by Mark Place
‘I told you about that myself, my dear Poirot.’
‘No, it was your niece who insisted on telling me and you could not very well protest too violently in case it might arouse suspicions. And after that meeting, one more evil chance (from your point of view) occurred. Mabelle Sainsbury Seale met Amberiotis, went to lunch with him and babbled to him of this meeting with a friend’s husband—“after all these years!”—“Looked older, of course, but had hardly changed!” That, I admit, is pure guess-work on my part but I believe it is what happened. I do not think that Mabelle Sainsbury Seale realized for a moment that the Mr Blunt her friend had married was the shadowy figure behind the finance of the world. The name, after all, is not an uncommon one. But Amberiotis, remember, in addition to his espionage activities, was a blackmailer. Blackmailers have an uncanny nose for a secret. Amberiotis wondered. Easy to find out just who the Mr Blunt was. And then, I have no doubt, he wrote to you or telephoned…Oh, yes—a gold mine for Amberiotis.’
Poirot paused. He went on: ‘There is only one effectual method of dealing with a really efficient and experienced blackmailer. Silence him. ‘It was not a case, as I had had erroneously suggested to me, of “Blunt must go”. It was, on the contrary, “Amberiotis must go”. But the answer was the same! The easiest way to get at a man is when he is off his guard, and when is a man more off his guard than in the dentist’s chair?’
Poirot paused again. A faint smile came to his lips. He said: ‘The truth about the case was mentioned very early. The page-boy, Alfred, was reading a crime story called Death at Eleven Forty-Five . We should have taken that as an omen. For, of course, that is just about the time when Morley was killed. You shot him just as you were leaving. Then you pressed his buzzer, turned on the taps of the wash basin and left the room. You timed it so that you came down the stairs just as Alfred was taking the false Mabelle Sainsbury Seale to the lift. You actually opened the front door, perhaps you passed out, but as the lift doors shut and the lift went up you slipped inside again and went up the stairs. ‘I know, from my own visits, just what Alfred did when he took up a patient. He knocked on the door, opened it, and stood back to let the patient pass in. Inside the water was running—inference, Morley was washing his hands as usual. But Alfred couldn’t actually see him.
‘As soon as Alfred had gone down again in the lift, you slipped along into the surgery. Together you and your accomplice lifted the body and carried it into the adjoining office. Then a quick hunt through the files, and the charts of Mrs Chapman and Miss Sainsbury Seale were cleverly falsified. You put on a white linen coat, perhaps your wife applied a trace of make-up. But nothing much was needed. It was Amberiotis’ first visit to Morley. He had never met you. And your photograph seldom appears in the papers. Besides, why should he have suspicions? A blackmailer does not fear his dentist. Miss Sainsbury Seale goes down and Alfred shows her out. The buzzer goes and Amberiotis is taken up. He finds the dentist washing his hands behind the door in approved fashion. He is conducted to the chair. He indicates the painful tooth. You talk the accustomed patter. You explain it will be best to freeze the gum. The procaine and adrenalin are there. You inject a big enough dose to kill. And incidentally he will not feel any lack of skill in your dentistry!
‘Completely unsuspicious, Amberiotis leaves. You bring out Morley’s body and arrange it on the floor, dragging it slightly on the carpet now that you have to manage it single-handed. You wipe the pistol and put it in his hand—wipe the door-handle so that your prints shall not be the last. The instruments you used have all been passed into the sterilizer. You leave the room, go down the stairs and slip out of the front door at a suitable moment. That is your only moment of danger. ‘It should all have passed off so well! Two people who threatened your safety—both dead. A third person also dead—but that, from your point of view, was unavoidable. And all so easily explained.
Morley’s suicide explained by the mistake he had made over Amberiotis. The two deaths cancel out. One of these regrettable accidents. ‘But alas for you, I am on the scene. I have doubts. I make objections. All is not going as easily as you hoped. So there must be a second line of defences. There must be, if necessary, a scapegoat. You have already informed yourself minutely, of Morley’s household. There is this man, Frank Carter, he will do. So your accomplice arranges that he shall be engaged in a mysterious fashion as gardener. If, later, he tells such a ridiculous story no one will believe it. In due course, the body in the fur chest will come to light. At first it will be thought to be that of Miss Sainsbury Seale, then the dental evidence will be taken. Big sensation! It may seem a needless complication, but it was necessary . You do not want the police force of England to be looking for a missing Mrs Albert Chapman. No, let Mrs Chapman be dead—and let it be Mabelle Sainsbury Seale for whom the police look. Since they can never find her. Besides, through your influence, you can arrange to have the case dropped.
