Obviously, Aunt Dahlia’s guest had lost that Cro-Magnon instinct that leads us to mistrust women, for he was all eyes towards Florence. That fact had not escaped Monsieur Poirot’s notice. Standing on the tips of his shiny shoes, the detective smiled.
“My friend, he adores the beau sexe. He becomes weak in the knees before a head of pretty auburn hair, or a blonde one, and he bows before every beautiful woman who has the good taste of giving him a smile. But he doesn’t really understand women, non.”
Hastings threw an unkind look at the little Belgian. No doubt that at this moment, the poor Captain would have been happier on the pampas trying to lasso a runaway bull. I felt sorry for him. On the other hand, Hercule Poirot and Florence Craye seemed made for each other. They ignored Hastings and I and began discussing the unconscious motivations of the human mind.
Rescue came in the form of Jeeves. No doubt motivated by a solicitous concern for the health of his master, Jeeves whispered in my ear, “Mr. Travers is waiting for you in the library.”
Leaving the unfortunate Hastings, I rushed to see my Uncle Tom.
Those readers who through charity or laziness read my stories know that Aunt Dahlia’s husband, my Uncle Tom, is an enthusiastic collector. It is, in fact, his only vice. His habit of wearing a moth-eaten old cardigan? An amusing eccentricity. His appearance, which might be described as that of a crocodile afflicted with consumption? Dyspepsia. His years in the Far East made his fortune but left him with a perturbed digestion. (The only way he’d found to deal with his gastric problems was to hire the incomparable Anatole). All forgivable. But when he begins muttering about a “unique find” or a “rare discovery,” I take to my heels. I risked jail several times because of an 18th century silver cream pot that looked like a cow. Its handle, shaped to look like a cow’s tail, still haunts my nightmares.
Uncle Tom was waiting for me behind his desk. He had a series of ancient coins spread before him on a velvety indigo tray.
“Come and look at my recent acquisitions, Bertie. A unique find.”
My heart sank. Ignoring the magnifying glass he was offering me, I stared at the coins.
“Very nice.”
“They’d better be. They’re authentic Turgech coins from the Xianfeng era.”
“Are they valuable?”
Uncle Tom’s heart skipped a beat.
“Of course they are. Why do you ask?”
“Because they all look damaged by these holes in the middle.”
The old ghost sighed.
“They were made over a thousand years ago.”
I hadn’t the heart to tell him, but he’d been sold some old junk. When you turn senile, there are always vultures waiting to take advantage of you. Or so I’ve been told.
Strangely, the examination of Uncle Tom’s newest treasure of the ages didn’t proceed any further. I had the feeling Uncle Tom had used the coins as a pretext to draw me aside. The facts soon showed I was right.
“You’ve got to help us, Bertie!” he said, grabbing my jacket.
“Is it about the detective?”
Uncle Tom’s teary eyes shone brighter.
“Ah! You realized it too.”
“Not a problem. Just tell me in which wardrobe you stashed the body.”
“If only it was murder! At least that would occupy Monsieur Poirot and stop him from boring us with his ‘little grey cells’ and his delicate stomach. No, we need a plan.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, playing with the Christmas stockings hanging from the mantelpiece.
“You? No, hardly likely. Fetch your manservant. He’ll know what to do.”
That exclusive interest amongst my family for Jeeves might seem like an irritant but after several years, I’ve grown accustomed to it.
“Is he... sound of mind?”
“I haven’t seen him try on Sir Reginald Wooster’s armor hanging in the hall, if that’s what you mean. Why?”
“There was a time when Jeeves would never have let you go out with that hairy slug on your upper lip.”
I was going to reply with a well-turned bon mot when Seppings entered, lowering the room’s temperature by ten degrees.
“Dinner will be served in 20 minutes,” he said, frost forming in the air as he spoke.
Which didn’t matter, because the very notion of imminently tasting Anatole’s food was enough to warm me up.
I rejoined the other guests after changing into dinner clothes. The sight of the red table cloth with white embroidering, the crystal glasses and the silverware tugged at my heart. I remembered a poem I’d read at school about the burning of the yule logs and the spirit of Christmas.
The guests were already sitting at the table. They all wore pinkish paper crowns, tilted except for Poirot who wore his straight up. It made him look like an egg in a cup. I put on my crown and sat in my chair, across the table from the detective. He was sitting erect and looked mildly uncomfortable. With his accent, I couldn’t understand what he was muttering about, but I heard the words “crowns” and “symmetry.” Perhaps his quasi-French nature remembered the guillotine? But it would take more than that to tarnish my good humor. We each had a menu individually illustrated by Aunt Dahlia. I opened mine and read:
Consommé aux Pommes d’Amour
Sylphide à la crème d’écrevisses
Mignonnettes de Poulet Petit Duc
Pointes d’asperges à la Mistinguett
Suprême de foie gras au champagne
Neige aux perles des Alpes
Timbale de ris de veau toulousain
Salade d’endive et de céleri
Plum-Pudding
L’Etoile du Berger
Bénédictins Blancs
Friandises
Fruits
Several bottles of Chateau d’Yquem and a Cigarini Mercurey were served. Those experienced in the ways of Anatole knew what to expect. To me, it was the taste equivalent of a Cole Porter medley. As for Captain Hastings, he seemed to be in a good mood.
