I had picked up the paper and was studying the rather blurred reproduction of a photograph.
"She must be a beautiful woman," I said slowly. "Even from this, one gets an idea."
Below the picture ran the inscription: A recent portrait of Mrs. Clayton, the wife of the murdered man Poirot took the paper from me.
"Yes," he said. "She is beautiful. Doubtless she is of those born to trouble the souls of men."
He handed the paper back to me with a sigh.
"Dieu merci, I am not of an ardent temperament. It has saved me from many embarrassments. I am duly thankful."
I do not remember that we discussed the case further. Poirot displayed no special interest in it at the time. The facts were so clear, and there was so little ambiguity about them, that discussion seemed merely futile.
Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and Major Rich were friends of fairly long standing. On the day in question, the tenth of March, the Claytons had accepted an invitation to spend the evening with Major Rich. At about seven-thirty, however, Clayton explained to another friend, a Major Curtiss, with whom he was having a drink, that he had been unexpectedly called to Scotland and was leaving by the eight o'clock train.
"I'll just have time to drop in and explain to old Jack," went on Clayton.
"Marguerita is going, of course. I'm sorry about it, but Jack will understand how it is."
Mr. Clayton was as good as his word. He arrived at Major Rich's rooms about twenty to eight. The major was out at the time, but his manservant, who knew Mr. Clayton well, suggested that he come in and wait. Mr. Clayton said that he had not time, but that he would come in and write a note. He added that he was on his way to catch a train.
The valet accordingly showed him into the sitting-room.
About five minutes later Major Rich, who must have let himself in without the valet hearing him, opened the door of the sitting-room, called his man and told him to go out and get some cigarettes. On his return the man brought them to his master, who was then alone in the sitting-room. The man naturally concluded that Mr. Clayton had left.
The guests arrived shortly afterwards. They comprised Mrs. Clayton, Major Curtiss and a Mr. and Mrs. Spence. The evening was spent dancing to the phonograph and playing poker. The guests left shortly after midnight.
The following morning, on coming to do the sitting-room, the valet was startled to find a deep stain discoloring the carpet below and in front of a piece of furniture which Major Rich had brought from the East and which was called the Baghdad Chest.
Instinctively the valet lifted the lid of the chest and was horrified to find inside the doubled-up body of a man who had been stabbed to the heart.
Terrified, the man ran out of the flat and fetched the nearest policeman. The dead man proved to be Mr. Clayton. The arrest of Major Rich followed very shortly afterward. The major's defense, it was understood, consisted of a sturdy denial of everything. He had not seen Mr. Clayton the preceding evening and the first he had heard of his going to Scotland had been from Mrs. Clayton.
Such were the bald facts of the case. Innuendoes and suggestions naturally abounded. The close friendship and intimacy of Major Rich and Mrs. Clayton were so stressed that only a fool could fail to read between the lines. The motive for the crime was plainly indicated.
Long experience has taught me to make allowance for baseless calumny. The motive suggested might, for all the evidence, be entirely nonexistent. Some quite other reasons might have precipitated the issue. But one thing did stand out clearly - that Rich was the murderer.
As I say, the matter might have rested there, had it not happened that Poirot and I were due at a party given by Lady Chatterton that night.
Poirot, whilst bemoaning social engagements and declaring a passion for solitude, really enjoyed these affairs enormously. To be made a fuss of and treated as a lion suited him down to the ground.
On occasions he positively purred! I have seen him blandly receiving the most outrageous compliments as no more than his due, and uttering the most blatantly conceited remarks, such as I can hardly bear to set down.
Sometimes he would argue with me on the subject.
"But, my friend, I am not an Anglo-Saxon. Why should I play the hypocrite? Si, si, that is what you do, all of you. The airman who has made a difficult flight, the tennis champion – they look down their noses, they mutter inaudibly that 'it is nothing.' But do they really think that themselves? Not for a moment. They would admire the exploit in someone else. So, being reasonable men, they admire it in themselves.
