“Yes. He professed to be in love with her.”
“And she?”
“She would have nothing to say to him.”
Poirot looked at him keenly. “Had she any reason to fear him?”
The young man hesitated. “There was an incident. You know Zara, the clairvoyant?”
“No.”
“She is wonderful. You should consult her some time. Valerie and I went to see her last week. She read the cards for us. She spoke to Valerie of trouble—of gathering clouds; then she turned up the last card—the covering card, they call it. It was the king of clubs. She said to Valerie: ‘Beware. There is a man who holds you in his power. You fear him—you are in great danger through him. You know whom I mean?’ Valerie was white to the lips. She nodded and said: ‘Yes, yes, I know.’ Shortly afterwards we left. Zara’s last words to Valerie were: ‘Beware of the king of clubs. Danger threatens you!’ I questioned Valerie. She would tell me nothing—assured me that all was well. But now, after last night, I am more sure than ever that in the king of clubs Valerie saw Reedburn, and that he was the man she feared.”
The Prince paused abruptly. “Now you understand my agitation when I opened the paper this morning. Supposing Valerie, in a fit of madness—oh, it is impossible!”
Poirot rose from his seat, and patted the young man kindly on the shoulder. “Do not distress yourself, I beg of you. Leave it in my hands.”
“You will go to Streatham? I gather she is still there, at Daisymead—prostrated by the shock.”
“I will go at once.”
“I have arranged matters—through the embassy. You will be allowed access everywhere.”
“Then we will depart—Hastings, you will accompany me? Au revoir, M. le Prince.”
II
Mon Désir was an exceptionally fine villa, thoroughly modern and comfortable. A short carriage-drive led up to it from the road, and beautiful gardens extended behind the house for some acres.
On mentioning Prince Paul’s name, the butler who answered the door at once took us to the scene of the tragedy. The library was a magnificent room, running from back to front of the whole building, with a window at either end, one giving on the front carriage-drive, and the other on the garden. It was in the recess of the latter that the body had lain. It had been removed not long before, the police having concluded their examination.
“That is annoying,” I murmured to Poirot. “Who knows what clues they may have destroyed?”
My little friend smiled. “Eh—Eh! How often must I tell you that clues come from within? In the little grey cells of the brain lies the solution of every mystery.”
He turned to the butler. “I suppose, except for the removal of the body, the room has not been touched?”
“No, sir. It’s just as it was when the police came up last night.”
“These curtains, now. I see they pull right across the window recess. They are the same in the other window. Were they drawn last night?”
“Yes, sir, I draw them every night.”
“Then Reedburn must have drawn them back himself?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“Did you know your master expected a visitor last night?”
“He did not say so, sir. But he gave orders he was not to be disturbed after dinner. You see, sir, there is a door leading out of the library on to the terrace at the side of the house. He could have admitted anyone that way.”
“Was he in the habit of doing that?”
The butler coughed discreetly. “I believe so, sir.”
Poirot strode to the door in question. It was unlocked. He stepped through it on to the terrace which joined the drive on the right; on the left it led up to a red brick wall.
“The fruit garden, sir. There is a door leading into it farther along, but it was always locked at six o’clock.”
Poirot nodded, and reentered the library, the butler following.
“Did you hear nothing of last night’s events?”
“Well, sir, we heard voices in the library, a little before nine. But that wasn’t unusual, especially being a lady’s voice. But of course, once we were all in the servants’ hall, right the other side, we didn’t hear anything at all. And then, about eleven o’clock, the police came.”
“How many voices did you hear?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. I only noticed the lady’s.”
“Ah!”
“I beg pardon, sir, but Dr. Ryan is still in the house, if you would care to see him.”
We jumped at the suggestion, and in a few minutes the doctor, a cheery, middle-aged man, joined us, and gave Poirot all the information he required. Reedburn had been lying near the window, his head by the marble window seat. There were two wounds, one between the eyes, and the other, the fatal one, on the back of the head.
“He was lying on his back?”
“Yes. There is the mark.” He pointed to a small dark stain on the floor.
“Could not the blow on the back of the head have been caused by his striking the floor?”
“Impossible. Whatever the weapon was, it penetrated some distance into the skull.”
Poirot looked thoughtfully in front of him. In the embrasure of each window was a carved marble seat, the arms being fashioned in the form of a lion’s head. A light came into Poirot’s eyes. “Supposing he had fallen backwards on this projecting lion’s head, and slipped from there to the ground. Would not that cause a wound such as you describe?”
“Yes, it would. But the angle at which he was lying makes that theory impossible. And besides there could not fail to be traces of blood on the marble of the seat.”
“Unless they were washed away?”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “That is hardly likely. It would be to no one’s advantage to give an accident the appearance of murder.”
“Quite so,” acquiesced Poirot. “Could either of the blows have been struck by a woman, do you think?”
“Oh, quite out of the question, I should say. You are thinking of Mademoiselle Saintclair, I suppose?”
“I think of no one in particular until I am sure,” said Poirot gently.
