Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  She was a devoted wife, a fond mother, she shared her husband’s love of country life. She interested herself in just those aspects of public life which were generally felt to be proper spheres of womanly activity. She dressed well, but never in an ostentatiously fashionable manner. She devoted much of her time and activity to large-scale charities, she had inaugurated special schemes for the relief of the wives of unemployed men. She was looked up to by the whole nation and was a most valuable asset to the Party.

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “You must be terribly worried, Madame.”

  “Oh I am—you don’t know how much. For years I have been dreading—something.”

  Poirot said:

  “You had no idea of what was going on actually?”

  She shook her head.

  “No—not in the least. I only knew that my father was not—was not what everyone thought him. I realized, from the time that I was a child, that he was a—a humbug.”

  Her voice was deep and bitter. She said:

  “It is through marrying me that Edward—that Edward will lose everything.”

  Poirot said in a quiet voice:

  “Have you any enemies, Madame?”

  She looked up at him, surprised.

  “Enemies? I don’t think so.”

  Poirot said thoughtfully:

  “I think you have. . . .”

  He went on:

  “Have you courage, Madame? There is a great campaign afoot—against your husband—and against yourself. You must prepare to defend yourself.”

  She cried:

  “But it doesn’t matter about me. Only about Edward!”

  Poirot said: “The one includes the other. Remember, Madame, you are Cæsar’s wife.”

  He saw her colour ebb. She leaned forward. She said:

  “What is it you are trying to tell me?”

  III

  Percy Perry, editor of the X-ray News, sat behind his desk smoking.

  He was a small man with a face like a weasel.

  He was saying in a soft, oily voice:

  “We’ll give ’em the dirt, all right. Lovely—lovely! Oh boy!”

  His second-in-command, a thin, spectacled youth, said uneasily:

  “You’re not nervous?”

  “Expecting strong-arm stuff? Not them. Haven’t got the nerve. Wouldn’t do them any good, either. Not the way we’ve got it farmed out—in this country and on the Continent and America.”

  The other said:

  “They must be in a pretty good stew. Won’t they do anything?”

  “They’ll send someone to talk pretty—”

  A buzzer sounded. Percy Perry picked up a receiver. He said: “Who do you say? Right, send him up.”

  He put the receiver down—grinned.

  “They’ve got that high-toned Belgian dick on to it. He’s coming up now to do his stuff. Wants to know if we’ll play ball.”

  Hercule Poirot came in. He was immaculately dressed—a white camelia in his buttonhole.

  Percy Perry said:

  “Pleased to meet you, M. Poirot. On your way to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot? No? My mistake.”

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “I am flattered. One hopes to present a good appearance. It is even more important,” his eyes roamed innocently over the editor’s face and somewhat slovenly attire, “when one has few natural advantages.”

  Perry said shortly:

  “What do you want to see me about?”

  Poirot leaned forward, tapped him on the knee, and said with a beaming smile:

  “Blackmail.”

  “What the devil do you mean, blackmail?”

  “I have heard—the little bird has told me—that on occasions you have been on the point of publishing certain very damaging statements in your so spirituel paper—then, there has been a pleasant little increase in your bank balance—and after all, those statements have not been published.”

  Poirot leaned back and nodded his head in a satisfied sort of way.

  “Do you realize that what you’re suggesting amounts to slander?”

  Poirot smiled confidently.

  “I am sure you will not take offence.”

  “I do take offence! As to blackmail there is no evidence of my ever having blackmailed anybody.”

  “No, no, I am quite sure of that. You misunderstand me. I was not threatening you. I was leading up to a simple question. How much?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Percy Perry.

  “A matter of National importance, M. Perry.”

  They exchanged a significant glance.

  Percy Perry said:

  “I’m a reformer, M. Poirot. I want to see politics cleaned up. I’m opposed to corruption. Do you know what the state of politics is in this country? The Augean Stables, no more, no less.”