But their training prevents them from saying so. Me, I am not like that.
The talents that I possess - I would salute them in another. As it happens, in my own particular line, there is no one to touch me. C'est dommage, as it is, I admit freely and without the hypocrisy that I am a great man. I have the order, the method and the psychology in an unusual degree. I am, in fact, Hercule Poirot! Why should I turn red and stammer and mutter into my chin that really I am very stupid? It would not be true."
"There is certainly only one Hercule Poirot," I agreed - not without a spice of malice, of which, fortunately, Poirot remained quite oblivious.
Lady Chatterton was one of Poirot's most ardent admirers. Starting from the mysterious conduct of a Pekingese, he had unraveled a chain which led to a noted burglar and housebreaker. Lady Chatterton had been loud in his praises ever since.
To see Poirot at a party was a great sight. His faultless evening clothes, the exquisite set of his white tie, the exact symmetry of his hair parting, the sheen of pomade on his hair, and the tortured splendor of his famous mustaches - all combined to paint the perfect picture of an inveterate dandy. It was hard, at these moments, to take the little man seriously.
It was about half-past eleven when Lady Chatterton, bearing down upon us, whisked Poirot neatly out of an admiring group, and carried him off - I need hardly say, with myself in tow.
"I want you to go into my little room upstairs," said Lady Chatterton rather breathlessly as soon as she was out of earshot of her other guests. "You know where it is, M. Poirot. You'll find someone there who needs your help very badly - and you will help her, I know. She's one of my dearest friends - so don't say no."
Energetically leading the way as she talked, Lady Chatterton flung open a door, exclaiming as she did so, "I've got him, Marguerita darling. And he'll do anything you want. You'll help Mrs. Clayton, won't you, M. Poirot?"
And taking the answer for granted, she withdrew with the same energy that characterized all her movements.
Mrs. Clayton had been sitting in a chair by the window. She rose now and come toward us. Dressed in deep mourning, the dull black showed up her fair coloring. She was a singularly lovely woman, and there was about her a simple childlike candor which made her charm quit irresistible.
"Alice Chatterton is so kind," she said. "She arranged this. She said you would help me, M. Poirot. Of course I don't know whether you will or not - but I hope you will."
She had held out her hand and Poirot had taken it. He held it now for a moment or two while he stood scrutinizing her closely. There was nothing ill-bred in his manner of doing it. It was more the kind but searching look that a famous consultant gives a new patient as the latter is ushered into his presence.
"Are you sure, madame," he said at last, "that I can help you?"
"Alice says so."
"Yes, but I am asking you, madame."
A little flush rose to her cheeks.
"I don't know what you mean."
"What is it, madame, that you want me to do?"
"You - you - know who I am?" she asked.
"Assuredly."
"Then you can guess what it is I am asking you to do, M. Poirot -
Captain Hastings" - I was gratified that she realized my identity -
"Major Rich did not kill my husband."
"Why not?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Poirot smiled at her slight discomfiture.
/> "I said, 'Why not?'" he repeated.
"I'm not sure that I understand."
"Yet it is very simple. The police - the lawyers - they will all ask the same question: Why did Major Rich kill M. Clayton? I ask the opposite. I ask you, madame, why did Major Rich not kill Major Clayton?"
"You mean - why I'm so sure? Well, but I know. I know Major Rich so well."
"You know Major Rich so well," repeated Poirot tonelessly.
The color flamed into her cheeks.
"Yes, that's what they'll say - what they'll think! Oh, I know!"
"C'est vrai. That is what they will ask you about - how well you knew Major Rich. Perhaps you will speak the truth, perhaps you will lie. It is very necessary for a woman to lie sometimes. Women must defend themselves - and the lie, it is a good weapon. But there are three people, madame, to whom a woman should speak the truth. To her Father Confessor, to her hairdresser and to her private detective - if she trusts him. Do you trust me, madame?"