He turned his attention to the open French window, and the doctor continued:
“It is through here that Mademoiselle Saintclair fled. You can just catch a glimpse of Daisymead between the trees. Of course, there are many houses nearer to the front of the house on the road, but as it happens, Daisymead, though some distance away, is the only house visible this side.”
“Thank you for your amiability, Doctor,” said Poirot. “Come, Hastings, we will follow the footsteps of Mademoiselle.”
III
Poirot led the way down through the garden, out through an iron gate, across a short stretch of green and in through the garden gate of Daisymead, which was an unpretentious little house in about half an acre of ground. There was a small flight of steps leading up to a French window. Poirot nodded in their direction.
“That is the way Mademoiselle Saintclair went. For us, who have not her urgency to plead, it will be better to go round to the front door.”
A maid admitted us and took us into the drawing room, then went in search of Mrs. Oglander. The room had evidently not been touched since the night before. The ashes were still in the grate, and the bridge table was still in the centre of the room, with a dummy exposed, and the hands thrown down. The place was somewhat overloaded with gimcrack ornaments, and a good many family portraits of surpassing ugliness adorned the walls.
Poirot gazed at them more leniently than I did, and straightened one or two that were hanging a shade askew. “La famille, it is a strong tie, is it not? Sentiment, it takes the place of beauty.”
I agreed, my eyes being fixed on a family group comprising a gentleman with whiskers, a lady with a high “front” of hair, a solid, thick-set boy, and two little girls tied up with a good many unnecessary bows of ribbon. I took this to be the Oglander family in earlier days, and studied it with interest.
She looked at us inquiringly. Poirot stepped forward. “Miss Oglander? I regret to derange you—especially after all you have been through. The whole affair must have been most disturbing.”
“It has been rather upsetting,” admitted the young lady cautiously. I began to think that the elements of drama were wasted on Miss Oglander, that her lack of imagination rose superior to any tragedy. I was confirmed in this belief as she continued: “I must apologize for the state this room is in. Servants get so foolishly excited.”
“It was here that you were sitting last night, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes, we were playing bridge after supper, when—”
“Excuse me—how long had you been playing?”
“Well—” Miss Oglander considered. “I really can’t say. I suppose it must have been about ten o’clock. We had had several rubbers, I know.”
“And you yourself were sitting—where?”
“Facing the window. I was playing with my mother and had gone one no trump. Suddenly, without any warning, the window burst open, and Miss Saintclair staggered into the room.”
“You recognized her?”
“I had a vague idea her face was familiar.”
“She is still here, is she not?”
“Yes, but she refuses to see anyone. She is still quite prostrated.”
“I think she will see me. Will you tell her that I am here at the express request of Prince Paul of Maurania?”
I fancied that the mention of a royal prince rather shook Miss Oglander’s imperturbable calm. But she left the room on her errand without any further remark, and returned almost immediately to say that Mademoiselle Saintclair would see us in her room.
We followed her upstairs, and into a fair-sized light bedroom. On a couch by the window a woman was lying who turned her head as we entered. The contrast between the two women struck me at once, the more so as in actual features and colouring they were not unalike—but oh, the difference! Not a look, not a gesture of Valerie Saintclair’s but expressed drama. She seemed to exhale an atmosphere of romance. A scarlet flannel dressing gown covered her feet—a homely garment in all conscience; but the charm of her personality invested it with an exotic flavour, and it seemed an Eastern robe of glowing colour.
Her large dark eyes fastened themselves on Poirot.
“You come from Paul?” Her voice matched her appearance—it was full and languid.
“Yes, mademoiselle. I am here to serve him—and you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything that happened last night. But everything!”
She smiled rather wearily.
“Do you think I should lie? I am not stupid. I see well enough that there can be no concealment. He held a secret of mine, that man who is dead. He threatened me with it. For Paul’s sake, I endeavoured to make terms with him. I could not risk losing Paul . . . Now that he is dead, I am safe. But for all that, I did not kill him.”
Poirot shook his head with a smile. “It is not necessary to tell me that, mademoiselle. Now recount to me what happened last night.”
“I offered him money. He appeared to be willing to treat with me. He appointed last night at nine o’clock. I was to go to Mon Désir. I knew the place; I had been there before. I was to go round to the side door into the library, so that the servants should not see me.”
“Excuse me, mademoiselle, but were you not afraid to trust yourself alone there at night?”
Was it my fancy, or was there a momentary pause before she answered?
