AgathaChristie-HerculePoirotsCasebook

by Hercule Poirot's Casebook (lit)

  car- a peaceful spot since nobody passed in or out that way.

  'That's better,' said Mr Bonnington. 'Selfish lot, the

  human race, they won't pass up the car however much you

  ask 'em to!'

  Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  'What will you?' he said. 'Life is too uncertain.'

  'That's it. Here today, gone tomorrow,' said 3A

  Bonnington with a kind of gloomy relish. 'And talking o

  that, d'you remember that old boy we noticed at the Galla

  Endeavour? I shouldn't wonder if he'd hopped it to a bettc.:

  world. He's not been there for a whole week. Molly's quic

  upset about it.'

  Hercule Poirot sat up. His green eyes flashed.

  'Indeed?he said. 'Indeed?'

  Bonnington said:

  'D'you remember I suggested he'd been o a doctor and

  been put on a diet? Diet's nonsense of course - but I

  shouldn't wonder if he had consulted a doctor about his

  health and what the doctor said gave him a bit of a jolt. That

  would account for him ordering things off the menu without

  noticing what he was doing. Quite likely the jolt he-got

  hurried him out of the world sooner than he would have gone

  otherwise. Doctors ought to be careful what they tell a chap.'

  'They usually are,' said Hercule Poirot.

  174

  'This is my station,' said Mr Bonnington. 'Bye, bye. Don't

  suppoge we shall ever know now who the old boy was- not even

  his name. Funny world!'

  He hurried out of the carriage.

  Hercule Poirot, sitting frowning, looked as though he did not

  think it was such a funny world.

  He went home and gave certain instructions to his faithful

  valet, George.

  Hercule Poirot ran his finger down a list of names. It was a

  record of deaths within a certain area.

  Poirot's fmger stopped.

  'Henry Gascoigne. Sixty-nine. I might try him fast.'

  Later in the day, Hercule Poirot was sitting in Dr

  MacAndrew's surgery just off the King's Road. MacAndrew

  was a tall red-haired Scotsman with an intelligent face.

  'Gascoigne?' he said. 'Yes, that's right. Eccentric old bird.

  Lived alone in one of those derelict old houses that are being

  cleared away in order to build a block of modem flats. I hadn't

  attended him before, but I'd seen him about and I knew who he

  was. It was the dairy people got the wind up first. The milk

  bottles began to pile up outside. In the end the people next door

  sent word to the police and they broke the door in and found

  him. He'd pitched down the stairs and broken his neck. Had on

  an old dressing-gown with a ragged cord - might easily have

  tripped himself up with it.'

  'I see,' said Hercule Poirot. 'It was quite simple- an accident.'

  'That's right.'

  'Had he any relations?'

  'There's a nephew. Used to come along and see his uncle

  about once a month. Lorrimer, his name is, George Lorrimer.

  He's a medico himself. Lives at Wimbledon.'

  'Was he upset at the old man's death?'

  'I don't know that I'd say he was upset. I mean, he had an affection

  for the old man, but he didn't really know him very well.'

  175

  'How long had Mr Gascoigne been dead when you saw

  him?'

  'Ah!' said Dr MacAndrew. 'This is where we get official.

  Not less than forty-eight hours and not more than seventy-two

  hours. He was found on the morning of the sixth.

  Actually, we got closer than that. He'd got a letter in the

  pocket of his dressing-gown- written on the third - posted in

  Wimbledon that afternoon - would have been delivered

  somewhere around nine-twenty p.m. That puts the time of

  death at after nine-twenty on the evening of the third. That

  agrees with the contents of the stomach and the processes of

  digestion. He had had a meal about two hours before death. I

  examined him on the morning of the sixth and his condition

  was quite consistent with death having occurred about sixty

  hours previously- round about ten p.m. on the third.'

  'It all seems very consistent. Tell me, when was he last seen

  alive?'

  'He was seen in the King's Road about seven o'clock that

  same evening, Thursday the third, and he dined at the

  Gallant Endeavour restaurant at seven-thirty. It seems he

  always dined there on Thursdays. He was by way of being an

  artist, you know. An extremely bad one.'

  'He had no other relations? Only this nephew?'

  'There was a twin brother. The whole story is rather

  curious. They hadn't seen each other for years. It seems the

  other brother, Anthony Gascoigne, married a very rich

  woman and gave up art- and the brothers quarrelled over it.

  Hadn't seen each other since, I believe. But oddly enoug, they died on the same day. The elder twin passed away at three

  o'clock on the afternoon of the third. Once before I've known

  a case of twins dying on the same day - in different parts if

  the world! Probably just a coincidence- but there it is.'

  'Is the other brother's wife alive?'

  'No, she died some years ago.'

  'Where did Anthony Gascoigne live?'

