AgathaChristie-HerculePoirotsCasebook

by Hercule Poirot's Casebook (lit)

  humour.

  'Lawyers?' he said, raising his eyebrows. 'Hate the fellows!

  You rouse my curiosity, my dear sir. Pray sit down.'

  Poirot did so and then produced one of his professional cards

  which he handed to the doctor.

  George Lorrimer's white eyelashes blinked.

  Poirot leaned forward confidentially. 'A good many of my

  clients are women,' he said.

  'Naturally,' said Dr George Lorrimer, with a slight twinkle.

  'As you say, naturally,' agreed Poirot. 'Women distrust the

  182

  official police. They prefer private investigations. They do

  not want to have theic troubles made public. An elderly

  woman came to consult me a few days ago. She was unhappy

  about a husband she'd quarrelled with many years before.

  This husband of hers was your uncle, the late Mr Gascoigne.'

  George Lorrimer's face went purple.

  'My uncle? Nonsense! His wife died many years ago.'

  'Not your uncle, Mr Anthony Gascoigne. Your uncle, Mr

  Henry Gascoigne.'

  'Uncle Henry? But he wasn't married!'

  'Oh yes, he was,' said Hercule Poirot, lying unblushingly.

  'Not a doubt of it. The lady even brought along her marriage

  certificate.'

  'It's a lie!' cried George Lorrimer. His face Was now as

  purple as a plum. 'I don't believe it. You're an impudent

  liar.'

  'It is too bad, is it not?' said Poirot. 'You have committed

  murder for nothing.'

  'Murder?' Lorrimer's voice quavered. His pale eyes

  bulged with terror.

  'By the way,' said Poirot, 'I see you have been eating

  blackberry tart again. An unwise habit. Blackberries are said

  to be full of vitamins, but they may be deadly in other ways.

  On this occasion I rather fancy they have helped to put a rope

  round a man's neck- your neck, Dr Lorrimer.'

  'You see, mon ami, where you went wrong was over your

  fundamental assumption.' Hercule Poirot, beaming placidly

  across the table at his friend, waved an expository hand. 'A

  man under severe mental stress doesn't choose that time to do

  something that he's never done before. His reflexes just

  follow the track of least resistance. A man who is upset about

  SOmething might conceivably come down to dinner dressed in

  his pyjamas - but they will be his own pyjamas - not

  somebody else's.

  183

  'A man who dislikes thick soup, suet pudding and

  blackberries suddenly orders all three one evening. You say,

  because he is thinking of something else. But I say that a man '

  who has got something on his mind will order automatically the

  dish he has ordered most often before.

  'Eh bien, then, what other explanation could there be? I

  simply could not think of a reasonable explanation. And I

  was worried! The incident was all wrong. It did not fit! I have

  an orderly mind and I like things to fit. Mr Gaacoigne's

  dinner order worried me.

  'Then you told me that the man had disappeared. He had

  missed a Tuesday and a Thursday the first time for years. I

  liked that even less. A queer hypothesis sprang up in my

  mind. If I were right about it the man was dead. I made

  inquiries. The man was dead. And he was very neatly and

  tidily dead. In other words the bad fish was covered up with

  the sauce!

  'He had been seen in the King's Road at seven o'clock. He

  had had dinner here at seven-thirty - two hours before he

  died. It all fitted in - the evidence of the stomach contents,

  the evidence of the lettffr. Much too much sauce! You

  couldn't see the fish at all!

  'Devoted nephew wrote the letter, devoted nephew had

  beautiful alibi for time of death. Death very simple - a fall

  down the stairs. Simple accident? Simple murder? Everyone

  says the former.

  'Devoted nephew only surviving relative. Devoted

  nephew will i.herit - but is there anything to inherit? Uncle

  ,r.

  'Nat&

  'As you .

  182

  a brother. And brother in his time had

  Ce. And brother lives in a big rich house on

  't would seem that rich wife must have

  You see the sequence - rich wife leaves

  , Anthony leaves money to Henry,

  George- a complete chain.'

  very pretty in theory,' said Bonnington. 'But what did

  you do?'

  'Once you know - you can usually get hold of what you

  want. Henry had died two hours after a meal- that is all the

  inquest really bothered about. But supposing the meal was

  not dinner, but lunch. Put yourself in George's place. George

  wants money - badly. Anthony Gascoigne is dying - but his

  death is no good to George. His money goes to Henry, and

  Henry Gascoigne may live for years. So Henry must die too-and

  the sooner the better- but his death must take place ajer

  Anthony's, and at the same time George mu,st have an alibi.

  Henry's habit of dining regularly at a restaurant on two

  evenings of the week suggest an alibi to George. Being a

  cautious fellow', he tries his plan out first. He impersonates his

  uncle on Monday evening at the restaurant in question. It goes

  without a hitch. Everyone there accepts him as his uncle. He

  is satisfied. He has only to wait till Uncle Anthony shows

  definite signs of pegging out. The time comes. He writes a

  letter to his uncle on the afternoon of the second November

  but dates it the third. He comes up to town on the afternoon

  of the third, calls on his uncle, and carries his scheme into

  action. A sharp shove and down the stairs goes Uncle Henry.

