Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  "When Lady Astwell had left the room, Trefusis tried to steal out unobserved, but Sir Reuben happened to turn his head, and became aware of the secretary's presence. Already in a bad temper, Sir Reuben hurled abuse at his secretary, and accused him of deliberately eavesdropping and spying.

  "Messieurs and Mesdames, I am a student of psychology. All through this case I have looked, not for the bad-tempered man or woman, for bad temper is its own safety valve. He who can bark does not bite. No, I have looked for the good-tempered man, for the man who is patient and self-controlled, for the man who for nine years has played the part of the under dog. There is no strain so great as that which has endured for years, there is no resentment like that which accumules slowly.

  "For nine years Sir Reuben has bullied and browbeaten his secretary, and for nine years that man has endured in silence. But there comes a day when at last the strain reaches its breaking point. Something snaps! It was so that night. Sir Reuben sat down at his desk again, but the secretary, instead of turning humbly and meekly to the door, picks up the heavy wooden club, and strikes down the man who had bullied him once too often."

  He turned to Trefusis, who was staring at him as though turned to stone.

  "It was so simple, your alibi. Mr Astwell thought you were in your room, but no one saw you go there. You were just stealing out after striking down Sir Reuben, when you heard it sound, and you hastened back to cover, behind the curtain. You were behind there when Charles Leverson entered the room you were there when Lily Margrave came. It was not till long after that that you crept up through a silent house to your bedroom. Do you deny it?"

  Trefusis began to stammer.

  "I - I never -"

  "Ah! Let us finish this. For two weeks now I have played the comedy, I have showed you the net closing slowly around you. The fingerprints, footprints, the search of your room with the things artistically replaced. I have struck terror into you with all of this; you have lain awake at night fearing and wondering; did you leave a fingerprint in the room or a footprint somewhere?

  "Again and again you have gone over the events of that night wondering what you have done or left undone, and so I brought you to the state where you made a slip. I saw the fear leap into your eyes today when I picked up something from the stairs where you had stood hidden that night. Then I made a great parade, the little box, the entrusting of it to George, and I go out."

  Poirot turned toward the door.

  "George?"

  "I am here, sir."

  The valet came forward.

  "Will you tell these ladies and gentlemen what my instructions were?"

  "I was to remain concealed in the wardrobe in your room, sir, having placed the cardboard box where you told me to. At half-past three this afternoon, sir, Mr Trefusis entered the room; he went to the drawer and took out the box in question."

  "And in that box," continued Poirot, "was a common pin. Me, I speak always the truth. I did pick up something on the stairs this morning. That is your English saying, is it not? 'See a pin and pick it up, all the day you'll have good luck.' Me, I have had good luck, I have found the murderer."

  He turned to the secretary.

  "You see?" he said gently. "You betrayed yourself."

  Suddenly Trefusis broke down. He sank into a chair sobbing, his face buried in his hands.

  "I was mad," he groaned. "I was mad. But, oh, my God, he badgered and bullied me beyond bearing. For years I had hated and loathed him."

  "I knew!" cried Lady Astwell.

  She sprang forward, her face irradiated with savage triumph.

  "I knew that man had done it."

  She stood there, savage and triumphant.

  "And you were right," said Poirot. "One may call things by different names, but the fact remains. Your 'intuition,' Lady Astwell, proved correct. I felicitate you."

  FOUR-AND-TWENTY BLACKBIRDS

  Hercule Poirot was dining with his friend, Henry Bonnington at the Gallant Endeavour in the King's Road, Chelsea.

  Mr Bonnington was fond of the Gallant Endeavour. He liked the leisurely atmosphere, he liked the food which was 'plain' and 'English' and 'not a lot of made up messes.' He liked to tell people who dined with him there just exactly where Augustus John had been wont to sit and draw the attention to the famous artists' names in the visitors' book. Mr Bonnington was himself the least artistic of men - but he took a certain pride in the artistic activities of others.

  Molly, the sympathetic waitress, greeted Mr Bonnington as an old friend. She prided herself on remembering her customers' likes and dislikes in the way of food.

