled fashion. 'Not at all, Mr - er - I didn't quite hear - '
'Hercule Poirot.' He said the name clearly and distinctly. Somewhere behind him he heard a sudden sharp intake of breath. At the same time he realized that clearly his host could not be in the room. He murmured gently: 'You knew I was coming, madame?'
'Oh - oh, yes...' Her manner was not convincing. 'I think - I mean I suppose so, but I am so terribly impractical, M. Poirot. I forget everything.' Her tone held a melancholy pleasure in the fact. 'I am told things. I appear to take them in - but they just pass through my brain and are gone! Vanished! As though they had never been.' Then, with a slight air of performing a duty long overdue, she glanced round her vaguely and murmured: 'I expect you know everybody.' Though this was patently not the case, the phrase was clearly a wellworn formula by means of which Lady Chevenix-Gore spared herself the trouble of introduction and the strain of remembering people's right names. Making a supreme effort to meet the difficulties of this particular case, she added: 'My daughter - Ruth.'
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