Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  'Ha,' cried Japp, 'what's this?' He pounced on something bright and glittering that lay on the floor near the dead man. 'A broken cufflink. I wonder who this belongs to. Dr Giles, I'd be obliged if you'd go down and send up the housekeeper.'

  'What about the Parkers? He's very anxious to leave the house says he's got urgent business in London.'

  'I dare say. It'll have to get on without him. By the way things are going, it's likely that there'll be some urgent business down here for him to attend to! Send up the housekeeper, and don't let either of the Parkers give you and Pollard the slip. Did any of the household come in here this morning?'

  The doctor reflected.

  'No, they stood outside in the corridor while Pollard and I came in.'

  'Sure of that?'

  'Absolutely certain.'

  The doctor departed on his mission.

  'Good man, that,' said Japp approvingly. 'Some of these sporting doctors are first-class fellows. Well, I wonder who shot this chap. It looks like one of the three in the house. I hardly suspect the housekeeper. She's had eight years to shoot him in if she wanted to. I wonder who these Parkers are? They're not a prepossessinglooking couple.'

  Miss Clegg appeared at this juncture. She was a thin, gaunt woman with neat grey hair parted in the middle, very staid and calm in manner. Nevertheless there was an air of efficiency about her which commanded respect. In answer to Japp's questions, she explained that she had been with the dead man for fourteen years.

  He had been a generous and considerate master. She had never seen Mr and Mrs Parker until three days ago, when they arrived unexpectedly to stay. She was of the opinion that they had asked themselves - the master had certainly not seemed pleased to see them. The cuff-links which Japp showed her had not belonged to Mr Protheroe - she was sure of that. Questioned about the pistol, she said that she believed her master had a weapon of that kind. He kept it locked up. She had seen it once some years ago, but could not say whether this was the same one. She had heard no shot last night, but that was not surprising, as it was a big, rambling house, and her rooms and those prepared for the Parkers were at the other end of the building. She did not know what time Mr Protheroe had gone to bed - he was still up when she retired at half past nine.

  It was not his habit to go at once to bed when he went to his room.

  Usually he would sit up half the night, reading and smoking. He was a great smoker.

  Then Poirot interposed a question:

  'Did your master sleep with his window open or shut, as a rule?'

  Miss Clegg considered.

  'It was usually open, at any rate at the top.'

  'Yet now it is closed. Can you explain that?'

  'No, unless he felt a draught and shut it.'

  Japp asked her a few more questions and then dismissed her. Next he interviewed the Parkers separately. Mrs Parker was inclined to be hysterical and tearful; Mr Parker was full of bluster and abuse.

  He denied that the cuff-link was his, but as his wife had previously recognized it, this hardly improved matters for him; and as he had also denied ever having been in Protheroe's room, Japp considered that he had sufficient evidence to apply for a warrant.

  Leaving Pollard in charge, Japp bustled back to the village and got into telephonic communication with headquarters. Poirot and I strolled back to the inn.

  'You're unusually quiet,' I said. 'Doesn't the case interest you?'

  'Au contraire, it interests me enormously. But it puzzles me also.'

  'The motive is obscure,' I said thoughtfully, 'but I'm certain that Parker's a bad lot. The case against him seems pretty clear but for the lack of motive, and that may come out later.'

  'Nothing struck you as being especially significant, although overlooked by Japp?'

  I looked at him curiously.

  'What have you got up your sleeve, Poirot?'

  'What did the dead man have up his sleeve?'

  'Oh, that handkerchief!'

  'Exactly, the handkerchief.'

  'A sailor carries his handkerchief in his sleeve,' I said thoughtfully.

  'An excellent point, Hastings, though not the one I had in mind.'

  'Anything else?'

  'Yes, over and over again I go back to the smell of cigarette-smoke.'

  'I didn't smell any,' I cried wonderingly.

  'No more did I, cher ami."

  I looked earnestly at him. It is so difficult to know when Poirot is pulling one's leg, but he seemed thoroughly in earnest and was frowning to himself.