  176

  'He had a house on Kingston Hill. He was, I believe, from

  What Dr Lorrimer tells me, very much of a recluse.'

  Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

  The Scotsman looked at him keenly.

  'What exactly have you got in your mind, M. Poirot?' he

  asked bluntly. 'I've answered your questions - as was my

  duty seeing the credentials you brought. But I'm in the dark

  as to what it's all about.'

  Poirot said slowly:

  'A simple case of accidental death, that's what you said.

  What I have in mind is equally simple-a simple push.'

  Dr MacAndrew looked startled.

  'In other words, murder! Have you any grounds for that

  belief?.'

  'No,' said Poirot. 'It is a mere supposition.'

  'There must be something-' persisted the other.

  Poirot did not speak. MacAndrew said:

  'If it's the nephew, Lorrimer, you suspect, I don't mind

  telling you here and now that you are barking up the wrong

  tree. Lorrimer was phiying bridge in Wimbledon from eight

  thirty

  till midnight. That came out at the inquest.'

  Poirot murmured:

  'And presumably it was verified. The police are careful.'

  The doctor said:

  'Perhaps you know something against him?'

  'I didn't know that there was such a person until you

  mentioned him.'

  'Then you suspect somebody else?'

  'No, no. It is not that at all. It's a case of the routine habits

  of the human 'animal. That is very important. And the dead

  M. Gascoigne does not fit in. It is all wrong, you see.'

  'I really don't understand.'

  Hercule Poirot murmured:

  'The trouble is, there is too much sauce over the bad fish.'

  'My dear sir?'

  177

  Hercule Poirot smiled.

  'You will be having me locked up as a lunatic soon, MomleUr

  le Docteur. But I am not really a mental case- just a man who has a liking for order and method and who
is worried when he

  comes across a fact that does notfit in. I must ask you to forgive

  me for having given you so much trouble.'

  He rose and the doctor rose also.

  th iYUstlbt:.'-s.'d' Mac.Andre.w, '.honestly I can't see anything

  uslalCaous about me aeath of Henry Gascoigne. I

  say he fell - you say somebody pushed him. It's all- well - in

  the air.'

  Hercule Poirot sighed.

  'Yes,' he said. 'It is workmanlike. Somebody has made the

  good job of it!'

  'You still think-'

  The little man spread out his hands.

  m an oostmate man - a man vth a little idea - and nothing to

  support it! By the way, did Henry Gascoigne have false teeth?'

  'No, his own teeth were in excellent preservation. Very

  creditable indeed at his age.'

  'He looked after them well - they were white and welt

  brushed?'

  'Yes, I noticed them particularly. Teeth tend to grow a little

  yellow as one grows older, but they were in good condition.'

  'Not discoloured in any way?'

  'No I don't think he was a smoker if that Is what you mean.

  'I did not mean that precisely-it was just a long shot- whit:

  probably will not come offi Goodbye, Dr MacAndrew, and

  thank you for your kindness.'

  He shook the doctor's hand and departed.

  'And now,' he said, or the long shot.

  At the Gallant Endeavour, he sat down at the same table wificb

  he had shared with Bonnington. The girl who served him

  not Molly. Molly, the girl told him, was away on a holiday.

  178

  It was only just seven and Hercule Poirot found no difficulty

  in entering into conversation with the girl on the subject of old

  Mr Gascoigue.

  'Yes,' she said. 'He'd been here for years and years. But none

  of us girls ever knew his name. We saw about the inquest in the

  paper, and there was a picture of him. "There," I said to Molly.

  "If that isn't our 'Old Father Time'" as we used to call him.'

  'He dined here on the evening of his death, did he not?'

  'That's right, Thursday, the third. He was always here on a

  Thursday. Tuesdays and Thursdays punctual as a dock.'

  'You don't remember, I suppose, what he had for dinner?'

  'Now let me see, it was mulligatawny soup, that's right, and

  beefsteak pudding or was it the mutton? - no pudding, that's

  right, and blackberry and'apple pie and cheese. And then to

  think of him going home and falling down those stairs that very

  same evening. A frayed dressing-gown cord they said it was as

  caused it. Of course, his clothes were always something awful -old-fashioned

  and put on anyhow, and all tattered, and yet he

  had a kind of air, all the same, as though he was somebody! Oh,

  we get all sorts of interesting customers here.'

  She moved off.

  Hercule Poirot ate his filleted sole. His eyes showed a green

  light.

  'It is odd,' he said to himself, 'how the cleverest people slip

  over details. Bonnington will be interested.'

  But the time had not yet come for leisurely discussion with

  Bonnington.

  Armed with introductions from a certain influential .quarter,

  Hercule Poirot found no difficulty at all in dealing with the

  coroner for the district. ·

  'A curious figure, the deceased man Gascoigne,' he ob-served.