  'Good evening, sir,' she said, as the two men took their seats at a corner table. 'You're in luck today - turkey stuffed with chestnuts that's your favourite, isn't it? And ever such a nice Stilton we've got!

  Will you have soup first or fish?'

  Mr Bonnington deliberated the point. He said to Poirot warningly as the latter studied the menu:

  'None of your French kickshaws now. Good well-cooked English food.'

  'My friend,' Hercule Poirot waved his hand, 'I ask no better! I put myself in your hands unreservedly.'

  'Ah - hm - er - hm,' replied Mr Bonnington and gave careful attention to the matter.

  These weighty matters, and the question of wine, settled, Mr Bonnington leaned back with a sigh and unfolded his napkin as Molly sped away.

  'Good girl, that,' he said approvingly. 'Was quite a beauty once artists used to paint her. She knows about food, too and that's a great deal more important. Women are very unsound on food as a rule. There's many a woman if she goes out with a fellow she fancies, won't even notice what she eats. She'll just order the first thing she sees.'

  Hercule Poirot shook his head. 'C'est terrible.'

  'Men aren't like that, thank God!' said Mr Bonnington complacently.

  'Never?' There was a twinkle in Hercule Poirot's eye.

  'Well, perhaps when they're very young,' conceded Mr Bonnington.

  'Young puppies! Young fellows nowadays are all the same - no guts - no stamina. I've no use for the young - and they,' he added with strict impartiality, 'have no use for me. Perhaps they're right! But to hear some of these young fellows talk you'd think no man had a right to be alive after sixty! From the way they go on, you'd wonder more of them didn't help their elderly relations out of the world.'

  'It is possible,' said Hercule Poirot, 'that they do.'

  'Nice mind you've got, Poirot, I must say. All this police work saps your ideals.'

  Hercule Poirot smiled.

  'Tout de même,' he said. 'It would be interesting to make a table of accidental deaths over the age of sixty. I assure you it would raise some curious speculations in your mind.'

  'The trouble with you is that you've started going to look for crime instead of waiting for crime to come to you.'

  'I apologize,' said Poirot. 'I talk what you call "the shop." Tell me, my friend, of your own affairs. How does the world go with you?'

  'Mess!' said Mr Bonnington. 'That's what's the matter with the world nowadays. Too much mess. And too much fine language. The fine language helps to conceal the mess. Like a highly-flavoured sauce concealing the fact that the fish underneath it is none of the best!

  Give me an honest fillet of sole and no messy sauce over it.'

  It was given him at that moment by Molly and he grunted approval.

  'You know just what I like, my girl,' he said.

  'Well, you come here pretty regular, don't you, sir? I ought to know what you like.'

  Hercule Poirot said:

  'Do people then always like the same things? Do not they like a change sometimes?'

  'Not gentlemen, sir. Ladies like variety - gentlemen always like the same thing.'

  'What did I tell you?' grunted Bonnington. 'Women are fundamentally unsound where food is concerned!'

  He looked round the restaurant.

  'The world's a funny place. See that odd-looking old fellow with a beard in the corner? Moll
y'll tell you he's always here Tuesdays and Thursday nights. He has come here for close on ten years now he's a kind of landmark in the place. Yet nobody here knows his name or where he lives or what his business is. It's odd when you come to think of it.'

  When the waitress brought the portions of turkey he said: 'I see you've still got Old Father Time over there.'

  'That's right, sir. Tuesdays and Thursdays, his days are. Not but what he came in here on a Monday last week! It quite upset me! I felt I'd got my dates wrong and that it must be Tuesday without my knowing it! But he came in the next night as well - so the Monday was just a kind of extra, so to speak.'

  'An interesting deviation from habit,' murmured Poirot. 'I wonder what the reason was?'

  'Well, sir, if you ask me, I think he'd had some kind of upset or worry.'

  'Why did you think that? His manner?'

  'No, sir - not his manner exactly. He was very quiet as he always is.