  “Tiens!” said Hercule Poirot. “You, too, use that phrase.”

  “And what is needed,” went on the editor, “to cleanse those stables is the great purifying flood of Public Opinion.”

  Hercule Poirot got up. He said:

  “I applaud your sentiments.”

  He added:

  “It is a pity that you do not feel in need of money.”

  Percy Perry said hurriedly:

  “Here, wait a sec—I didn’t say that exactly. . . .”

  But Hercule Poirot had gone through the door.

  His excuse for later events is that he does not like blackmailers.

  IV

  Everitt Dashwood, the cheery young man on the staff of The Branch, clapped Hercule Poirot affectionately on the back.

  He said: “There’s dirt and dirt, my boy. My dirt’s clean dirt—that’s all.”

  “I was not suggesting that you were on a par with Percy Perry.”

  “Damned little bloodsucker. He’s a blot on our profession. We’d all down him if we could.”

  “It happens,” said Hercule Poirot, “that I am engaged at the moment on a little matter of clearing up a political scandal.”

  “Cleaning out the Augean Stables, eh?” said Dashwood. “Too much for you, my boy. Only hope is to divert the Thames and wash away the Houses of Parliament.”

  “You are cynical,” said Hercule Poirot, shaking his head.

  “I know the world, that’s all.”

  Poirot said: “You, I think, are just the man I seek. You have a reckless disposition, you are the good sport, you like something that is out of the usual.”

  “And granting all that?”

  “I have a little scheme to put into action. If my ideas are right, there is a sensational plot to unmask. That, my friend, shall be a scoop for your paper.”

  “Can do,” said Dashwood cheerfully.

  “It will concern a scurrilous plot against a woman.”

  “Better and better. Sex stuff always goes.”

  “Then sit down and listen.”

  V

  People were talking.

  In the Goose and Feathers at Little Wimplington.

  “Well, I don’t believe it. John Hammett, he was always an honest man, he was. Not like some of these political folk.”

  “That’s what they say about all swindlers before they’re found out.”

  “Thousands, they say he made, out of that Palestine Oil business. Just a crook deal, it was.”

  “Whole lot of ’em tarred with the same brush. Dirty crooks, every one of ’em.”

  “You wouldn’t find Everhard doing that. He’s one of the old school.”

  “Eh, but I can’t believe as John Hammett was a wrong ’un. You can’t believe all these papers say.”

  “Ferrier’s wife was ’is daughter. Have you seen what it says about her?”

  They pored over a much thumbed copy of the X-ray News:

  Caesar’s wife? We hear that a certain highly placed political lady was seen in very strange surroundings the other day. Complete with her gigolo. Oh Dagmar, Dagmar, how could you be so naughty?

  A rus
tic voice said slowly:

  “Mrs. Ferrier’s not that kind. Gigolo? That’s one of these dago skunks.”

  Another voice said:

  “You never can tell with women. The whole bunch of ’em wrong ’uns if you ask me.”

  VI

  People were talking.

  “But, darling, I believe it’s absolutely true. Naomi had it from Paul and he had it from Andy. She’s absolutely depraved.”

  “But she was always so terribly dowdy and proper and opening bazaars.”

  “Just camouflage, darling. They say she’s a nymphomaniac. Well, I mean! it’s all in the X-ray News. Oh, not right out, but you can read between the lines. I don’t know how they get hold of these things.”

  “What do you think of all this political scandal touch? They say her father embezzled the Party funds.”

  VII

  People were talking.

  “I don’t like to think of it, and that’s a fact, Mrs. Rogers. I mean, I always thought Mrs. Ferrier was a really nice woman.”

  “Do you think all these awful things are true?”

  “As I say, I don’t like to think it of her. Why, she opened a Bazaar in Pelchester only last June. I was as near to her as I am to that sofa. And she had such a pleasant smile.”

  “Yes, but what I say is there’s no smoke without fire.”

  “Well, of course that’s true. Oh dear, it seems as though you can’t believe in anyone!”

