I liked, too, the way Boyd Carrington spoke of my friend. He had a deep respect for him – both for his work and his character. Sad though his present condition of ill health was, Boyd Carrington uttered no facile words of pity. He seemed to think that a lifetime spent as Poirot’s had been was in itself a rich reward and that in his memories my friend could find satisfaction and self-respect.
‘Moreover,’ he said, ‘I’d wager his brain is as keen as ever it was.’
‘It is, indeed it is,’ I assented eagerly.
‘No greater mistake than to think that because a man’s tied by the leg it affects his brain pan. Not a bit of it. Anno Domini affects head work much less than you’d think. By Jove, I wouldn’t care to undertake to commit a murder under Hercule Poirot’s nose – even at this time of day.’
‘He’d get you if you did,’ I said grinning.
‘I bet he would. Not,’ he added ruefully, ‘that I should be much good at doing a murder anyway. I can’t plan things, you know. Too impatient. If I did a murder it would be done on the spur of the moment.’
‘That might be the most difficult crime to spot.’
‘I hardly think so. I’d probably leave clues trailing along behind me in every direction. Well, it’s lucky I haven’t got a criminal mind. Only kind of man I can imagine myself killing is a blackmailer. That is a foul thing if you like. I’ve always thought a blackmailer ought to be shot. What do you say?’
I confessed to some sympathy with his point of view.
Then we passed on to an examination of the work done on the house as a young architect came forward to meet us.
Knatton was mainly of Tudor date with a wing added later. It had not been modernized or altered since the installation of two primitive bathrooms in the eighteen forties or thereabouts.
Boyd Carrington explained that his uncle had been more or less of a hermit, disliking people and living in a corner of the vast house. Boyd Carrington and his brother had been tolerated, and had spent their holidays there as schoolboys before Sir Everard had become as much of a recluse as he afterwards became.
The old man had never married, and had spent only a tenth of his large income, so that even after death duties had been paid, the present baronet had found himself a very rich man.
‘But a very lonely one,’ he said sighing.
I was silent. My sympathy was too acute to be put into words. For I, too, was a lonely man. Since Cinders had died, I felt myself to be only half a human being.
Presently, a little haltingly, I expressed a little of what I felt.
‘Ah yes, Hastings, but you’ve had something I never had.’
He paused a moment and then – rather jerkily – he gave me an outline of his own tragedy.
Of the beautiful young wife, a lovely creature full of charm and accomplishments but with a tainted heritage. Her family had nearly all died of drink, and she herself fell victim to the same curse. Barely a year after their marriage she had succumbed and had died a dipsomaniac’s death. He did not blame her. He realized that heredity had been too strong for her.
After her death he had settled down to lead a lonely life. He had determined, saddened by his experience, not to marry again.
‘One feels,’ he said simply, ‘safer alone.’
‘Yes, I can understand your feeling like that – at any rate at first.’
‘The whole thing was such a tragedy. It left me prematurely aged and embittered.’ He paused. ‘It’s true – I was once very much tempted. But she was so young – I didn’t feel it would be fair to tie her to a disillusioned man. I was too old for her – she was such a child – so pretty – so completely untouched.’
He broke off, shaking his head.
‘Wasn’t that for her to judge?’
‘I don’t know, Hastings. I thought not. She – she seemed to like me. But then, as I say, she was so young. I shall always remember her as I saw her the last day of that leave. Her head a little on one side – that slightly bewildered look – her little hand –’
He stopped. The words conjured up a picture that seemed vaguely familiar, though I could not think why.
Boyd Carrington’s voice, suddenly harsh, broke into my thoughts.
‘I was a fool,’ he said. ‘Any man is a fool who lets opportunity slip by him. Anyway, here I am, with a great mansion of a house far too big for me, and no gracious presence to set at the head of my table.’
To me there was a charm in his slightly old-fashioned way of putting things. It conjured up a picture of old world charm and ease.
‘Where is the lady now?’ I asked.