‘You did do that, but since it was necessary that you should know just what I was doing, you sent for me and urged me to find the missing woman for you. And you continued, steadily, to “force a card” upon me. Your accomplice rang me up with a melodramatic warning—the same idea—espionage—the public aspect. She is a clever actress, this wife of yours, but to disguise one’s voice the natural tendency is to imitate another voice. Your wife imitated the intonation of Mrs Olivera. That puzzled me, I may say, a good deal.
‘Then I was taken down to Exsham—the final performance was staged. How easy to arrange a loaded pistol amongst laurels so that a man, clipping them, shall unwittingly cause it to go off. The pistol falls at his feet. Startled, he picks it up. What more do you want? He is caught red-handed—with a ridiculous story and with a pistol which is a twin to the one with which Morley was shot.
‘And all a snare for the feet of Hercule Poirot.’
Alistair Blunt stirred a little in his chair. His face was grave and a little sad. He said: ‘Don’t misunderstand me, M. Poirot. How much do you guess? And how much do you actually know?’
Poirot said: ‘I have a certificate of the marriage—at a registry office near Oxford—of Martin Alistair Blunt and Gerda Grant. Frank Carter saw two men leave Morley’s surgery just after twenty-five past twelve. The first was a fat man—Amberiotis. The second was, of course, you. Frank Carter did not recognize you. He only saw you from above.’
‘How fair of you to mention that!’
‘He went into the surgery and found Morley’s body. The hands were cold and there was dried blood round the wound. That meant that Morley had been dead some time. Therefore the dentist who attended to Amberiotis could not have been Morley and must have been Morley’s murderer.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. Helen Montressor was arrested this afternoon.’
Alistair Blunt gave one sharp movement. Then he sat very still. He said: ‘That—rather tears it.’
Hercule Poirot said: ‘Yes. The real Helen Montressor, your distant cousin, died in Canada seven years ago. You suppressed that fact, and took advantage of it.’
A smile came to Alistair Blunt’s lips. He spoke naturally and with a kind of boyish enjoyment. ‘Gerda got a kick out of it all, you know. I’d like to make you understand. You’re such a clever fellow. I married her without letting my people know. She was acting in repertory at the time. My people were the strait-laced kind, and I was going into the firm. We agreed to keep it dark. She went on acting. Mabelle Sainsbury Seale was in the company too. She knew about us. Then she went abroad with a touring company. Gerda heard of her once or twice from India. Then she stopped writing. Mabelle got mixed up with some Hindu. She was always a stupid, credulous girl.
‘I wish I could make you understand about my meeting with Rebecca and my marriage. Gerda understood. The only way I can put it is that it was like Royalty. I had the chance of marrying a Queen and playing the part of Prince Consort or even King. I looked on my marriage to Gerda as morganatic. I loved her. I didn’t want to get rid of her. And the
whole thing worked splendidly. I liked Rebecca immensely. She was a woman with a first-class financial brain and mine was just as good. We were good at team work. It was supremely exciting. She was an excellent companion and I think I made her happy.
I was genuinely sorry when she died. The queer thing was that Gerda and I grew to enjoy the secret thrill of our meetings. We had all sorts of ingenious devices. She was an actress by nature. She had a repertoire of seven or eight characters—Mrs Albert Chapman was only one of them. She was an American widow in Paris. I met her there when I went over on business. And she used to go to Norway with painting things as an artist. I went there for the fishing. And then, later, I passed her off as my cousin. Helen Montressor. It was great fun for us both, and it kept romance alive, I suppose. We could have married officially after Rebecca died—but we didn’t want to. Gerda would have found it hard to live my official life and, of course, something from the past might have been raked up, but I think the real reason we went on more or less the same was that we enjoyed the secrecy of it. We should have found open domesticity dull.’ Blunt paused. He said, and his voice changed and hardened: ‘And then that damned fool of a woman messed up everything. Recognizing me—after all those years!
