Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  They don't seem to be particularly surprised. Of course, he was mad as a hatter, but even then -'

  'Even then you are surprised at his committing suicide?'

  'Frankly, yes. I shouldn't have thought that - well, that Lytcham Roche could have imagined the world getting on without him.'

  'He has had no money troubles of late, I understand?'

  Marshall nodded.

  'He speculated. Wildcat schemes of Barling's.'

  Poirot said quietly, 'I will be very frank. Had you any reason to suppose that M. Lytcham-Roche suspected you of tampering with your accounts?'

  Marshall stared at Poirot in a kind of ludicrous bewilderment. So ludicrous was it that Poirot was forced to smile.

  'I see that you are utterly taken aback, Captain Marshall.'

  'Yes, indeed. The idea's ridiculous.'

  'Ah! Another question. He did not suspect you of robbing him of his adopted daughter?'

  'Oh, so you know about me and Di?' He laughed in an embarrassed fashion.

  'It is so, then?'

  Marshall nodded.

  'But the old man didn't know anything about it. Di wouldn't have told him. I suppose she was right. He would have gone up like a like a basketful of rockets. I should have been chucked out of a job, and that would have been that.'

  'And instead what was your plan?'

  'Well, upon my word, sir, I hardly know. I left things to Di. She said she'd fix it. As a matter of fact I was looking out for a job. If I could have got one I would have chucked this up.'

  'And mademoiselle would have married you? But M. Lytcham Roche would have stopped her allowance. Mademoiselle Diana is, I should say, fond of money.'

  Marshall looked rather uncomfortable.

  'I'd have tried to make it up to her, sir.'

  Geoffrey Keene came into the room. 'The police are just going and would like to see you, M. Poirot.'

  'Merci. I will come.'

  In the study were a stalwart inspector and the police surgeon.

  'Mr Poirot?' said the inspector. 'We've heard of you, sir. I'm Inspector Reeves.'

  'You are most amiable,' said Poirot, shaking hands. 'You do not need my co-operation, no?' He gave a little laugh.

  'Not this time, sir. All plain sailing.'

  'The case is perfectly straightforward, then?' demanded Poirot.

  'Absolutely. Door and window locked, key of door in dead man's pocket. Manner very strange the past few days. No doubt about it.'

  'Everything quite - natural?'

  The doctor grunted.

  'Must have been sitting at a damned queer angle for the bullet to have hit that mirror. But suicide's a queer business.'

  'You found the bullet?'

  'Yes, here.' The doctor held it out. 'Near the wall below the mirror. Pistol was Mr Roche's own. Kept it in the drawer of the desk always. Something behind it all, I daresay, but what that is we shall never know.'

  Poirot nodded.

  The body had been carried to a bedroom. The police now took their leave. Poirot stood at the front door looking after them. A sound made him turn. Harry Dalehouse was close behind him.

  'Have you, by any chance, a strong flashlight, my friend?'

  'Yes, I'll get it for you.'

  When he returned with it Joan Ashby was with him.

  'You may accompany me if you like,' said Poirot graciously.

  He stepped out of the front door and turned to the right, stopping before the study window. About six feet of grass separated it from the path. Poirot bent down, playing the flashlight on the grass. He straightened himself and shook his head.

  'No,' he said, 'not there.'

  Then he paused and slowly his figure stiffened. On either side of the grass was a deep flower border. Poirot's attention was focused on the right hand border, full of Michaelmas daisies and dahlias. His torch was directed on the front of the border. Distinct on the soft mould were footprints.

  'Four of them,' murmured Poirot. 'Two going toward the window, two coming from it.'

  'A gardener,' suggested Joan.

  'But no, mademoiselle, but no. Employ your eyes. These shoes are small, dainty, high-heeled, the shoes of a woman. Mademoiselle Diana mentioned having been out in the garden. Do you know if she went downstairs before you did, mademoiselle?'

  Joan shook her head.

  'I can't remember. I was in such a hurry because the gong went, and I thought I'd heard the first one. I do seem to remember that her room door was open as I went past, but I'm not sure. Mrs Lytcham-Roche's was shut, I know.'

  'I see,' said Poirot.