  George hunts about for the letter he has written, and shoves it

  in the pocket of his uncle's dressing-gown. At seven-thirty he

  is at the Gallant Endeavour, beard, bushy eyebrows all

  complete. Undoubtedly Mr Henry Gascoigne is alive at

  seven-thirty. Then a rapid metamorphosis in a lavatory and

  back full speed in his car to Wimbledon and an evening of

  bridge. The perfect alibi.'

  Mr Bonnington looked at him.

  'But the postmark on the letter?'

  'Oh, that was very simple. The postmark was smudg.

  Why? It had been altered with lamp black from second

  .November to third November. You would not notice it unless

  ou zoere looking for it. And finally there Were the blackbirds.'

  185

  'Blackbirds?'

  'Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie! Or black-berries

  if you prefer to be literal! George, you comprehend,

  was after all not quite a good enough actor. Do you remember

  the fellow who blacked himself all over to play Othello? That

  is the kind of actor you have got to be in crime. George looked

  like his uncle and walked like his uncle and spoke like his

  uncle and had his uncles' beard and eyebrows, but he forgot

  to eat like his uncle. He ordered the dishes that he himself

  liked. Blackberries discolour the teeth - the corpse's teeth

  were not discoloured, and yet Henry Gascoigne ate

  blackberries at the Gallant Endeavour that night. But there

  were no blackberries
in the stomach. I asked this morning.

  And George had been fool enough to keep the beard and the

  rest of the make-up. Oh! plenty of evidence once you look for

  it. I called on George and rattled him. That finished it! He

  had been eating blackberries again, by the way. A greedy

  fellow - cared a lot about his food. Eh bien, greed will hang

  him all right unless I am very much mistaken.'

  A waitress brought them two portions of blackberry and

  apple tart.

  'Take it away,' said Mr Bonnington. 'One can't be too

  careftil. Bring me a small helping of sago pudding.'

  186

  PROBLEM AT SEA

  "lonel Clappertonl' said General Forbes.

  He said it with an effect midway between a snort and a sniff.

  Miss Ellie Henderson leaned forward, a strand of her soft

  grey hair blowing across her face. Her eyes, dark and snapping,

  gleamed with a wicked pleasure.

  'Such a soldierly-looking man!' she said with malicious

  intent, and smoothed back the lock of hair to await the result.

  'Soldierly!' exploded General Forbes. He tugged at his

  military moustache and his face became bright red.

  'In the Guards, wasn't he?' murmured Miss Henderson,

  completing her work.

  'Guards? Guards? Pack of nonsense. Fellow was on the

  music hall stage! Fact! Joined up and was out in France

  counting tins of plum and apple. Huns dropped a stray bomb

  and he went home with a flesh wound in the arm. Somehow or

  other got into Lady Carfington's hospital.'

  'So that's how they met.'

  'Fact! Fellow played the wounded hero. Lady Carrington

  had no sense and oceans of money. Old Carrington had been in

  munitions. She'd been a widow only six months. Tiffs fellow

  snaps her up in no time. She wangled him a job at the War

  Office. Colonel Clapperton! Pah!' he snorted.

  'And before the war he was on the music hall stage,' mused

  Miss Henderson, trying to reconcile the distinguished greyhaired

  Colonel Clapperton with a red-nosed comedian singing

  ,firth-provoking songs.

  'Fact!' said General Forbes. 'Heard it from old Bassingron.

  ffrench. And he heard it from old Badger Cotterill who'd got it

  from Snooks Parker.'

  Miss Henderson nodded brightly. 'That does seem to settle

  it!' she said.

  lA fleeting smile showed for a minute on the face of a small

  man sitting near them. Miss Henderson noticed the smile. She

  was observant. It had shown appreciation of the

  underlying her last remark - irony which the General new

  a moment suspected.

  The General himself did not notice the smile. He glanced at

  his watch, rose and remarked: 'Exercise. Got to keep oneself fit

  on a boat,' and passed out through the open door on to the

  deck.

  Miss Henderson glanced at the man who had smiled. It was a well-bred glance indicating that she was ready to enter '

  conversation with a fellow traveller.

  'He is energetic - yes?' said the little man.

  'He goes round the deck forty-eight times exactly,' said Mis

  Henderson. 'What an old gossip! And they say zve are the

  scandal-loving sex.'

  'What an impoliteness?

  'Frenchmen me always polite,' said Miss Henderson

  was the nuance of a question in her voice.

  The little man responded promptly. 'Beigian,

  moiselle.'

  'Oh

  'Hercule Poirot. At your service.'

  The name aroused some memory. Surely she had heard

  before -? 'Are you enjoying this trip, M. Poirot?'

  'Frankly, no. It was an imbeciliv m allow myself to

  persuaded to come. I detest la me. Never does it

  tranquil - no, not for a lit-de minute.'

  'Well, you admit it's quite calm now.'