  The inquest took place two days later. In the meantime other evidence had come to light. A tramp had admitted that he had climbed over the wall into the Leigh House garden, where he often slept in a shed that was left unlocked. He declared that at twelve o'clock he had heard two men quarrelling loudly in a room on the first floor. One was demanding a sum of money; the other was angrily refusing. Concealed behind a bush, he had seen the two men as they passed and repassed the lighted window. One he knew well as being Mr Protheroe, the owner of the house; the other he identified positively as Mr Parker.

  It was clear now that the Parkers had come to Leigh House to blackmail Protheroe, and when later it was discovered that the dead man's real name was Wendover, and that he had been a lieutenant in the Navy and had been concerned in the blowing up of the first-class cruiser Merrythought, in 1910, the case seemed to be rapidly clearing. It was supposed that Parker, cognizant of the part Wendover had played, had tracked him down and demanded hushmoney which the other refused to pay. In the course of the quarrel, Wendover drew his revolver, and Parker snatched it from him and shot him, subsequently endeavouring to give it the appearance of suicide.

  Parker was committed for trial, reserving his defence. We had attended the police-court proceedings. As we left, Poirot nodded his head.

  'It must be so,' he murmured to himself. 'Yes, it must be so. I will delay no longer.'

  He went into the post office, and wrote off a note which he despatched by special messenger. I did not see to whom it was addressed. Then we returned to the inn where we had stayed on that memorable weekend.

  Poirot was restless, going to and from the window.

  'I await a visitor,' he explained. 'It cannot be - surely it cannot be that I am mistaken? No, here she is.'

  To my utter astonishment, in another minute Miss Clegg walked into the room. She was less calm than usual, and was breathing hard as though she had been running. I saw the fear in her eyes as she looked at Poirot.

  'Sit down, mademoiselle,' he said kindly. 'I guessed rightly, did I not?'

  For answer she burst into tears.

  'Why did you do it?' asked Poirot gently. 'Why?'

  'I loved him so,' she answered. 'I was nursemaid to him when he was a little boy. Oh, be merciful to me!'

  'I will do all I can. But you understand that I cannot permit an innocent man to hang - even though he is an unpleasing scoundrel.'

  She sat up and said in a low voice:

  'Perhaps in the end I could not have, either. Do whatever must be done.'

  Then, rising, she hurried from the room.

  'Did she shoot him?' I asked, utterly bewildered.

  Poirot smiled and shook his head.

  'He shot himself. Do you remember that he carried his handkerchief in his right sleeve? That showed me that he was left-handed.

  Fearing exposure, after his stormy interview with Mr Parker, he shot himself. In the morning Miss Clegg came to call him as usual and found him lying dead. As she has just told us, she had known him from a little boy upward, and was filled with fury against the Parkers, who had driven him to this shameful death. She regarded them as murderers, and then suddenly she saw a chance of making them suffer for the deed they had inspired. She alone knew that he was left-handed. She changed the pistol to his right hand, closed and bolted the window, dropped the bit of cuff-link she had picked up in one of the downstairs rooms, and went out, locking the door and removing the key.'

  'P
oirot,' I said, in a burst of enthusiasm, 'you are magnificent. All that from the one little clue of the handkerchief!'

  'And the cigarette-smoke. If the window had been closed, and all those cigarettes smoked, the room ought to have been full of stale tobacco. Instead, it was perfectly fresh, so I deduced at once that the window must have been open all night, and only closed in the morning, and that gave me a very interesting line of speculation. I could conceive of no circumstances under which a murderer could want to shut the window. It would be to his advantage to leave it open, and pretend that the murderer had escaped that way, if the theory of suicide did not go down. Of course, the tramp's evidence, when I heard it, confirmed my suspicions. He could never have overheard that conversation unless the window had been open.'

  'Splendid!' I said heartily. 'Now, what about some tea?'

  'Spoken like a true Englishman,' said Poirot with a sigh. 'I suppose it is not likely that I could obtain here a glass of sirop?'

  WASPS' NEST

  Out of the house came John Harrison and stood a moment on the terrace looking out over the garden. He was a big man with a lean, cadaverous face. His aspect was usually somewhat grim but when as now, the rugged features softened into a smile, there was something very attractive about him.