  Something in his voice made Harry look up sharply, but Poirot was merely frowning gently to himself.

  In the doorway they met Diana Cleves.

  'The police have gone,' she said. 'It's all - over.'

  She gave a deep sigh.

  'May I request one little word with you, mademoiselle?'

  She led the way into the morning room, and Poirot followed, shutting the door.

  'Well?' She looked a little surprised.

  'One little question, mademoiselle . Were you tonight at any time in the flower border outside the study window?'

  'Yes.' She nodded. 'About seven o'clock and again just before dinner.'

  'I do not understand,' he said.

  'I can't see that here is anything to "understand", as you call it,' she said coldly. 'I was picking Michaelmas daisies - for the table. I always to the flowers. That was about seven o'clock.'

  'And afterward - later?'

  'Oh, that! As a matter of fact I dropped a spot of hair oil in my dress - just on the shoulder here. It was just as I was ready to come down. I didn't want to change the dress. I remembered I'd seen a late rose in bud in the border. I ran out and picked it and pinned it in. See -' She came close to him and lifted the head of the rose. Poirot saw the minute grease spot. She remained close to him, her shoulder almost brushing his.

  'And what time was this?'

  'Oh, about ten minutes past eight, I suppose.'

  'You did not - try the window?'

  'I believe I did. Yes, I thought it would be quicker to go in that way. But it was fastened.'

  'I see.' Poirot drew a deep breath. 'And the shot,' he said, 'where were you when you heard that? Still in the flower border?'

  'Oh, no; it was two or three minutes later, just before I came in by the side door.'

  'Do you know what this is, mademoiselle?'

  On the palm of his hand he held out the tiny silk rosebud. She examined it coolly.

  'It looks like a rosebud off my little evening bag. Where did you find it?'

  'It was in Mr Keene's pocket,' said Poirot dryly. 'Did you give it to him, mademoiselle?'

  'Did he tell you I gave it to him?'

  Poirot smiled.

  'When did you give it to him, mademoiselle?'

  'Last night.'

  'Did he warn you to say that, mademoiselle?'

  'What do you mean?' she asked angrily.

  But Poirot did not answer. He strode out of the room and into the drawing room. Barling, Keene, and Marshall were there. He went straight up to them.

  'Messieurs,' he said brusquely, 'will you follow me to the study?'

  He passed out into the hall and addressed Joan and Harry.

  'You, too, I pray of you. And will somebody request madame to come? I thank you. Ah! And here is the excellent Digby. Digby, a little question, a very important little question. Did Miss Cleves arrange some Michaelmas daisies before dinner?'

  The butler looked bewildered.

  'Yes, sir, she did.'

  'You are sure?'

  'Quite sure, sir.'

  'Très bien. Now - come, all of you.'

  Inside the study he faced them.

  'I have asked you to come here for a reason. The case is over, the police have come and gone. They say Mr Lytcham-Roche has shot himself. All is finished.' He paused. 'But I, Hercule Poirot, say that it is not finished.'

  As startle
d eyes turned to him the door opened and Mrs Lytcham Roche floated into the room.

  'I was saying, madame, that this case is not finished. It is a matter of the psychology. Mr Lytcham-Roche, he had the manie grandeur, he was a king. Such a man does not kill himself. No, no, he may go mad, but he does not kill himself. Mr Lytcham-Roche did not kill himself.' He paused. 'He was killed.'

  'Killed?' Marshall gave a short laugh. 'Alone in the room with the door and window locked?'

  'All the same,' said Poirot stubbornly, 'he was killed.'

  'And got up and locked the door or shut the window afterward, I suppose,' said Diana cuttingly.

  'I will show you something,' said Poirot, going to the window. He turned the handle of the French windows and then pulled gently.

  'See, they are open. Now I close them, but without turning the handle. Now the window is closed but not fastened. Now!'

  He gave a short jarring blow and the handle turned, shooting the bolt down into its socket.

  'You see?' said Poirot softly. 'It is very loose, this mechanism. It could be done from outside quite easily.'

  He turned, his manner grim.

  'When that shot was fired at twelve minutes past eight, there were four people in the hall. Four people have an alibi. Where were the other three? You, madame? In your room. You, monsieur Barling.

