Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

“We need not discuss the financial side for the moment. First reflect on this point—this girl, this Nita—she knew your name and where you worked?”

  “Oh yes, sir.”

  “She could have communicated with you if she had wanted to?”

  Ted said more slowly:

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then do you not think—perhaps—”

  Ted Williamson interrupted him.

  “What you’re meaning, sir, is that I fell for her but she didn’t fall for me? Maybe that’s true in a way . . . But she liked me—she did like me—it wasn’t just a bit of fun to her . . . And I’ve been thinking, sir, as there might be a reason for all this. You see, sir, it was a funny crowd she was mixed up in. She might be in a bit of trouble, if you know what I mean.”

  “You mean she might have been going to have a child? Your child?”

  “Not mine, sir.” Ted flushed. “There wasn’t nothing wrong between us.”

  Poirot looked at him thoughtfully. He murmured:

  “And if what you suggest is true—you still want to find her?”

  The colour surged up in Ted Williamson’s face. He said:

  “Yes, I do, and that’s flat! I want to marry her if she’ll have me. And that’s no matter what kind of a jam she’s in! If you’ll only try and find her for me, sir?”

  Hercule Poirot smiled. He said, murmuring to himself:

  “ ‘Hair like wings of gold.’ Yes, I think this is the third Labor of Hercules . . . If I remember rightly, that happened in Arcady. . . .”

  II

  Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at the sheet of paper on which Ted Williamson had laboriously inscribed a name and address.

  Miss Valetta, 17 Upper Renfrew Lane, N15.

  He wondered if he would learn anything at that address. Somehow he fancied not. But it was the only help Ted could give him.

  No. 17 Upper Renfrew Lane was a dingy but respectable street. A stout woman with bleary eyes opened the door to Poirot’s knock.

  “Miss Valetta?”

  “Gone away a long time ago, she has.”

  Poirot advanced a step into the doorway just as the door was about to close.

  “You can give me, perhaps, her address?”

  “Couldn’t say, I’m sure. She didn’t leave one.”

  “When did she go away?”

  “Last summer it was.”

  “Can you tell me exactly when?”

  A gentle clicking noise came from Poirot’s right hand where two half crowns jostled each other in friendly fashion.

  The bleary-eyed woman softened in an almost magical manner. She became graciousness itself.

  “Well, I’m sure I’d like to help you, sir. Let me see now. August, no, before that—July—yes, July it must have been. About the first week in July. Went off in a hurry, she did. Back to Italy, I believe.”

  “She was an Italian, then?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “And she was at one time lady’s maid to a Russian dancer, was she not?”

  “That’s right. Madame Semoulina or some such name. Danced at the Thespian in this Bally everyone’s so wild about. One of the stars, she was.”

  Poirot said:

  “Do you know why Miss Valetta left her post?”

  The woman hesitated a moment before saying:

  “I couldn’t say, I’m sure.”

  “She was dismissed, was she not?”

  “Well—I believe there was a bit of a dustup! But mind you, Miss Valetta didn’t let on much about it. She wasn’t one to give things away. But she looked wild about it. Wicked temper she had—real Eyetalian—her black eyes all snapping and looking as if she’d like to put a knife into you. I wouldn’t have crossed her when she was in one of her moods!”

  “And you are quite sure you do not know Miss Valetta’s present address?”

  The half crowns clinked again encouragingly.

  The answer rang true enough.

  “I wish I did, sir. I’d be only too glad to tell you. But there—she went off in a hurry and there it is!”

  Poirot said to himself thoughtfully:

  “Yes, there it is. . . .”

  III

  Ambrose Vandel, diverted from his enthusiastic account of the décor he was designing for a forthcoming ballet, supplied information easily enough.

  “Sanderfield? George Sanderfield? Nasty fellow. Rolling in money but they say he’s a crook. Dark horse! Affair with a dancer? But of course, my dear—he had an affair with Katrina. Katrina Samoushenka. You must have seen her? Oh, my dear—too delicious. Lovely technique. The Swan of Tuolela—you must have seen that? My décor! And that other thing of Debussy or is it Mannine ‘La Biche au Bois?’ She danced it with Michael Novgin. He’s so marvellous, isn’t he?”