Marguerita Clayton drew a deep breath. "Yes," she said. "I do. I must," she added rather childishly.
"Then, how well do you know Major Rich?"
She looked at him for a moment in silence, then she raised her chin defiantly.
"I will answer your question. I loved Jack from the first moment I saw him - two years ago. Lately I think - I believe - he has come to love me.
But he has never said so."
"Épatant!'' said Poirot. "You have saved me a good quarter of an hour by coming to the point without beating the bush. You have the good sense. Now your husband - did he suspect your feelings?"
"I don't know," said Marguerita slowly. "I thought lately - that he might.
His manner has been different. But that may have been merely my fancy."
"Nobody else knew?"
"I do not think so."
"And - pardon me, madame - you did not love your husband?"
There were, I think, very few women who would have answered that question as simply as this woman did. They would have tried to explain their feelings.
Maruerita Clayton said quite simply:
"No."
"Bien. Now we know where we are. According to you, madame, Major Rich did not kill your husband, but you realize that all the evidence points to his having done so. Are you aware, privately, of any flaw in that evidence?"
"No. I know nothing."
"When did your husband first inform you of his visit to Scotland?"
"Just after lunch. He said it was a bore, but he'd have to go. Something to do with land values, he said it was."
"And after that?"
"He went out - to his club, I think. I - I didn't see him again."
"Now as to Major Rich - what was his manner that evening? Just as usual?"
"Yes, I think so."
"You are not sure?"
Marguerita wrinkled her brows.
"He was a little constrained. With me – not with the others. But I thought I knew why that was. You understand? I am sure the constraint or - or - absent-mindedness perhaps describes it better - had nothing to do with Edward. He was surprised to hear that Edward had gone to Scotland, but not unduly so."
"And nothing else unusual occurs to you in connection with that evening?"
Marguerita thought.
"No, nothing whatever."
"You - noticed the chest?"
She shook her head with a little shiver.
"I don't even remember it - or what it was like. We played poker most of the evening."
"Who won?"
"Major Rich. I had very bad luck, and so did Major Curtiss. The Spences won a little, but Major Rich was the chief winner."
"The party broke up - when?"
"About half-past twelve, I think. We all left together."
"Ah!"
Poirot remained silent, lost in thought.
"I wish I could be more helpful to you," said Mrs. Clayton. "I seem to be able to tell you so little."
"About the present - yes. What about the past, madame?"
"The past?"
"Yes. Have there not been incidents?"
She flushed.
"You mean that dreadful little man who shot himself. It wasn't my fault, M. Poirot. Indeed it wasn't."
"It was not precisely of that incident that I was thinking."
"That ridiculous duel? But Italians do fight duels. I was so thankful the man wasn't killed."
"It must have been a relief to you," agreed Poirot gravely.
She was looking at him doubtfully. He rose and took her hand in his.
"I shall not fight a duel for you, madame," he said. "But I will do what you have asked me. I will discover the truth. And let us hope that your instincts are correct - that the truth will help and not harm you."
Our first interview was with Major Curtiss. He was a man of about forty, of soldierly build, with very dark hair and a bronzed face. He had known the Claytons for some years and Major Rich also. He confirmed the press reports.
Clayton and he had had a drink together at the club just before halfpast seven, and Clayton had then announced his intention of looking in on Major Rich on his way to Euston.
"What was Mr. Clayton's manner? Was he depressed or cheerful?"
The major considered. He was a slow-spoken man.
"Seemed in fairly good spirits," he said at last.
"He said nothing about being on bad terms with Major Rich?''
"Good Lord, no. They were pals."
"He didn't object to his wife's friendship with Major Rich?"
The major became very red in the face.
"You've been reading those damned newspapers, with tall tales and lies. Of course he didn't object. Why, he said to me: 'Marguerita's going, of course.'"
"I see. Now during the evening - the manner of Major Rich - was that much as usual?"