  VIII

  Edward Ferrier, his face white and strained, said to Poirot:

  “These attacks on my wife! They’re scurrilous—absolutely scurrilous! I’m bringing an action against that vile rag.”

  Hercule Poirot said: “I do not advise you to do so.”

  “But these damned lies have got to be stopped.”

  “Are you sure they are lies?”

  “God damn you, yes!”

  Poirot said, his head held a little on one side:

  “What does your wife say?”

  For a moment Ferrier looked taken aback.

  “She says it is best to take no notice . . . But I can’t do that—everybody is talking.”

  Hercule Poirot said: “Yes, everybody is talking.”

  IX

  And then came the small bald announcement in all the papers.

  Mrs. Ferrier has had a slight nervous breakdown. She has gone to Scotland to recuperate.

  Conjectures, rumours—positive information that Mrs. Ferrier was not in Scotland, had never been to Scotland.

  Stories, scandalous stories, of where Mrs. Ferrier really was. . . .

  And again, people talking.

  “I tell you Andy saw her. At that frightful place! She was drunk or doped and with an awful Argentine gigolo—Ramon. You know!”

  More talking.

  Mrs. Ferrier had gone off with an Argentine dancer. She had been seen in Paris, doped. She had been taking drugs for years. She drank like a fish.

  Slowly the righteous mind of England, at first unbelieving, had hardened against Mrs. Ferrier. Seemed as though there must be something in it! That wasn’t the sort of woman to be the Prime Minister’s wife. “A Jezebel, that’s what she is, nothing better than a Jezebel!”

  And then came the camera records.

  Mrs. Ferrier, photographed in Paris—lying back in a night club, her arm twined familiarly over the shoulder of a dark, olive-skinned vicious-looking young man.

  Other snapshots—half-naked on a beach—her head on the lounge lizard’s shoulder.

  And underneath:

  “Mrs. Ferrier has a good time . . .”

  Two days later an action for libel was brought against the X-ray News.

  X

  The case for the prosecution was opened by Sir Mortimer Inglewood, K.C. He was dignified and full of righteous indignation. Mrs. Ferrier was the victim of an infamous plot—a plot only to be equalled by the famous case of the Queen’s Necklace familiar to readers of Alexandre Dumas. That plot had been engineered to lower Queen Marie Antoinette in the eyes of the populace. This plot, also, had been engineered to discredit a noble and virtuous lady who was in this country in the position of Cæsar’s wife. Sir Mortimer spoke with bitter disparagement of Fascists and Communists both of whom sought to undermine Democracy by every unfair machination known. He then proceeded to call witnesses.

  The first was the Bishop of Northumbria.

  Dr. Henderson, the Bishop of Northumbria was one of the best-known figures in the English church, a man of great saintliness and integrity of character. He was broadminded, tolerant, and a fine preacher. He was loved and revered by all who knew him.

  He went into the box and swore that between the dates mentioned Mrs. Edward Ferrier had been staying in the Palace with himself and his wife. Worn out by her activities in good works, she had been recommended a thorough rest. Her visit had been kept a secret so as to obviate any worry from the Press.

  An eminent doctor followed the Bishop and deposed to having ordered Mrs. Ferrier rest and complete absence from worry.

  A local general practitioner gave evidence to the effect that he had attended Mrs. Ferrier at the Palace.

  The next witness called was Thelma Andersen.

  A thrill went round the Court when she entered the witness-box. Everyone realized at once what a strong resemblance the woman bore to Mrs. Edward Ferrier.

  “Your name is Thelma Andersen?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are a Danish subject?”

  “Yes. Copenhagen is my home.”

  “And you formerly worked at a café there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please tell us in your own words what happened on the 18th March last.”

  “There is a gentleman who comes to my table there—an English gentleman. He tells me he works for an English paper—the X-ray News.”

  “You are sure he mentioned that name—X-ray News?”