  'A lonely, eccentric old fellow. But his decease seems to

  arouse an unusual amount of attention?'

  He looked with some curiosity at his visitor as he spoke.

  179

  Hercule Poirot chose his words carefully.

  'There are circumstances connected with it, Monsieur,

  which make investigation desirable.'

  'Well, how can I help you?'

  'It is, I believe, within your province to order documents

  produced in your court to be destroyed, or to be impounded-as

  you think fit. A certain letter was found in the pocket of

  Henry Gascoigne's dressing-gown, was it not?'

  'That is so.'

  'A letter from his nephew, Dr George Lorrimer?'

  'Quite correct. The letter was produced at the inquest as

  helping to fix the time of death.'

  'Which was corroborated by the medical evidence?'

  'Exactly.'

  'Is that letter still available?'

  Hercule Poirot waited rather anxiously for the reply.

  When he heard that the letter was still available for ex-amination

  he drew a sigh of relief.

  When it was family produced he studied it with some care. It

  was written in a slightly cramped handwriting with a

  stylographic pen.

  It ran as follows:

  Dear Uncle Henry,

  I am sorry to tell you that I have had no success as regards

  Uncle Amhony. He showed no enthusiasm for a visit from you

  and would give me no reply to your request that he would le

  bygones be bygones. He is, of course, extremely ill, and his mind

  is inclined to wander. I should fancy that the end is zry near. He

  seemed hardly to remember who you were.

  I am sorry to have failedyou, but I can assure you that I did

  my best.

  180

  Your affectionate nephew,

  George Lorrimer

  The letter itself was dated 3rd November. Poimt glanced at the

  envelope's postmark- 4.30 p.m. 3 Nov.

  He murmured:

  'It is beautifully in order, is it not?'

  Kingston Hill was his next objective. After a little trouble, with

  the exercise of good-humoured pertinacity, he obtained an

  'interview with Amelia Hill, cook-housekeeper to the late

  Anthony Gascoigne.

  Mrs Hill was inclined to be stiff and suspicious at fu'st, but the

  charming geniality of this strange-looking foreigner would have

  had its effect on a stone. Mrs Amelia Hill began to unbend.

  She found herself, as had so many other women before her,

  pouring out her troubles to a really sympathetic listener.

  For fourteen years she had had charge of Mr Gascoigne's

  household- not an easy job! No, indeed! Many a woman would

  have quailed under the burdens she had had to bear! Eccentric

  the poor gentleman was and no denying it. Remarkably close

  with his money - a kind of mania with him it was - and he as

  rich a gentleman as might be! But Mrs Hill had served him

  faithfully, and Pit up with his ways, and naturally she'd

  expected at any rate a remembrance. But no- nothing at all! Just

  an old will that left all his money to his wife and if she

  predeceased him then everything to his brother, Henry. A will

  made years ago. It didn't seem fair!

  Gradually Herctile Poirot detached her from her main theme

  of unsatisfied cupidity. It was indeed a heartless injusticet Mrs

  Hill could not be Blamed for feeling hurt and surprised. It was

  well known that Mr Gascoigne was tight-fisted about money. It

  had even been said that the dead man had refused his only

  brother assistance. Mrs Hill probably knew all about that.

  'Was it that that Dr Lorrimer came to see him about?' asked

  Mrs Hill. 'I knew it was something about his brother, but I

  thought it was just that his brother wanted to b
e reconciled.

  They'd quarrelled years ago.'

  181

  'I understand,' said Poirot, 'that Mr Gascoigne refused

  absolutely?'

  'That's right enough,' said Mrs Hill with a nod. '"Henry?" he

  says, rather weak like. "What's this about Henry? Hcrotn't seen

  him for years and don't znt to. Quarrelsome fellow, Henry." Just that.'

  The conversation then reverted to Mrs Hill's own spec

  grievances, and the unfeeling attitude of the late Mr

  Gascoigne's solicitor.

  With some difficulty Hercule Poirot tool his leave without

  breaking off the conversation too abruptly.

  And so, just after the dinner hour, he came to IF. Itncrest,

  Dorset Road, Wimbledon, the residence of Dr George

  Lorrimer.

  The doctor was in. Hercule Poirot was shown into the

  surgery and there presently Dr George Lorrimer came to him,

  obviously just risen from the dinner table.

  'I'm not a patient, Doctor,' said Hercule Poirot. 'And my

  coming here is, perhaps, somewhat of an impertinence - but

  I'm an old man and I believe in plain and direct dealing. I do of

  care for lawyers and their long-winded roundabout methods.'

  He had certainly aroused Lorrimer's interest. The doctor

  was a clean-shaven man of middle height. His hair was brow

  but his eyelashs were almost white which gave his eyes a paic,

  boiled appearance. His manner was brisk and not without