"I didn't notice any difference."
"And madame? She, too, was as usual?"
"Well," he reflected, "now I come to think of it, she was a bit quiet. You know, thoughtful and faraway."
"Who arrived first?"
"The Spences. They were there when I got there. As a matter of fact, I'd called round for Mrs. Clayton, but found she'd already started. So I got there a bit late."
"And how did you amuse yourselves? You danced? You played the cards?"
"A bit of both. Danced first of all."
"There were five of you?"
"Yes, but that's all right, because I don't dance. I put on the records and the others danced."
"Who danced most with whom?"
"Well, as a matter of fact the Spences like dancing together. They've got a sort of craze on fancy steps and all that."
"So that Mrs. Clayton danced mostly with Major Rich?"
"That's about it."
"And then you played poker?"
"Yes."
"And when did you leave?"
"Oh, quite early. A little after midnight."
"Did you all leave together?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, we shared a taxi, dropped Mrs. Clayton first, then me, and the Spences took it on to Kensington."
Our next visit was to Mr. and Mrs. Spence.
Only Mrs. Spence was at home, but her account of the evening tallied with that of Major Curtiss except that she displayed a slight acidity concerning Major Rich's luck at cards.
Earlier in the morning Poirot had had a telephone conversation with Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard. As a result we arrived at Major Rich's rooms and found his manservant, Burgoyne, expecting us.
The valet's evidence was very precise and clear.
Mr. Clayton had arrived at twenty minutes to eight. Unluckily Major Rich had just that very minute gone out. Mr. Clayton had said that he couldn't wait, as he had to catch a train, but he would just scrawl a note. He accordingly went into the sitting-room to do so. Burgoyne had not actually heard his master come in, as he was running the bath, and Major Rich, of course, let himself in with his own key. In his opinion it wa
s about ten minutes later that Major Rich called him and sent him out for cigarettes. No, he has not gone into the sitting-room. Major Rich had stood in the doorway. He had returned with the cigarettes five minutes later and on this occasion he has gone into the sittingroom, which was then empty, save for his master, who was standing by the window smoking. His master has inquired if his bath were ready and on being told is was had proceeded to take it. He, Burgoyne, had not mentioned Mr. Clayton, as he assumed that his master had found Mr. Clayton there and let him out himself. His master's manner had been precisely the same as usual. He had taken his bath, changed, and shortly after, Mr. and Mrs. Spence had arrived, to be followed by Major Curtiss and Mrs. Clayton.
It had not occurred to him, Burgoyne explained, that Mr. Clayton might have left before his master's return. To do so, Mr. Clayton would have had to bang the front door behind him and that the valet was sure he would have heard.
Still in the same impersonal manner, Burgoyne proceeded to his finding of the body. For the first time my attention was directed to the fatal chest. It was a good-sized piece of furniture standing against the wall next to the phonograph cabinet. It was made of some dark wood and plentifully studded with brass nails. The lid opened simply enough.
I looked in and shivered. Though well scrubbed, ominous stains remained.
Suddenly Poirot uttered an exclamation. "Those holes there - they are curious. One would say that they had been newly made."
The holes in question were at the back of the chest against the wall.
There were three or four of them. They were about a quarter of an inch in diameter - and certainly had the effect of having been freshly made.
Poirot bent down to examine them, looking inquiringly at the valet.
"It's certainly curious, sir. I don't remember ever seeing those holes in the past, though maybe I wouldn't notice them."
"It makes no matter," said Poirot.
Closing the lid of the chest, he stepped back into the room until he was standing with his back against the window. Then he suddenly asked a question.
"Tell me," he said. "When you brought the cigarettes into your master that night, was there not something out of place in the room?"
Burgoyne hesitated for a minute, then with some slight reluctance he replied, "It's odd your saying that, sir. Now you come to mention it, there was. That screen there that cuts off the draft from the bedroom door - it was moved a bit more to the left."
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