  “Yes, I am sure—because, you see, I think at first it must be a medical paper. But no, it seems not so. Then he tells me there is an English film actress who wants to find a ‘stand-in,’ and that I am just the type. I do not go to the pictures much, and I do not recognize the name he says, but he tells me, yes, she is very famous, and that she has not been well and so she wants someone to appear as her in public places, and for that she will pay very much money.”

  “How much money did this gentleman offer you?”

  “Five hundred pounds in English money. I do not at first believe—I think it is some trick, but he pays me at once half the money. So then, I give in my notice where I work.”

  The tale went on. She had been taken to Paris, supplied with smart clothes, and had been provided with an “escort.” “A very nice Argentinian gentleman—very respectful, very polite.”

  It was clear that the woman had thoroughly enjoyed herself. She had flown over to London and had been taken there to certain “nightclubs” by her olive-skinned cavalier. She had been photographed in Paris with him. Some of the places to which she had gone were not, she admitted, quite nice . . . Indeed, they were not respectable! And some of the photographs taken, they too, had not been very nice. But these things, they had told her, were necessary for “advertisement”—and Señor Ramon himself had always been most respectful.

  In answer to questioning she declared that the name of Mrs. Ferrier had never been mentioned and that she had had no idea that it was that lady she was supposed to be understudying. She had meant no harm. She identified certain photographs which were shown to her as having been taken of her in Paris and on the Riviera.

  There was the hallmark of absolute honesty about Thelma Andersen. She was quite clearly a pleasant, but slightly stupid woman. Her distress at the whole thing, now that she understood it, was patent to everyone.

  The defence was unconvincing. A frenzied denial of having had any dealings with the woman Andersen. The photos in question had been brought to the London office and had been believed to be genuine. Sir Mortimer’s closing speech rous
ed enthusiasm. He described the whole thing as a dastardly political plot, formed to discredit the Prime Minister and his wife. All sympathy would be extended to the unfortunate Mrs. Ferrier.

  The verdict, a foregone conclusion, was given amidst unparalleled scenes. Damages were assessed at an enormous figure. As Mrs. Ferrier and her husband and father left the court they were greeted by the appreciative roars of a vast crowd.

  XI

  Edward Ferrier grasped Poirot warmly by the hand.

  He said:

  “I thank you, M. Poirot, a thousand times. Well, that finishes the X-ray News. Dirty little rag. They’re wiped out completely. Serves them right for cooking up such a scurrilous plot. Against Dagmar, too, the kindliest creature in the world. Thank goodness you managed to expose the whole thing for the wicked ramp it was . . . What put you on to the idea that they might be using a double?”

  “It is not a new idea,” Poirot reminded him. “It was employed successfully in the case of Jeanne de la Motte when she impersonated Marie Antoinette.”

  “I know. I must re-read The Queen’s Necklace. But how did you actually find the woman they were employing?”

  “I looked for her in Denmark, and I found her there.”

  “But why Denmark?”

  “Because Mrs. Ferrier’s grandmother was a Dane, and she herself is a markedly Danish type. And there were other reasons.”

  “The resemblance is certainly striking. What a devilish idea! I wonder how the little rat came to think of it?”

  Poirot smiled.

  “But he did not.”

  He tapped himself on the chest.

  “I thought of it!”

  Edward Ferrier stared.

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  Poirot said:

  “We must go back to an older story than that of The Queen’s Necklace—to the cleansing of the Augean Stables. What Hercules used was a river—that is to say one of the great forces of Nature. Modernize that! What is a great force of Nature? Sex, is it not? It is the sex angle that sells stories, that makes news. Give people scandal allied to sex and it appeals far more than any mere political chicanery or fraud.

  “Eh bien, that was my task! First to put my own hands in the mud like Hercules to build up a dam that should turn the course of that river. A journalistic friend of mine aided me. He searched Denmark until he found a suitable person to attempt the impersonation. He approached her, casually mentioned the X-ray News to her, hoping she would remember it. She did.