‘Oh – married.’ He turned it off briefly. ‘Fact is, Hastings, I’m cut out now for a bachelor existence. I’ve got my little ways. Come and look at the gardens. They’ve been badly neglected, but they’re very fine in their way.’
We walked round the place and I was much impressed with all I saw. Knatton was undoubtedly a very fine estate and I did not wonder that Boyd Carrington was proud of it. He knew the neighbourhood well and most of the people round about, though of course there had been newcomers since his time.
He had known Colonel Luttrell in the old days and expressed his earnest hope that the Styles venture was going to pay.
‘Poor old Toby Luttrell’s very hard up, you know,’ he said. ‘Nice fellow. Good soldier, too, and a very fine shot. Went on safari with him in Africa once. Ah, those were the days! He was married then, of course, but his missus didn’t come along, thank goodness. Pretty woman she was – but always a bit of a Tartar. Funny the things a man will stand from a woman. Old Toby Luttrell who used to make subalterns shake in their shoes, he was such a stern martinet! And there he is, henpecked and bullied and meek as they make ’em! No doubt about it, that woman’s got a tongue like vinegar. Still, she’s got a head on her. If anyone can make the place pay, she will. Luttrell never had much of a head for business – but Mrs Toby would skin her grandmother!’
‘She’s so gushing with it all,’ I complained.
Boyd Carrington looked amused. ‘I know. All sweetness. But have you played bridge with them?’
I replied feelingly that I had.
‘On the whole I steer clear of women bridge players,’ said Boyd Carrington. ‘And if you take my tip you’ll do the same.’
I told him how uncomfortable Norton and myself had felt on the first evening of my arrival.
‘Exactly. One doesn’t know where to look!’ He added: ‘Nice fellow, Norton. Very quiet, though. Always looking at birds and things. Doesn’t care for shooting them, he told me. Extraordinary! No feeling for sport. I told him he missed a lot. Can’t see myself what excitement there can be stalking about through cold woods peering at birds through glasses.’
How little we realized that Norton’s hobby might have an important part to play in the events that were to come.
Chapter 8
I
The days passed. It was an unsatisfactory time, with its uneasy feeling of waiting for something.
Nothing, if I may put it in such a way, actually happened. Yet there were incidents, scraps of odd conversations, side-lights upon the various inmates of Styles, elucidating remarks. They all mounted up and, if properly pieced together, could have done a lot towards enlightening me.
It was Poirot who, with a few forceful words, showed me something to which I had been criminally blind.
I was complaining, for the umpteenth time, of his wilful refusal to admit me to his confidence. It was not fair, I told him. Always he and I had had equal knowledge – even if I had been dense and he had been astute in drawing the right conclusions from that knowledge.
He waved an impatient hand. ‘Quite so, my friend. It is not fair! It is not sporting! It is not playing the game! Admit all that and pass from it. This is not a game – it is not le sport. For you, you occupy yourself in guessing wildly at the identity of X. It is not for that that I asked you to come here. Unnecessary for you to occupy yourself with that. I know the answer to that
question. But what I do not know and what I must know is this: “Who is going to die – very soon?” It is a question, mon vieux, not of you playing a guessing game, but of preventing a human being from dying.’
I was startled. ‘Of course,’ I said slowly. ‘I – well, I did know that you practically said so once, but I haven’t quite realized it.’
‘Then realize it now – immediately.’
‘Yes, yes, I will – I mean, I do.’
‘Bien! Then tell me, Hastings, who is it who is going to die?’
I stared at him blankly. ‘I have really no idea!’
‘Then you should have an idea! What else are you here for?’
‘Surely,’ I said, going back over my meditations on the subject, ‘there must be a connection between the victim and X so that if you told me who X was –’
Poirot shook his head with so much vigour that it was quite painful to watch.
‘Have I not told you that that is the essence of X’s technique? There will be nothing connecting X with the death. That is certain.’
‘The connection will be hidden, you mean?’
‘It will be so well hidden that neither you nor I will find it.’