  John Harrison loved his garden, and it had never looked better than it did on this August evening, summery and languorous. The rambler roses were still beautiful; sweet peas scented the air.

  A well-known creaking sound made Harrison turn his head sharply.

  Who was coming in through the garden gate? In another minute, an expression of utter astonishment came over his face, for the dandified figure coming up the path was the last he expected to see in this part of the world.

  "By all that's wonderful," cried Harrison. "Monsieur Poirot!"

  It was, indeed, the famous Hercule Poirot whose renown as a detective had spread over the whole world.

  "Yes," he said, "it is I. You said to me once: 'If you are ever in this part of the world, come and see me.' I take you at your word. I arrive."

  "And I'm delighted," said Harrison heartily. "Sit down and have a drink."

  With a hospitable hand, he indicated a table on the veranda bearing assorted bottles.

  "I thank you," said Poirot, sinking down into a basket chair. "You have, I suppose, no syrup? No, no, I thought not. A little plain soda water then - no whisky." And he added in a feeling voice as the other placed the glass beside him: "Alas: My mustaches are limp. It is this heat!"

  "And what brings you into this quiet spot?" asked Harrison as he dropped into another chair. "Pleasure?"

  "No, mon ami, business."

  "Business? In this out-of-the-way place?"

  Poirot nodded gravely. "But yes, my friend, all crimes are not committed in crowds, you know?"

  The other laughed. "I suppose that was rather an idiotic remark of mine. But what particular crime are you investigating down here, or is that a thing I mustn't ask?"

  "You may ask," said the detective. "Indeed, I would prefer that you asked."

  Harrison looked at him curiously. He sensed something a little unusual in the other's manner. "You are investigating a crime, you say?" he advanced rather hesitatingly. "A serious crime?"

  "A crime of the most serious there is."

  "You mean..."

  "Murder."

  So gravely did Hercule Poirot say that word that Harrison was quite taken aback. The detective was looking straight at him and again there was something so unusual in his glance that Harrison hardly knew how to proceed. At last, he said: "But I have heard of no murder."

  "No," said Poirot, "you would not have heard of it."

  "Who has been murdered?"

  "As yet," said Hercule Poirot, "nobody."

  "What?"

  "That is why I said you would not have heard of it. I am investigating a crime that has not yet taken place."

  "But look here, that is nonsense."

  "Not at all. If one can investigate a murder before it has happened, surely that is very much better than afterward. One might even - a little idea - prevent it."

  Harrison stared at him. "You are not serious, Monsieur Poirot."

  "But yes, I am serious."

  "You really believe that a murder is going to be committed? Oh, it's absurd!"

  Hercule Poirot finished the first part of the sentence without taking any notice of the exclamation.

  "Unless we can manage to prevent it. Yes, mon ami, that is what I mean."

  "We?"

  "I said we. I shall need your cooperation."

  "Is that why you came down here?"

  Again Poirot looked at him, and again an indefinable something made Harrison uneasy.

  "I came here, Monsieur Harrison because I - well - like you."

  And then he added in an entirely different voice: "I see, Monsieur Harrison, that you have a wasps' nest there. You should destroy it."

  The change of subject made Harrison frown in a puzzled way. He followed Poirot's glance and said in rather a bewildered voice: "As a matter of fact, I'm going to. Or rather, young Langton is. You remember Claude Langton? He was at the same dinner where I met you. He's coming over this evening to take the nest. Rather fancies himself at the job."

  "Ah!" said Poirot. "And how is he going to do it?"

  "Petrol and the garden syringe. He's bringing his own syringe over; it's a more convenient size than mine."

  "There is another way, is there not?" asked Poirot. "With cyanide of potassium?"

  Harrison looked a little surprised. "Yes, but that's rather dangerous stuff. Always a bit of risk having it about the place."

  Poirot nodded gravely. "Yes, it is deadly poison." He waited a minute and then repeated in a grave voice. "Deadly poison."