  “And she was a friend of Sir George Sanderfield?”

  “Yes, she used to weekend with him at his house on the river. Marvellous parties I believe he gives.”

  “Would it be possible, mon cher, for you to introduce me to Mademoiselle Samoushenka?”

  “But, my dear, she isn’t here any longer. She went to Paris or somewhere quite suddenly. You know, they do say that she was a Bolshevik spy or something—not that I believed it myself—you know people love saying things like that. Katrina always pretended that she was a White Russian—her father was a Prince or a Grand Duke—the usual thing! It goes down so much better.” Vandel paused and returned to the absorbing subject of himself. “Now as I was saying, if you want to get the spirit of Bathsheba you’ve got to steep yourself in the Semitic tradition. I express it by—”

  He continued happily.

  IV

  The interview that Hercule Poirot managed to arrange with Sir George Sanderfield did not start too auspiciously.

  The “dark horse,” as Ambrose Vandel had called him, was slightly ill at ease. Sir George was a short square man with dark coarse hair and a roll of fat in his neck.

  He said:

  “Well, M. Poirot, what can I do for you? Er—we haven’t met before, I think?”

  “No, we have not met.”

  “Well, what is it? I confess, I’m quite curious.”

  “Oh, it is very simple—a mere matter of information.”

  The other gave an uneasy laugh.

  “Want me to give you some inside dope, eh? Didn’t know you were interested in finance.”

  “It is not a matter of les affaires. It is a question of a certain lady.”

  “Oh, a woman.” Sir George Sanderfield leant back in his armchair. He seemed to relax. His voice held an easier note.

  Poirot said:

  “You were acquainted, I think, with Mademoiselle Katrina Samoushenka?”

  Sanderfield laughed.

  “Yes. An enchanting creature. Pity she’s left London.”

  “Why did she leave London?”

  “My dear fellow, I don’t know. Row with the management, I believe. She was temperamental, you know—very Russian in her moods. I’m sorry that I can’t help you but I haven’t the least idea where she is now. I haven’t kept up with her at all.”

  There was a note of dismissal in his voice as he rose to his feet.

  Poirot said:

  “But is not Mademoiselle Samoushenka that I am anxious to trace.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, it is a question of her maid.”

  “Her maid?” Sanderfield stared at him.

  Poirot said:

  “Do you—perhaps—remember her maid?”

  All Sanderfield’s uneasiness had returned. He said awkwardly:

  “Good Lord, no, how should I? I remember she had one, of course . . . Bit of a bad lot, too, I should say. Sneaking, prying sort of girl. If I were you I shouldn’t put any faith in a word that girl says. She’s the kind of girl who’s a born liar.”

  Poirot murmured:

  “So actually, you remember quite a lot about her?”

  Sanderfield said hastily:

  “Just an impres
sion, that’s all . . . Don’t even remember her name. Let me see, Marie something or other—no, I’m afraid I can’t help you to get hold of her. Sorry.”

  Poirot said gently:

  “I have already got the name of Marie Hellin from the Thespian Theatre—and her address. But I am speaking, Sir George, of the maid who was with Mademoiselle Samoushenka before Marie Hellin. I am speaking of Nita Valetta.”

  Sanderfield stared. He said:

  “Don’t remember her at all. Marie’s the only one I remember. Little dark girl with a nasty look in her eye.”

  Poirot said:

  “The girl I mean was at your house Grasslawn last June.”

  Sanderfield said sulkily:

  “Well, all I can say is I don’t remember her. Don’t believe she had a maid with her. I think you’re making a mistake.”

  Hercule Poirot shook his head. He did not think he was making a mistake.