  Never says much except good evening when he comes and goes.

  No, it was his order.'

  'His order?'

  'I dare say you gentlemen will laugh at me,' Molly flushed up, 'but when a gentleman has been here for ten years, you get to know his likes and dislikes. He never could bear suet pudding or blackberries and I've never known him take thick soup - but on that Monday night he ordered thick tomato soup, beefsteak and kidney pudding and blackberry tart! Seemed as though he just didn't notice what he ordered!'

  'Do you know,' said Hercule Poirot, 'I find that extraordinarily interesting.'

  Molly looked gratified and departed.

  'Well, Poirot,' said Henry Bonnington with a chuckle. 'Let's have a few deductions from you. All in your best manner.'

  'I would prefer to hear yours first.'

  'Want me to be Watson, eh? Well, old fellow went to a doctor and the doctor changed his diet.'

  'To thick tomato soup, steak and kidney pudding and blackberry tart? I cannot imagine any doctor doing that.'

  'Don't believe it, old boy. Doctors will put you on to anything.'

  'That is the only solution that occurs to you?'

  Henry Bonnington said:

  'Well, seriously, I suppose there's only one explanation possible.

  Our unknown friend was in the grip of some powerful mental emotion. He was so perturbed by it that he literally did not notice what he was ordering or eating.' He paused a minute and then said:

  'You'll be telling me next that you know just what was on his mind.

  You'll say perhaps that he was making up his mind to commit a murder.'

  He laughed at his own suggestion.

  Hercule Poirot did not laugh.

  He has admitted that at that moment he was seriously worried. He claims that he ought then to have had some inkling of what was likely to occur.

  His friends assure him that such an idea is quite fantastic.

  It was some three weeks later that Hercule Poirot and Bonnington met again - this time their meeting was in the Tube.

  They nodded to each other, swaying about, hanging on to adjacent straps. Then at Piccadilly Circus there was a general exodus and they found seats right at the forward end of the car - a peaceful spot since nobody passed in or out that way.

  'That's better,' said Mr Bonnington. 'Selfish lot, the human race, they won't pass up the car however much you ask 'em to!'

  Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  'What will you?' he said. 'Life is too uncertain.'

  'That's it. Here today, gone tomorrow,' said Mr Bonnington with a kind of gloomy relish. 'And talking of that, d'you remember that old boy we noticed at the Gallant Endeavour? I shouldn't wonder if he'd hopped it to a better world. He's not been there for a whole week.

  Molly's quite upset about it.'

  Hercule Poirot sat up. His green eyes flashed.

  'Indeed?' he said. 'Indeed?'

  Bonnington said:

  'D'you remember I suggested he'd been to a doctor and been put on a diet? Diet's nonsense of course - but I shouldn't wonder if he had consulted a doctor about his health and what the doctor said gave him a bit of a jolt. That would account for him ordering things off the menu without noticing what he was doing. Quite likely the jolt he got hurried him out of the world sooner than he would have gone otherwise. Doctors ought to be careful what they tell a chap.'

  'They usually are,' said Hercule Poirot.

  'This is my station,' said Mr Bonnington. 'Bye, bye. Don't suppose we shall ever know now who the old boy was - not even his name.

  Funny world!'

  He hurried out of the carriage.

  Hercule Poirot, sitting frowning, looked as though he did not think it was such a funny world.

  He went home and gave certain instructions to his faithful valet, George.

  Hercule Poirot ran his finger down a list of names. It was a record of deaths within a certain area.

  Poirot's finger stopped.

  'Henry Gascoigne. Sixty-nine. I might try him first.'

  Later in the day, Hercule Poirot was sitting in Dr MacAndrew's surgery just off the King's Road. MacAndrew was a tall red-haired Scotsman with an intelligent face.

  'Gascoigne?' he said. 'Yes, that's right. Eccentric old bird. Lived alone in one of those derelict old houses that are being cleared away in order to build a block of modern flats. I hadn't attended him before, but I'd seen him about and I knew who he was. It was the dairy people got the wind up first. The milk bottles began to pile up outside. In the end the people next door sent word to the police and they broke the door in and found him. He'd pitched down the stairs and broken his neck. Had on an old dressing-gown with a ragged cord - might easily have tripped himself up with it.'