  "Useful if you want to do away with your mother-in-law, eh?" said Harrison with a laugh.

  But Hercule Poirot remained grave. "And you are quite sure, Monsieur Harrison, that it is with petrol that Monsieur Langton is going to destroy your wasps' nest?"

  "Quite sure. Why?"

  "I wondered. I was at the chemist's in Barchester this afternoon.

  For one of my purchases I had to sign the poison book. I saw the last entry. It was for cyanide of potassium and it was signed for by Claude Langton."

  Harrison stared. "That's odd," he said. "Langton told me the other day that he'd never dream of using the stuff; in fact, he said it oughtn't to be sold for the purpose."

  Poirot looked out over the roses. His voice was very quiet as he asked a question. "Do you like Langton?"

  The other started. The question somehow seemed to find him quite unprepared. "I - I - well, I mean - of course, I like him. Why shouldn't I?"

  "I only wondered," said Poirot placidly, "whether you did."

  And as the other did not answer, he went on. "I also wondered if he liked you?"

  "What are you getting at, Monsieur Poirot? There's something in your mind I can't fathom."

  "I am going to be very frank. You are engaged to be married, Monsieur Harrison. I know Miss Molly Deane. She is a very charming, a very beautiful girl. Before she was engaged to you, she was engaged to Claude Langton. She threw him over for you."

  Harrison nodded.

  "I do not ask what her reasons were; she may have been justified.

  But I tell you this, it is not too much to suppose that Langton has not forgotten or forgiven."

  "You're wrong, Monsieur Poirot. I swear you're wrong. Langton's been a sportsman; he's taken things like a man. He's been amazingly decent to me - gone out of his way to be friendly."

  "And that does not strike you as unusual? You use the word 'amazingly,' but you do not seem to be amazed."

  "What do you mean, M. Poirot?"

  "I mean," said Poirot, and his voice had a new note in it, "that a man may conceal his hate till the proper time comes."

  "Hate?" Harrison shook his head and laughed.

  "The English are very stupid," said Poirot. "
They think that they can deceive anyone but that no one can deceive them. The sportsman the good fellow - never will they believe evil of him. And because they are brave, but stupid, sometimes they die when they need not die."

  "You are warning me," said Harrison in a low voice. "I see it now what has puzzled me all along. You are warning me against Claude Langton. You came here today to warn me..."

  Poirot nodded. Harrison sprang up suddenly. "But you are mad, Monsieur Poirot. This is England. Things don't happen like that here. Disappointed suitors don't go about stabbing people in the back and poisoning them. And you're wrong about Langton. That chap wouldn't hurt a fly."

  "The lives of flies are not my concern," said Poirot placidly. "And although you say Monsieur Langton would not take the life of one, yet you forget that he is even now preparing to take the lives of several thousand wasps."

  Harrison did not at once reply. The little detective in his turn sprang to his feet. He advanced to his friend and laid a hand on his shoulder. So agitated was he that he almost shook the big man, and, as he did so, he hissed into his ear: "Rouse yourself, my friend, rouse yourself. And look - look where I am pointing. There on the bank, close by that tree root. See you, the wasps returning home, placid at the end of the day? In a little hour, there will be destruction, and they know it not. There is no one to tell them. They have not, it seems, a Hercule Poirot. I tell you, Monsieur Harrison, I am down here on business. Murder is my business. And it is my business before it has happened as well as afterward. At what time does Monsieur Langton come to take this wasps' nest?"

  "Langton would never..."

  "At what time?"

  "At nine o'clock. But I tell you, you're all wrong. Langton would never..."

  "These English!" cried Poirot in a passion. He caught up his hat and stick and moved down the path, pausing to speak over his shoulder. "I do not stay to argue with you. I should only enrage myself. But you understand, I return at nine o'clock?"

  Harrison opened his mouth to speak, but Poirot did not give him the chance. "I know what you would say: 'Langton would never,' et cetera. Ah, Langton would never! But all the same I return at nine o'clock. But, yes, it will amuse me - put it like that - it will amuse me to see the taking of a wasps' nest. Another of your English sports!"