  V

  Marie Hellin looked swiftly at Poirot out of small intelligent eyes and as swiftly looked away again. She said in smooth, even tones:

  “But I remember perfectly, Monsieur. I was engaged by Madame Samoushenka the last week in June. Her former maid had departed in a hurry.”

  “Did you ever hear why that maid left?”

  “She went—suddenly—that is all I know! It may have been illness—something of that kind. Madame did not say.”

  Poirot said:

  “Did you find your mistress easy to get on with?”

  The girl shrugged her shoulders.

  “She had great moods. She wept and laughed in turns. Sometimes she was so despondent she would not speak or eat. Sometimes she was wildly gay. They are like that, these dancers. It is temperament.”

  “And Sir George?”

  The girl looked up alertly. An unpleasant gleam came into her eyes.

  “Ah, Sir George Sanderfield? You would like to know about him? Perhaps it is that that you really want to know? The other was only an excuse, eh? Ah, Sir George, I could tell you some curious things about him, I could tell you—”

  Poirot interrupted:

  “It is not necessary.”

  She stared at him, her mouth open. Angry disappointment showed in her eyes.

  VI

  “I always say you know everything, Alexis Pavlovitch.”

  Hercule Poirot murmured the words with his most flattering intonation.

  He was reflecting to himself that his third Labor of Hercules had necessitated more travelling and more interviews than could have been imagined possible. This little matter of a missing lady’s maid was proving one of the longest and most difficult problems he had ever tackled. Every clue, when examined, led exactly nowhere.

  It had brought him this evening to the Samovar Restaurant in Paris whose proprietor, Count Alexis Pavlovitch, prided himself on knowing everything that went on in the artistic world.

  He nodded now complacently:

  “Yes, yes, my friend, I know—I always know. You ask me where she is gone—the little Samoushenka, the exquisite dancer? Ah! she was the real thing, that little one.” He kissed his fingertips. “What fire—what abandon! She would have gone far—she would have been the Première Ballerina of her day—and then suddenly it all ends—she creeps away—to the end of the world—and soon, ah! so soon, they forget her.”

  “Where is she then?” demanded Poirot.

  “In Switzerland. At Vagray les Alpes. It is there that they go, those who have the little dry cough and who grow thinner and thinner. She will die, yes, she will die! She has a fatalistic nature. She will surely die.”

  Poirot coughed to break the tragic spell. He wanted information.

  “You do not, by chance, remember a maid she had? A maid called Nita Valetta?”

  “Valetta? Valetta? I remember seeing a maid once—at the station when I was seeing Katrina off to London. She was an Italian from Pisa, was she not? Yes, I am sure she was an Italian who came from Pisa.”

  Hercule Poirot groaned.

  “In that case,” he said, “I must now journey to Pisa.”

  VII

  Hercule Poirot stood in the Campo Santo at Pisa and looked down on a grave.

  So it was here that his quest had come to an end—here by this humble mound of earth. Underneath it lay the joyous creature who had stirred the heart and imagination of a simple English mechanic.

  Was this perhaps the best end to that sudden strange romance? Now the girl would live always in the young man’s memory as he had seen her for those few enchanted hours of a June afternoon. The clash of opposing nationalities, of different standards, the pain of disillusionment, all that was ruled out for ever.

  Hercule Poirot shook his head sadly. His mind went back to his conversation with the Valetta family. The mother, with her broad peasant face, the upright grief-stricken father, the dark hard-lipped sister.

  “It was sudden, Signor, it was very sudden. Though for many years she had had pains on and off . . . The doctor gave us no choice—he said there must be an operation immediately for the appendicitis. He took her off to the hospital then and there . . . Si, si, it was under the anæsthetic she died. She never recovered consciousness.”

  The mother sniffed, murmuring:

  “Bianca was always such a clever girl. It is terrible that she should have died so young. . . .”

  Hercule Poirot repeated to himself:

  “She died young. . . .”

  That was the message he must take back to the young man who had asked his help so confidingly.

  “She is not for you, my friend. She died young.”