  M. Poirot admitted this grudgingly. 'A cm,, yes. T

  is why I revive. I once more interest myself in what pass'

  around me - your very adept handling of the General ForbeL

  for instance.'

  'You mean -' Miss Henderson paused.

  Hcrcule Poirot bowed. 'Your methods of extracting

  scandalous matter. Admirable!'

  Miss Henderson laughed in an unashamed manner.

  touch about the Guards? I knew that would bring

  188

  -, ..,4.o and asoing.' She leaned forward confidentially.

  ,Pdmit I liscandal - the more ill-natured, the better.

  poirot looked thoughtfully at her - her slim well-preserved figure, her keen dark eyes, her grey hair; a woman of forty-five

  who was content to look her age.

  Ellie said abruptly: 'I have it! Aren't you the great

  detective?' . ·· ,

  Poirot bowed. 'You are too tamable, mademotselle. But he.

  made no disclaimer.

  'How thrilling,' said Miss Henderson. 'Are you "hot on the

  trail" as they say in books? Have we a criminal secretly in our

  midst? Or am I being indiscreet?'

  'Not at all. Not at all. It pains me to disappoint your

  expectations, but I am simply here, like everyone else, to amuse

  myself.'

  He said it in such a gloomy voice that Miss Henderson

  laughed.

  '0h! Well, you will be able to get ashore tomorrow at

  Alexandria. You have been to Egypt before?'

  'Never, mademoiselle.'

  Miss Henderson rose somewhat abruptly.

  'I think I shall join the General on his constitutional,' she

  announced.

  Poirot sprang politely to his feet.

  She gave him a little nod and passed on to the deck.

  A faint puzzled look showed for a moment in Poirot's eyes,

  then, a little smile creasing his lips, he rose, put his head

  through the door mad glanced down the deck. Miss Henderson

  was leaning against the rail talking to a tall, soldierly-looking lllall.

  Poirot's smile deepened. He drew himself back into the

  smoking-room with the same exaggerated care with which a

  tortoise withdraws itself into its shell. For the moment he had

  the smoking-room to himself, though he rightly conjectured

  that that would not last long.

  It did not. Mrs Clapperton, her carefully waved platinum

  head protected with a net, her massaged and dieted form

  dressed in a smart sports suit, came through the door from the

  bar with the purposeful air of a woman who has always 13een

  able to pay top price for anything she needed.

  She said: 'John - ? Oh! Good morning, M. Poirot - have you

  seen John?'

  'He's on the starboard deck, madame. Shall I - ?'

  She arrested him with a gesture. 'I'll sit here a minute.' She

  sat down in a regal fashion in the chair opposite him. From the

  distance she had looked a possible twenty-eight. Now, in spite

  of her exquisitely made-up face, her delicately plucked

  eyebrows, she looked not her actual forty-nine years, but a

  possible fifty-five. Her eyes were a hard pale blue with tiny

  pupils.

  'I was sorry not to have seen you at dinner last night,' she

  said. 'It was just a shade choppy, of course -' 'Prdabnent,' said Poirot with feeling.

  'Luckily, I am an excellent sailor,' said Mrs Clapperton. 'I

  say luckily, because, with my weak heart,' seasickness would


  probably be the death of me.'

  'You have the weak heart, madame?'

  'Yes, I have to be most careful. I must not overfire myself. All the specialists say so!' Mrs Clapperton had embarked on the to

  her - ever-fascinating topic of her health. 'John, poor

  darling, wears himself out trying to prevent me from doing too

  much. I live so intensely, if you know what I mean, M. Poirot?'

  'Yes, yes.'

  'He always says to me: "Try to be more of a vegetable,

  Adeline." But I can't. Life was meant to be lived, I feel. ^5. a

  matter of fact I wore myself out as a girl in the war. My hosp? d - you've heard of my hospital? Of course I had nurses a:. i

  matrons and all that - but I actually ran it.' She sighed.

  'Your vitality is marvellous, dear lady,' said Poirot, with l.:

  slightly mechanical air of one responding to his cue.

  Mrs Clapperton gave a girlish laugh.

  'Everyone tells me how young I am! It's absurd. I never try

  to pretend I'm a day less than forty-three,' she continued with

  slightly mendacious candour, 'but a lot of people fred it hard to

  believe. "You're so alive, Adelkne," they say to me. But really,

  M. Poirot, what would one be if one wasn't alive?'

  190

  'Dead,' said Poirot.

  Mrs Clapperton frowned. The reply was not to her --hking.

  The man, she derided, was trying to be funny. She got up and

  said coldly: 'I must f'md John.'

  As she stepped through the door she dropped her handbag.

  It opened and the contents flew far and wide. Poirot rushed

  gallantly to the rescue. It was some few minutes before the

  lipsticks, vanity boxes, cigarette case and lighter and other odds

  and ends were collected. Mrs Clapperton thanked him politely,

  then she swept down the deck and saj.'d, 'John '

  Colonel Clapperton was still deep in conversation with Miss

  Henderson. He swung round and came quickly to meet his