And she told Amberiotis. You see—you must see—that something had to be done! It wasn’t only myself—not only the selfish point of view. If I was ruined and disgraced—the country, my country was hit as well. For I’ve done something for England, M. Poirot. I’ve held it firm and kept it solvent. It’s free from Dictators—from Fascism and from Communism. I don’t really care for money as money. I do like power—I like to rule—but I don’t want to tyrannize. We are democratic in England—truly democratic. We can grumble and say what we think and laugh at our politicians. We’re free. I care for all that—it’s been my life-work. But if I went—well, you know what would probably happen. I’m needed, M. Poirot. And a damned double-crossing, blackmailing rogue of a Greek was going to destroy my life work. Something had to be done. Gerda saw it, too. We were sorry about the Sainsbury Seale woman—but it was no good. We’d got to silence her. She couldn’t be trusted to hold her tongue. Gerda went to see her, asked her to tea, told her to ask for Mrs Chapman, said she was staying in Mr Chapman’s flat.
Mabelle Sainsbury Seale came, quite unsuspecting. She never knew anything—the medinal was in the tea—it’s quite painless. You just sleep and don’t wake up. The face business was done afterwards—rather sickening, but we felt it was necessary. Mrs Chapman was to exit for good. I had given my “cousin” Helen a cottage to live in. We decided that after a while we would get married. But first we had to get Amberiotis out of the way. It worked beautifully. He hadn’t a suspicion that I wasn’t a real dentist. I did my stuff with the hand-pricks rather well. I didn’t risk the drill. Of course, after the injection he couldn’t feel what I was doing. Probably just as well!’
Poirot asked: ‘The pistols?’
‘Actually they belonged to a secretary I once had in America. He bought them abroad somewhere.
When he left he forgot to take them.’
There was a pause. Then Alistair Blunt asked: ‘Is there anything else you want to know?’
Hercule Poirot said: ‘What about Morley?’
Alistair Blunt said simply: ‘I was sorry about Morley.’
Hercule Poirot said: ‘Yes, I see…’
There was a long pause, then Blunt said: ‘Well, M. Poirot, what about it?’
Poirot said: ‘Helen Montressor is arrested already.’
‘And now it’s my turn?’
‘That was my meaning, yes.’
Blunt said gently:
‘But you are not happy about it, eh?’
‘No, I am not at all happy.’
Alistair Blunt said: ‘I’ve killed three people. So presumably I ought to be hanged. But you’ve heard my defence.’
‘Which is—exactly?’
‘That I believe, with all my heart and soul, that I am necessary to the continued peace and well-being of this country.’
Hercule Poirot allowed: ‘That may be—yes.’
‘You agree, don’t you?’
‘I agree, yes. You stand for all the things that to my mind are important. For sanity and balance and stability and honest dealing.’
Alistair Blunt said quietly: ‘Thanks.’
He added: ‘Well, what about it?’
‘You suggest that I—retire from the case?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your wife?’
‘I’ve got a good deal of pull. Mistaken identity, that’s the line to take.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then,’ said Alistair Blunt simply, ‘I’m for it.’
He went on: ‘It’s in your hands, Poirot. It’s up to you. But I tell you this—and it’s not just self-preservation—I’m needed in the world. And do you know why? Because I’m an honest man. And because I’ve got common sense—and no particular axe of my own to grind.’
Poirot nodded. Strangely enough, he believed all that.
He said: ‘Yes, that is one side. You are the right man in the right place. You have sanity, judgement, balance. But there is the other side. Three human beings who are dead.’
‘Yes, but think of them! Mabelle Sainsbury Seale—you said yourself—a woman with the brains of a hen! Amberiotis—a crook and a blackmailer!’
‘And Morley?’
‘I’ve told you before. I’m sorry about Morley. But after all—he was a decent fellow and a good dentist—but there are other dentists.’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot, ‘there are other dentists. And Frank Carter? You would have let him die, too, without regret?’
Blunt said: ‘I don’t waste any pity on him . He’s no good. An utter rotter.’