  Were you, too, in your room?'

  'I was.'

  'And you, mademoiselle, were in the garden. So you have admitted.'

  'I don't see -' began Diana.

  'Wait.' He turned to Mrs Lytcham-Roche. 'Tell me, madame, have you any idea of how your husband left his money?'

  'Hubert read his will. He said I ought to know. He left me three thousand a year chargeable on the estate, and the dower house or the town house, whichever I preferred. Everything else he left to Diana, on condition that if she married her husband must take the name.'

  'Ah!'

  'But then he made a codicil thing - a few weeks ago, that was.'

  'Yes, madame?'

  'He still left it all to Diana, but on condition that she married Mr Barling. If she married anyone else, it was all to go to his nephew, Harry Dalehouse.'

  'But the codicil was only made a few weeks ago,' purred Poirot. 'Mademoiselle may not have known of that.' He stepped forward accusingly. 'Mademoiselle Diana, you want to marry Captain Marshall, do you not? Or is it Mr Keene?'

  She walked across the room and put her arm through Marshall's sound one.

  'Go on,' she said.

  'I will put the case against you, mademoiselle. You loved Captain Marshall. You also loved money. Your adopted father he would never have consented to you marrying Captain Marshall, but if he dies you are fairly sure that you get everything. So you go out, step over the flower border to the window which is open, you have with you the pistol which you have taken from the writing table drawer. You go up to your victim talking amiably. You fire. You drop the pistol by his hand, having wiped it and pressed his fingers on it. You go out again, shaking the window till the bolt drops. You come into the house. Is that how it happened? I am asking you, mademoiselle.'

  'No,' Diana screamed. 'No - no!'

  He looked at her, then he smiled.

  'No,' he said, 'it was not like that. It might have been so - it is plausible - it is possible - but it cannot have been like that for two reasons. The first is that you picked Michaelmas daisies at seven o'clock, the second arises from something that mademoiselle here told me.' He turned to Joan, who stared at him in bewilderment. He nodded encouragement.

  'But yes, mademoiselle. You told me that you hurried downstairs because you thought it was the second gong sounding, having already heard the first.'

  He shot a rapid glance around the room.

  'You do not see what that means?' he cried. 'You do not see. Look! Look!' He sprang forward to the chair where the victim sat. 'Did you notice how the body was? Not sitting square to the desk - no, sitting sideways to the desk, facing the window. Is that a natural way to commit suicide? Jamais, jamais! You write your apologia "sorry" on a piece of paper - you open the drawer, you take out the pistol, you hold it to your head and you fire. That is the way of suicide. But now consider murder! The victim sits at his desk, the murderer stands beside him - talking. And talking still - fires.

  Where does the bullet go then?' He paused. 'Straight through the head, through the door if it is open, and so - hits the gong.

  'Ah! you begin to see? This was the first gong - heard only by mademoiselle, since her room is above.

  'What does our murderer do next? Shuts the door, locks it, puts the key in the dead man's pocket, then turns the body sideways in the chair, presses the dead man's fingers on the pistol and then drops it by his side, cracks the mirror on the wall as a final spectacular touch - in short, "arranges" his suicide. Then out through the window, the bolt is shaken home, the murderer steps not on the grass, where footprints must show, but on the flower bed, where they can be smoothed out behind him, leaving no trace. Then back into the house, and at twelve minutes past eight, when he is alone in the drawing room, he fires a service revolver out of the drawing room window and dashes out into the hall. Is that how you did it, Mr Geoffrey Keene?'

  Fascinated, the secretary stared at the accusing figure drawing nearer to him. Then, with a gurgling cry, he fell to the ground.

  'I think I am answered,' said Poirot. 'Captain Marshall, will you ring up the police?' He bent over the prostrate form. 'I fancy he will be still unconscious when they come.'

  'Geoffrey Keene,' murmured Diana. 'But what motive had he?'

  'I fancy that as secretary he had certain opportunities - accounts cheques. Something awakened Mr Lytcham-Roche's suspicions. He sent for me.'

  'Why for you? Why not for the police?'

  'I think, mademoiselle, you can answer that question. Monsieur suspected there was something between you and that young man.

