Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  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 half past 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 their hints 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 it—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 was about ten minutes later that Major Rich called him and sent him out for cigarettes. No, he had 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 had gone into the sitting room, which was then empty, save for his master, who was standing by the window smoking. His master had inquired if his bath were ready and on being told it 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 draught from the bedroom door—it was moved a bit more to the left.”

  “Like this?”

  Poirot darted nimbly forward and pulled at the screen. It was a handsome affair of painted leather. It already slightly obscured the view of the chest, and as Poirot adjusted it, it hid the chest altogether.

  “That’s right, sir,” said the valet. “It was like that.”

  “And the next morning?”

  “It was still like that. I remember. I moved it away and it was then I saw the stain. The carpet’s gone to be cleaned, sir. That’s why the boards are bare.”

  Poirot nodded.

  “I see,” he said. “I thank you.”

  He placed a crisp piece of paper in the valet’s palm.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Poirot,”
I said when we were out in the street, “that point about the screen—is that a point helpful to Rich?”

  “It is a further point against him,” said Poirot ruefully. “The screen hid the chest from the room. It also hid the stain on the carpet. Sooner or later the blood was bound to soak through the wood and stain the carpet. The screen would prevent discovery for the moment. Yes—but there is something there that I do not understand. The valet, Hastings, the valet.”

  “What about the valet? He seemed a most intelligent fellow.”

  “As you say, most intelligent. Is it credible, then, that Major Rich failed to realize that the valet would certainly discover the body in the morning? Immediately after the deed he had no time for anything—granted. He shoves the body into the chest, pulls the screen in front of it and goes through the evening hoping for the best. But after the guests are gone? Surely, then is the time to dispose of the body.”

  “Perhaps he hoped the valet wouldn’t notice the stain?”

  “That, mon ami, is absurd. A stained carpet is the first thing a good servant would be bound to notice.

  “And Major Rich, he goes to bed and snores there comfortably and does nothing at all about the matter. Very remarkable and interesting, that.”

  “Curtiss might have seen the stains when he was changing the records the night before?” I suggested.

  “That is unlikely. The screen would throw a deep shadow just there, No, but I begin to see. Yes, dimly I begin to see.”

  “See what?” I asked eagerly.

  “The possibilities, shall we say, of an alternative explanation. Our next visit may throw light on things.”

  Our next visit was to the doctor who had examined the body. His evidence was a mere recapitulation of what he had already given at the inquest. Deceased had been stabbed to the heart with a long thin knife something like a stiletto. The knife had been left in the wound. Death had been instantaneous. The knife was the property of Major Rich and usually lay on his writing table. There were no fingerprints on it, the doctor understood. It had been either wiped or held in a handkerchief. As regards time, any time between seven and nine seemed indicated.

  “He could not, for instance, have been killed after midnight?” asked Poirot.

  “No. That I can say. Ten o’clock at the outside—but seven thirty to eight seems clearly indicated.”

  “There is a second hypothesis possible,” Poirot said when we were back home. “I wonder if you see it, Hastings. To me it is very plain, and I only need one point to clear up the matter for good and all.”

  “It’s no good,” I said. “I’m not there.”

  “But make an effort, Hastings. Make an effort.”

  “Very well,” I said. “At seven-forty Clayton is alive and well. The last person to see him alive is Rich—”

  “So we assume.”

  “Well, isn’t it so?”

  “You forget, mon ami, that Major Rich denies that. He states explicitly that Clayton had gone when he came in.”

  “But the valet says that he would have heard Clayton leave because of the bang of the door. And also, if Clayton had left, when did he return? He couldn’t have returned after midnight because the doctor says positively that he was dead at least two hours before that. That only leaves one alternative.”

  “Yes, mon ami?” said Poirot.

  “That in the five minutes Clayton was alone in the sitting room, someone else came in and killed him. But there we have the same objection. Only someone with a key could come in without the valet’s knowing, and in the same way the murderer on leaving would have had to bang the door, and that again the valet would have heard.”

  “Exactly,” said Poirot. “And therefore—”

  “And therefore—nothing,” I said. “I can see no other solution.”

  “It is a pity,” murmured Poirot. “And it is really so exceedingly simple—as the clear blue eyes of Madame Clayton.”

  “You really believe—”

  “I believe nothing—until I have got proof. One little proof will convince me.”

  He took up the telephone and called Japp at Scotland Yard.

  Twenty minutes later we were standing before a little heap of assorted objects laid out on a table. They were the contents of the dead man’s pockets.

  There was a handkerchief, a handful of loose change, a pocketbook containing three pounds ten shillings, a couple of bills and a worn snapshot of Marguerita Clayton. There was also a pocketknife, a gold pencil and a cumbersome wooden tool.

  It was on this latter that Poirot swooped. He unscrewed it and several small blades fell out.

  “You see, Hastings, a gimlet and all the rest of it. Ah! it would be a matter of a very few minutes to bore a few holes in the chest with this.”

  “Those holes we saw?”

  “Precisely.”

  “You mean it was Clayton who bored them himself?”