“Perhaps I was. But you see, there was no one I could ask to go with me. And I was desperate. Reedburn admitted me to the library. Oh, that man! I am glad he is dead! He played with me, as a cat does with a mouse. He taunted me. I begged and implored him on my knees. I offered him every jewel I have. All in vain! Then he named his own terms. Perhaps you can guess what they were. I refused. I told him what I thought of him. I raved at him. He remained calmly smiling. And then, as I fell to silence at last, there was a sound—from behind the curtain in the window . . . He heard it too. He strode to the curtains and flung them wide apart. There was a man there, hiding—a dreadful-looking man, a sort of tramp. He struck at Mr. Reedburn—then he struck again, and he went down. The tramp clutched at me with his bloodstained hand. I tore myself free, slipped through the window, and ran for my life. Then I perceived the lights in this house, and made for them. The blinds were up, and I saw some people playing bridge. I almost fell into the room. I just managed to gasp out ‘Murder!’ and then everything went black—”
“Thank you, mademoiselle. It must have been a great shock to your nervous system. As to this tramp, could you describe him? Do you remember what he was wearing?”
“No—it was all so quick. But I should know the man anywhere. His face is burnt in on my brain.”
“Just one more question, mademoiselle. The curtains of the other window, the one giving on the drive, were they drawn?”
For the first time a puzzled expression crept over the dancer’s face. She seemed to be trying to remember.
“Eh bien, mademoiselle?”
“I think—I am almost sure—yes, quite sure! They were not drawn.”
“That is curious, since the other ones were. No matter. It is, I dare say, of no great importance. You are remaining here long, mademoiselle?”
“The doctor thinks I shall be fit to return to town tomorrow.” She looked round the room. Miss Oglander had gone out. “These people, they are very kind—but they are not of my world. I shock them! And to me—well, I am not fond of the bourgeoisie!”
A faint note of bitterness underlay her words.
Poirot nodded. “I understand. I hope I have not fatigued you unduly with my questions?”
“Not at all, monsieur. I am only too anxious Paul should know all as soon as possible.”
“Then I will wish you good day, mademoiselle.”
As Poirot was leaving the room, he paused, and pounced on a pair of patent-leather slippers. “Yours, mademoiselle?”
“Yes, monsieur. They have just been cleaned and brought up.”
“Ah!” said Poirot, as we descended the stairs. “It seems that the domestics are not too excited to clean shoes, though they forget a grate. Well, mon ami, at first there appeared to be one or two points of interest, but I fear, I very much fear, that we must regard the case as finished. It all seems straightforward enough.”
“And the murderer?”
“Hercule Poirot does not hunt down tramps,” replied my friend grandiloquently.
IV
Miss Oglander met us in the hall. “If you will wait in the drawing room a minute, Mamma would like to speak to you.”
The room was still untouched, and Poirot idly gathered up the cards, shuffling them with his tiny, fastidiously groomed hands.
“Do you know what I think, my friend?”
“No?” I said eagerly.
“I think that Miss Oglander made a mistake in going one no trump. She should have gone three spades.”
“Poirot! You are the limit.”
“Mon Dieu, I cannot always be talking blood and thunder!”
Suddenly he stiffened: “Hastings—Hastings. See! The king of clubs is missing from the pack!”
“Zara!” I cried.
“Eh?” he did not seem to understand my allusion. Mechanically he stacked the cards and put them away in their cases. His face was very grave.
“Hastings,” he said at last, “I, Hercule Poirot, have come near to making a big mistake—a very big mistake.”
I gazed at him, impressed, but utterly uncomprehending.
“We must begin again, Hastings. Yes, we must begin again. But this time we shall not err.”
He was interrupted by the entrance of a handsome middle-aged lady. She carried some household books in her hand. Poirot bowed to her
.
“Do I understand, sir, that you are a friend of—er—Miss Saintclair’s?”
“I come from a friend of hers, madame.”
“Oh, I see. I thought perhaps—”
Poirot suddenly waved brusquely at the window.
“Your blinds were not pulled down last night?”
“No—I suppose that is why Miss Saintclair saw the light so plainly.”
“There was moonlight last night. I wonder that you did not see Mademoiselle Saintclair from your seat here facing the windows?”
“I suppose we were engrossed with our game. Nothing like this has ever happened before to us.”
“I can quite believe that, madame. And I will put your mind at rest. Mademoiselle Saintclair is leaving tomorrow.”
“Oh!” The good lady’s face cleared.
“And I will wish you good morning, madame.”
A servant was cleaning the steps as we went out of the front door. Poirot addressed her.
“Was it you who cleaned the shoes of the young lady upstairs?”
The maid shook her head. “No, sir. I don’t think they’ve been cleaned.”
“Who cleaned them, then?” I inquired of Poirot, as we walked down the road.
“Nobody. They did not need cleaning.”
“I grant that walking on the road or path on a fine night would not soil them. But surely after going through the long grass of the garden, they would have been soiled and stained.”
“Yes,” said Poirot with a curious smile. “In that case, I agree, they would have been stained.”
“But—”
“Have patience a little half hour, my friend. We are going back to Mon Désir.”
V
The butler looked surprised at our reappearance, but offered no objection to our returning to the library.
“Hi, that’s the wrong window, Poirot,” I cried as he made for the one overlooking the carriage-drive.
“I think not, my friend. See here.” He pointed to the marble lion’s head. On it was a faint discoloured smear. He shifted his finger and pointed to a similar stain on the polished floor.
Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories Page 5