  'I see,' said Hercule Poirot. 'It was quite simple - an accident.'

  'That's right.'

  'Had he any relations?'

  'There's a nephew. Used to come along and see his uncle about once a month. Lorrimer, his name is, George Lorrimer. He's a medico himself. Lives at Wimbledon.'

  'Was he upset at the old man's death?'

  'I don't know that I'd say he was upset. I mean, he had an affection for the old man, but he didn't really know him very well.'

  'How long had Mr Gascoigne been dead when you saw him?'

  'Ah!' said Dr MacAndrew. 'This is where we get official. Not less than forty-eight hours and not more than seventy-two hours. He was found on the morning of the sixth. Actually, we got closer than that. He'd got a letter in the pocket of his dressing-gown - written on the third - posted in Wimbledon that afternoon - would have been delivered somewhere around nine-twenty p.m. That puts the time of death at after nine-twenty on the evening of the third. That agrees with the contents of the stomach and the processes of digestion.

  He had had a meal about two hours before death. I examined him on the morning of the sixth and his condition was quite consistent with death having occurred about sixty hours previously - round about ten p.m. on the third.'

  'It all seems very consistent. Tell me, when was he last seen alive?'

  'He was seen in the King's Road about seven o'clock that same evening, Thursday the third, and he dined at the Gallant Endeavour restaurant at seven-thirty. It seems he always dined there on Thursdays. He was by way of being an artist, you know. An extremely bad one.'

  'He had no other relations? Only this nephew?'

  'There was a twin brother. The whole story is rather curious. They hadn't seen each other for years. It seems the other brother, Anthony Gascoigne, married a very rich woman and gave up art and the brothers quarrelled over it. Hadn't seen each other since, I believe. But oddly enough, they died on the same day. The elder twin passed away at three o'clock on the afternoon of the third.

  Once before I've known a case of twins dying on the same day - in different parts of the world! Probably just a coincidence- but there it is.'

  'Is the other brother's wife alive?'

  'No, she died some years ago.'

  'Where did Anthony Gascoigne
live?'

  'He had a house on Kingston Hill. He was, I believe, from what Dr Lorrimer tells me, very much of a recluse.'

  Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

  The Scotsman looked at him keenly.

  'What exactly have you got in your mind, M. Poirot?' he asked bluntly. 'I've answered your questions - as was my duty seeing the credentials you brought. But I'm in the dark as to what it's all about.'

  Poirot said slowly:

  'A simple case of accidental death, that's what you said. What I have in mind is equally simple - a simple push.'

  Dr MacAndrew looked startled.

  'In other words, murder! Have you any grounds for that belief?'

  'No,' said Poirot. 'It is a mere supposition.'

  'There must be something -' persisted the other.

  Poirot did not speak.

  MacAndrew said: 'If it's the nephew, Lorrimer, you suspect, I don't mind telling you here and now that you are barking up the wrong tree. Lorrimer was playing bridge in Wimbledon from eight-thirty till midnight. That came out at the inquest.'

  Poirot murmured:

  'And presumably it was verified. The police are careful.'

  The doctor said:

  'Perhaps you know something against him?'

  'I didn't know that there was such a person until you mentioned him.'

  'Then you suspect somebody else?'

  'No, no. It is not that at all. It's a case of the routine habits of the human animal. That is very important. And the dead M. Gascoigne does not fit in. It is all wrong, you see.'

  'I really don't understand.'

  Hercule Poirot murmured:

  'The trouble is, there is too much sauce over the bad fish.'

  'My dear sir?'

  Hercule Poirot smiled.

  'You will be having me locked up as a lunatic soon, Monsieur le Docteur. But I am not really a mental case - just a man who has a liking for order and method and who is worried when he comes across a fact that does not fit in. I must ask you to forgive me for having given you so much trouble.'