  “Mais, oui—mais, oui! What did they suggest to you, those holes? They were not to see through, because they were at the back of the chest. What were they for, then? Clearly for air? But you do not make air holes for a dead body, so clearly they were not made by the murderer. They suggest one thing—and one thing only—that a man was going to hide in that chest. And at once, on that hypothesis, things become intelligible. Mr. Clayton is jealous of his wife and Rich. He plays the old, old trick of pretending to go away. He watches Rich go out, then he gains admission, is left alone to write a note, quickly bores those holes and hides inside the chest. His wife is coming there that night. Possibly Rich will put the others off, possibly she will remain after the others have gone, or pretend to go and return. Whatever it is, Clayton will know. Anything is preferable to the ghastly torment of suspicion he is enduring.”

  “Then you mean that Rich killed him after the others had gone? But the doctor said that was impossible.”

  “Exactly. So you see, Hastings, he must have been killed during the evening.”

  “But everyone was in the room!”

  “Precisely,” said Poirot gravely. “You see the beauty of that? ‘Everyone was in the room.’ What an alibi! What sang-froid—what nerve—what audacity!”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “Who went behind that screen to wind up the phonograph and change the records? The phonograph and the chest were side by side, remember. The others are dancing—the phonograph is playing. And the man who does not dance lifts the lid of the chest and thrusts the knife he has just slipped into his sleeve deep into the body of the man who was hiding there.”

  “Impossible! The man would cry out.”

  “Not if he were drugged first?”

  “Drugged?”

  “Yes. Who did Clayton have a drink with at seven thirty? Ah! Now you see. Curtiss! Curtiss has inflamed Clayton’s mind with suspicions against his wife and Rich. Curtiss suggests this plan—the visit to Scotland, the concealment in the chest, the final touch of moving the screen. Not so that Clayton can raise the lid a little and get relief—no, so that he, Curtiss, can raise that lid unobserved. The plan is Curtiss’s, and observe the beauty of it, Hastings. If Rich had observed the screen was out of place and moved it back—well, no harm is done. He can make another plan. Clayton hides in the chest, the mild narcotic that Curtiss had administered takes effect. He sinks into unconsciousness. Curtiss lifts up the lid and strikes—and the phonograph goes on playing ‘Walking My Baby Back Home.’ ”

  I found my voice. “Why? But why?”

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why did a man shoot himself? Why did two Italians fight a duel? Curtiss is of a dark passionate temperament. He wanted Marguerita Clayton. With her husband and Rich out of the way, she would, or so he thought, turn to him.”

  He added musingly:

  “These simple childlike women . . . they are very dangerous. But mon Dieu! what an artistic masterpiece! It goes to my heart to hang a man like that. I may be a genius myself, but I am capable of recognizing genius in other peopl
e. A perfect murder, mon ami. I, Hercule Poirot, say it to you. A perfect murder. Épatant!”

  Thirty-one

  DEAD MAN’S MIRROR

  “Dead Man’s Mirror” is an expanded version of the story “The Second Gong,” which was first published in the USA in Ladies’ Home Journal, June 1932, then in The Strand, July 1932.

  I

  The flat was a modern one. The furnishings of the room were modern, too. The armchairs were squarely built, the upright chairs were angular. A modern writing table was set squarely in front of the window, and at it sat a small, elderly man. His head was practically the only thing in the room that was not square. It was egg-shaped.

  M. Hercule Poirot was reading a letter:

  Station: Whimperley.

  Telegrams:

  Hamborough St. John.

  Hamborough Close,

  Hamborough St. Mary

  Westshire.

  September 24th, 1936.

  M. Hercule Poirot.

  Dear Sir,—A matter has arisen which requires handling with great delicacy and discretion. I have heard good accounts of you, and have decided to entrust the matter to you. I have reason to believe that I am the victim of fraud, but for family reasons I do not wish to call in the police. I am taking certain measures of my own to deal with the business, but you must be prepared to come down here immediately on receipt of a telegram. I should be obliged if you will not answer this letter.

  Yours faithfully,

  Gervase Chevenix-Gore.

  The eyebrows of M. Hercule Poirot climbed slowly up his forehead until they nearly disappeared into his hair.

  “And who, then,” he demanded of space, “is this Gervase Chevenix-Gore?”

  He crossed to a bookcase and took out a large, fat book.

  He found what he wanted easily enough.

  Chevenix-Gore, Sir Gervase Francis Xavier, 10th Bt. cr. 1694; formerly Captain 17th Lancers; b. 18th May, 1878; e.s. of Sir Guy Chevenix-Gore, 9th Bt., and Lady Claudia Bretherton, 2nd. d. of 8th Earl of Wallingford. S. father, 1911; m. 1912, Vanda Elizabeth, e.d. of Colonel Frederick Arbuthnot, q.v.; educ. Eton. Served European War, 1914–18. Recreations: travelling, big game hunting. Address: Hamborough St. Mary, Westshire, and 218 Lowndes Square, S.W.1. Clubs: Cavalry. Travellers.