  To divert his mind from Captain Marshall, you had flirted shamelessly with Mr Keene. But yes, you need not deny! Mr Keene gets wind of my coming and acts promptly. The essence of his scheme is that the crime must seem to take place at 8:12, when he has an alibi. His one danger is the bullet, which must be lying somewhere near the gong and which he has not had time to retrieve. When we are all on our way to the study he picks that up.

  At such a tense moment he thinks no one will notice. But me, I notice everything! I question him. He reflects a little minute and then he plays the comedy! He insinuates that what he picked up was the silk rosebud, he plays the part of the young man in love shielding the lady he loves. Oh, it was very clever, and if you had not picked Michaelmas daisies -'

  'I don't understand what they have to do with it.'

  'You do not? Listen - there were only four footprints in the bed, but when you were picking the flowers you must have made many more than that. So in between your picking the flowers and your coming to get the rosebud someone must have smoothed over the bed. Not a gardener - no gardener works after seven. Then it must be someone guilty - it must be the murderer - the murder was committed before the shot was heard.'

  'But why did nobody hear the real shot?' asked Harry.

  'A silencer. They will find that and the revolver thrown into the shrubbery.'

  'What a risk!'

  'Why a risk? Everyone was upstairs dressing for dinner. It was a very good moment. The bullet was the only contretemps, and even that, as he thought, passed off well.'

  Poirot picked it up. 'He threw it under the mirror when I was examining the window with Mr Dalehouse.'

  'Oh!' Diana wheeled on Marshall. 'Marry me, John, and take me away.'

  Barling coughed. 'My dear Diana, under the terms of my friend's will -'

  'I don't care,' the girl cried. 'We can draw pictures on pavements.'

  'There's no need to do that,' said Harry. 'We'll go halves, Di. I'm not going to bag things because Uncle had a bee in his bonnet.'

  Suddenly there was a cry. Mrs Lytcham-Roche had sprung to
her feet.

  'M. Poirot - the mirror - he must have deliberately smashed it.'

  'Yes, madame.'

  'Oh!' She stared at him. 'But it is unlucky to break a mirror.'

  'It has proved very unlucky for Mr Geoffrey Keene,' said Poirot cheerfully.

  YELLOW IRIS

  Hercule Poirot stretched his feet towards the electric heater by the wall. The precise design made by the parallel glowing bars was pleasing to his orderly mind.

  "The coal heaters were clumsy and disorderly. They never had this delicious symmetry..."

  The phone rang. Poirot got up and consulted his watch. It was almost half past eleven. Who would phone him at this hour? But it could be a wrong number.

  "Or maybe," he murmured to himself with a dreamy smile, "they have found a millionaire, owner of a newspaper chain, murdered in his library with a rare orchid crushed in his left hand and the page of a cooking book attached by a dagger to his chest..."

  Smiling at the pleasing conceit, he lifted the receiver. Immediately a voice spoke - a soft husky woman's voice with a kind of desperate urgency about it.

  "Is that M. Hercule Poirot? Is that M. Hercule Poirot?"

  "Hercule Poirot speaks."

  "M. Poirot - can you come at once - at once - I'm in danger - in great danger - I know it -"

  Poirot said sharply, "Who are you? Where are you speaking from?"

  The voice came more faintly but with an even greater urgency.

  "At once... it's life or death... The Jardin des Cygnes... at once... table with yellow irises..."

  There was a pause - a queer kind of gasp - the line went dead.

  Hercule Poirot hung up. His face was puzzled. He murmured between his teeth:

  "There is something here very curious..."

  In the doorway of the Jardin des Cygnes, fat Luigi hurried forward.

  "Buona sera, M. Poirot. You desire a table - yes?"

  "No, no, my good Luigi. I seek here for some friends. I will look round - perhaps they are not here yet. Ah, let me see, that table there in the corner with the yellow irises - a little question by the way, if it is not indiscreet. On all the other tables there are tulips pink tulips - why on that one table do you have yellow irises?"

  Luigi shrugged his expressive shoulders.

  "A command, Monsieur! A special order! Without doubt, the favorite flowers of one of the ladies. That table, it is the table of Mr Barton Russell - an American - immensely rich."