‘But surely by studying X’s past –’
‘I tell you, no. Certainly not in the time. Murder may happen any moment, you comprehend?’
‘To someone in this house?’
‘To someone in this house.’
‘And you really do not know who, or how?’
‘Ah! If I did, I should not be urging you to find out for me.’
‘You simply base your assumption on the presence of X?’
I sounded a little doubtful. Poirot, whose self-control had lessened as his limbs were perforce immobile, fairly howled at me.
‘Ah, ma foi, how many times am I to go over all this? If a lot of war correspondents arrive suddenly in a certain spot of Europe, it means what? It means war! If doctors come from all over the world to a certain city, it shows what? That there is to be there a medical conference. Where you see a vulture hovering, there will be a carcass. If you see beaters walking up a moor, there will be a shoot. If you see a man stop suddenly, tear off his coat and plunge into the sea, it means that there, there will be a rescue from drowning.
‘If you see ladies of middle age and respectable appearance peering through a hedge, you may deduce that there is there an impropriety of some kind! And finally, if you smell a succulent smell and observe several people all walking along a corridor in the same direction you may safely assume that a meal is about to be served!’
I considered these analogies for a minute or two, then I said, taking the first one: ‘All the same, one war correspondent does not make a war!’
‘Certainly not. And one swallow does not make a summer. But one murderer, Hastings, does make a murder.’
That, of course, was undeniable. But it still occurred to me, as it did not seem to have occurred to Poirot, that even a murderer has his off times. X might be at Styles simply for a holiday with no lethal intent. Poirot was so worked up, however, that I dared not propound this suggestion. I merely said that the whole thing seemed to me hopeless. We must wait –
‘And see,’ finished Poirot. ‘Like your Mr Asquith in the last war. That, mon cher, is just what we must not do. I do not say, mark you, that we shall succeed, for as I have told you before, when a killer has determined to kill, it is not easy to circumvent him. But we can at least try. Figure to yourself, Hastings, that you have here the bridge problem in the paper. You can see all the cards. What you are asked to do is “Forecast the result of the deal”.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s no good, Poirot, I haven’t the least idea. If I knew who X was –’
Poirot howled at me again. He howled so loud that Curtiss came running in from the next room looking quite frightened. Poirot waved him away and when he had gone out again, my friend spoke in a more controlled manner.
‘Come, Hastings, you are not so stupid as you like to pretend. You have studied those cases I gave you to read. You may not know who X is, but you know X’s technique for committing a crime.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I see.’
‘Of course you see. The trouble with you is that you are mentally lazy. You like to play games and guess. You do not like to work with your head. What is the essential element of X’s technique? Is it not that the crime, when committed, is complete? That is to say, there is a motive for the crime, there is an opportunity, there is means and there is, last and most important, the guilty person all ready for the dock.’
At once I grasped the essential point and realized what a fool I had been not to see it sooner.
‘I see,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to look round for somebody who – who answers to those requirements – the potential victim.’
Poirot leaned back with a sigh. ‘Enfin! I am very tired. Send Curtiss to me. You understand your job now. You are active, you can get about, you can follow people about, talk to them, spy upon them unobserved –’ (I nearly uttered an indignant protest, but quelled it. It was too old an argument) – ‘You can listen to conversations, you have knees that will bend and permit you to kneel and look through keyholes –’
‘I will not look through keyholes,’ I interrupted hotly.
Poirot closed his eyes. ‘Very well, then. You will not look through keyholes. You will remain the English gentleman and someone will be killed. It does not matter, that. Honour comes first with an Englishman. Your honour is more important than somebody else’s life. Bien! It is understood.’
‘No, but dash it all, Poirot –’
Poirot said coldly: ‘Send Curtiss to me. Go away. You are obstinate and extremely stupid and I wish that there were someone else whom I could trust, but I suppose I shall have to put up with you and your absurd ideas of fair play. Since you cannot use your grey cells as you do not possess them, at any rate use your eyes, your ears and your nose if need be in so far as the dictates of honour allow.’