Poirot said: ‘But a human being…’
‘Oh well, we’re all human beings…’
‘Yes, we are all human beings. That is what you have not remembered. You have said that Mabelle Sainsbury Seale was a foolish human being and Amberiotis an evil one, and Frank Carter a wastrel—and Morley—Morley was only a dentist and there are other dentists. That is where you and I, M. Blunt, do not see alike. For to me the lives of those four people are just as important as your life.’
‘You’re wrong.’
‘No, I am not wrong. You are a man of great natural honesty and rectitude. You took one step aside—and outwardly it has not affected you. Publicly you have continued the same, upright, trustworthy, honest. But within you the love of power grew to overwhelming heights. So you sacrificed four human lives and thought them of no account.’ ‘Don’t you realize, Poirot, that the safety and happiness of the whole nation depends on me?’
‘I am not concerned with nations, Monsieur. I am concerned with the lives of private individuals who have the right not to have their lives taken from them.’ He got up.
‘So that’s your answer,’ said Alistair Blunt. Hercule Poirot said in a tired voice: ‘Yes—that is my answer…’ He went to the door and opened it. Two men came in.
II
Hercule Poirot went down to where a girl was waiting. Jane Olivera, her face white and strained, stood against the mantelpiece. Beside her was Howard Raikes. She said: ‘Well?’
Poirot said gently: ‘It is all over.’
Raikes said harshly: ‘What do you mean?’
Poirot said: ‘Mr Alistair Blunt has been arrested for murder.’
Raikes said: ‘I thought he’d buy you off…’
Jane said: ‘No. I never thought that.’
Poirot sighed. He said: ‘The world is yours. The New Heaven and the New Earth. In your new world, my children, let there be freedom and let there be pity…That is all I ask.’
Nineteen, Twenty, My Plate’s Empty
Hercule Poirot walked home along the deserted streets. An unobtrusive figure joined him. ‘Well?’ said Mr Barnes. Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. Barnes said: ‘What line did he take?’
‘He admitted everything and pleaded justification. He said that this country needed him.’
‘So it does,’ said Mr Barnes. He added after a minute or two: ‘Don’t you think so?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Well, then—’
‘We may be wrong,’ said Hercule Poirot.
‘I never thought of that,’ said Mr Barnes. ‘So we may.’
They walked on for a little way, then Barnes asked curiously:
‘What are you thinking about?’
Hercule Poirot quoted: ‘Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord, he hath also rejected thee from being king.’
‘Hm—I see—’ said Mr Barnes. ‘Saul—after the Amalekites. Yes, you could think of it that way.’
They walked on a little farther, then Barnes said: ‘I take the tube here. Good-night, Poirot.’ He paused, then said awkwardly: ‘You know—there’s something I’d like to tell you.’
‘Yes, mon ami?’
‘Feel I owe it to you. Led you astray unintentionally. Fact of the matter is, Albert Chapman, Q.X.912.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Albert Chapman. That’s partly why I was interested. I knew, you see, that I’d never had a wife.’
He hurried away, chuckling. Poirot stood stock still. Then his eyes opened, his eyebrows rose. He said to himself: ‘Nineteen, twenty, my plate’s empty—’ And went home.
The Clocks
BY
AGATHA CHRISTIE
The Clocks
To my old friend Mario with happy memories of delicious food at the Caprice.
Prologue
The afternoon of the 9th of September was exactly like any other afternoon. None of those who were to be concerned in the events of that day could lay claim to having had a premonition of disaster. (With the exception, that is, of Mrs Packer of 47, Wilbraham Crescent, who specialized in premonitions, and who always described at great length afterwards the peculiar forebodings and tremors that had beset her. But Mrs Packer at No. 47, was so far away from No. 19, and so little concerned with the happenings there, that it seemed unnecessary for her to have had a premonition at all.) At the Cavendish Secretarial and Typewriting Bureau, Principal, Miss K. Martindale, September 9th had been a dull day, a day of routine. The telephone rang, typewriters clicked, the pressure of business was average, neither above nor below its usual volume. None of it was particularly interesting. Up till 2.35, September 9th might have been a day like any other day. At 2.35 Miss Martindale’s buzzer went, and Edna Brent in the outer office answered it in her usual breathy and slightly nasal voice, as she manoeuvred a toffee along the line of her jaw.