  His quest had ended—here where the leaning Tower was silhouetted against the sky and the first spring flowers were showing pale and creamy with their promise of life and joy to come.

  Was it the stirring of spring that made him feel so rebelliously disinclined to accept this final verdict? Or was it something else? Something stirring at the back of his brain—words—a phrase—a name? Did not the whole thing finish too neatly—dovetail too obviously?

  Hercule Poirot sighed. He must take one more journey to put things beyond any possible doubt. He must go to Vagray les Alpes.

  VIII

  Here, he thought, really was the world’s end. This shelf of snow—these scattered huts and shelters in each of which lay a motionless human being fighting an insidious death.

  So he came at last to Katrina Samoushenka. When he saw her, lying there with hollow cheeks in each of which was a vivid red stain, and long thin emaciated hands stretched out on the coverlet, a memory stirred in him. He had not remembered her name, but he had seen her dance—had been carried away and fascinated by the supreme art that can make you forget art.

  He remembered Michael Novgin, the Hunter, leaping and twirling in that outrageous and fantastic forest that the brain of Ambrose Vandel had conceived. And he remembered the lovely flying Hind, eternally pursued, eternally desirable—a golden beautiful creature with horns on her head and twinkling bronze feet. He remembered her final collapse, shot and wounded, and Michael Novgin standing bewildered, with the body of the slain deer in his arms.

  Katrina Samoushenka was looking at him with faint curiosity. She said:

  “I have never seen you before, have I? What is it you want of me?”

  Hercule Poirot made her a little bow.

  “First, Madame, I wish to thank you—for your art which made for me once an evening of beauty.”

  She smiled faintly.

  “But also I am here on a matter of business. I have been looking, Madame, for a long time for a certain maid of yours—her name was Nita.”

  “Nita?”

  She stared at him. Her eyes were large and startled. She said:

  “What do you know about—Nita?”

  “I will tell you.”

  He told her of the evening when his car had broken down and of Ted Williamson standing there twisting his cap between his fingers and stammering out his love and his pain. She listened with close attention.<
br />
  She said when he had finished:

  “It is touching, that—yes, it is touching. . . .”

  Hercule Poirot nodded.

  “Yes,” he said. “It is a tale of Arcady, is it not? What can you tell me, Madame, of this girl?”

  Katrina Samoushenka sighed.

  “I had a maid—Juanita. She was lovely, yes—gay, light of heart. It happened to her what happens so often to those the gods favour. She died young.”

  They had been Poirot’s own words—final words—irrevocable words—Now he heard them again—and yet he persisted. He asked:

  “She is dead?”

  “Yes, she is dead.”

  Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute, then he said:

  “There is one thing I do not quite understand. I asked Sir George Sanderfield about this maid of yours and he seemed afraid. Why was that?”

  There was a faint expression of disgust on the dancer’s face.

  “You just said a maid of mine. He thought you meant Marie—the girl who came to me after Juanita left. She tried to blackmail him, I believe, over something that she found out about him. She was an odious girl—inquisitive, always prying into letters and locked drawers.”

  Poirot murmured:

  “Then that explains that.”

  He paused a minute, then he went on, still persistent:

  “Juanita’s other name was Valetta and she died of an operation for appendicitis in Pisa. Is that correct?”

  He noted the hesitation, hardly perceptible but nevertheless there, before the dancer bowed her head.

  “Yes, that is right. . . .”

  Poirot said meditatively:

  “And yet—there is still a little point—her people spoke of her, not as Juanita but as Bianca.”

  Katrina shrugged her thin shoulders. She said: “Bianca—Juanita, does it matter? I suppose her real name was Bianca but she thought the name of Juanita was more romantic and so chose to call herself by it.”

  “Ah, you think that?” He paused and then, his voice changing, he said: “For me, there is another explanation.”

  “What is it?”

  Poirot leaned forward. He said:

  “The girl that Ted Williamson saw had hair that he described as being like wings of gold.”

  He leaned still a little further forward. His finger just touched the two springing waves of Katrina’s hair.