II
It was on the following day that I ventured to broach an idea which had come into my mind more than once. I did so a little dubiously, for one never knows how Poirot may react!
I said: ‘I’ve been thinking, Poirot, I know I’m not much of a fellow. You’ve said I’m stupid – well, in a way it’s true. And I’m only half the man I was. Since Cinders’s death –’
I stopped. Poirot made a gruff noise indicative of sympathy.
I went on: ‘But there is a man here who could help us – just the kind of man we need. Brains, imagination, resource – used to taking decisions and a man of wide experience. I’m talking of Boyd Carrington. He’s the man we want, Poirot. Take him into your confidence. Put the whole thing before him.’
Poirot opened his eyes and said with immense decision: ‘Certainly not.’
‘But why not? You can’t deny that he’s clever – a good deal cleverer than I am.’
‘THAT,’ said Poirot with biting sarcasm, ‘would be easy. But dismiss the idea from your mind, Hastings. We take no one into our confidence. That is understood – hein? You comprehend, I forbid you to speak of this matter.’
‘All right, if you say so, but really Boyd Carrington –’
‘Ah, ta ta! Boyd Carrington. Why are you so obsessed with Boyd Carrington? What is he, after all? A big man who is pompous and pleased with himself because people have called him “Your Excellency”. A man with – yes, a certain amount of tact and charm of manner. But he is not so wonderful, your Boyd Carrington. He repeats himself, he tells the same story twice – and what is more, his memory is so bad that he tells back to you the story that you have told to him! A man of outstanding ability? Not at all. An old bore, a windbag – enfin – the stuffed shirt!’
‘Oh,’ I said as enlightenment came to me.
It was quite true that Boyd Carrington’s memory was not good. And he had actually been guilty of a gaffe which I now saw had annoyed Poirot a good deal. Poirot had told him a story of his police days i
n Belgium, and only a couple of days afterwards, when several of us were assembled in the garden, Boyd Carrington had in bland forgetfulness told the same story back again to Poirot, prefacing it with the remark: ‘I remember the Chef de la Sû reté in Paris telling me . . .’
I now perceived that this had rankled! Tactfully, I said no more, and withdrew.
III
I wandered downstairs and out into the garden. There was no one about and I strolled through a grove of trees and up to a grassy knoll which was surmounted by a somewhat earwiggy summer-house in an advanced stage of decrepitude. Here I sat down, lit my pipe, and settled to think things out.
Who was there at Styles who had a fairly definite motive for murdering somebody else – or who might be made out to have one?
Putting aside the somewhat obvious case of Colonel Luttrell, who, I was afraid, was hardly likely to take a hatchet to his wife in the middle of a rubber, justifiable though that course might be, I could not at first think of anyone.
The trouble was that I did not really know enough about these people. Norton, for instance, and Miss Cole? What were the usual motives for murder? Money? Boyd Carrington was, I fancied, the only rich man of the party. If he died, who would inherit that money? Anyone at present in the house? I hardly thought so, but it was a point that might bear enquiry. He might, for instance, have left his money to research, making Franklin a trustee. That, with the doctor’s rather injudicious remarks on the subject of eliminating eighty per cent of the human race, might make out a fairly damning case against the red-haired doctor. Or possibly Norton or Miss Cole might be a distant relative and would inherit automatically. Far-fetched but possible. Would Colonel Luttrell, who was an old friend, benefit under Boyd Carrington’s will? These possibilities seemed to exhaust the money angle. I turned to more romantic possibilities. The Franklins. Mrs Franklin was an invalid. Was it possible that she was being slowly poisoned – and would the responsibility for her death be laid at her husband’s door? He was a doctor, he had opportunity and means, no doubt. What about motive? An unpleasant qualm shot across my mind as it occurred to me that Judith might be involved. I had good reason to know how business-like their relations were – but would the general public believe that? Would a cynical police officer believe it? Judith was a very beautiful young woman. An attractive secretary or assistant had been the motive for many crimes. The possibility dismayed me.
Curtain: Poirot's Last Case Page 6