“I like to eat at the Cheshire Cheese on Saturdays,” he said, “because that’s when they serve their famous steak and kidney pie.”
“Steak and kidney pie? Isn’t that a bit rich?” Florence made a face.
Hastings looked embarrassed and muttered something I couldn’t hear. I hadn’t followed Poirot’s conversation. It was as if he wasn’t interested by the menu, at which he had barely glanced.
“Don’t you enjoy fine cooking?” I inquired.
“Au contraire. I was once in love with a beautiful English young lady, but alas, she didn’t know how to cook. Quel dommage! Perhaps I should have no regrets. I pay frequent visit to Chez ma Tante, a bistrot enjoyed by all of London’s high society. The wealthy, the handsome and the famous all beg to have reservations, for his chef, Monsieur Gaston Blondin, is not the kind of man to grant such favors lightly. But Hercule Poirot is different. Monsieur Blondin, he says to me: ‘But of course, there is always a table for you, Monsieur Poirot! I only wish you made the honor of dining here more often!’ ”
I began to understand the reactions of Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom. But we Woosters are no shrinking violets when it comes to facing enemy fire. I ignored his opening salvo and fired my own volley:
“I have also heard good things about the Bon Bourgeois. Pete Wimsey recommended it to me. A good chap, but a bit stuck-up. I remember that at Eton, they called him ‘Tadpole.’ ”
Hastings’ face lit up.
“That’s funny. That’s what we called him too!”
“You know him?”
“Wimsey? Of course! Although I’ve lost track of him since college.”
“His Lordship just solved the mystery of the Attenbury Emeralds. I understand it’s given Tadpole the desire to become a consulting detective.”
Aunt Dahlia turned towards the Belgian.
“In that case, you wouldn’t be unique, Monsieur Poirot.” I would never have guessed that Travers possessed such a degree of perfidy.
Florence was about to
rush to the Belgian’s rescue, and I was mentally preparing myself to sweep up the rubble after her, when Seppings and his staff appeared and served the first course. At a discreet command, the servants placed a salad plate before each guest.
I will repeat myself. A salad plate, at the center of which one could barely distinguish a small puddle of consommé.
Aunt Dahlia rose up, like Hamlet’s father’s ghost on the ramparts of Elsinore. Before she could utter a word, Seppings, observing her ashen complexion, said:
“I received formal instructions from the chef. Monsieur Anatole said he will quit if he is asked to serve anything else.”
A deep silence fell upon the room, broken only by the tinkling of my spoon against the plate.
Hercule Poirot expressed the desire we gather in the library. “Even the cat?” I asked, to lighten the atmosphere. Normally, my native wit enables me to rise to the occasion, but this time, I failed miserably. Both Aunt Dahlia and Florence threw me withering glances that would have shriveled any soufflé not cooked my Monsieur Anatole. So I sat with the others in a row of chairs arranged in a semi-circular pattern. The only thing missing at this wake was a body.
Poirot was clearly thinking. He was standing up, perfectly motionless except for small but expressive twitches of his eyebrows. He looked like a ventriloquist’s dummy from The Player’s. The detective took his time rearranging the trinkets on the mantelpiece (which made Uncle Tom moan), then after having studied his made-up audience at length like a stage magician, he let out:
“Is Monsieur Anatole the victim of blackmail?”
I almost swallowed my brandy wrong. We all turned to look at Captain Hastings, but he only shrugged, as if to say: “Wait for him to finish.”
Pleased with our reaction, the detective continued:
“A recipe he might have purloined from another chef... that of his famous steak and kidney pie, for example... One of you might have found out about it and...”
“I’ll stop you right now,” said Aunt Dahlia with all the amiability of Lady Macbeth. “How dare you suspect anyone here?”
The detective showed no trace of embarrassment as he replied:
“Please understand, Dear Madame, that it is wise to suspect everyone until the innocence of each is established, rationally and convincingly. And when a crime is committed in a house, everyone is automatically suspect.”
For my part, I agreed. To deprive us of the culinary talents of Monsieur Anatole was a crime worthy of Newgate. I was going to say “Hurrah” when the little Belgian pointed his index finger at me:
“Monsieur Wooster, I drew from our conversation that you are well aware of what happens in the world of London’s finer restaurants. If such a scandal had happened somewhere, no doubt that you would have learned of it.”
“I?”
“You.”
“London’s finer restaurants?”
“My very words.”
“A scandal?”
“Oui.”
I had run out of things to say when, unexpectedly, Florence came to my assistance.
“Come on, you don’t know Bertie. In order to commit a crime, you must have the will to do something, which makes him de facto not guilty.”
I felt extremely grateful to the barracuda in an evening dress, with nevertheless a smidgen of a reservation that stopped me from dusting off the old engagement ring.
Hercule Poirot enjoyed the argument as if it had been a piece of candy.
“You too, Mademoiselle Craye, are not above suspicion. When my friend Hastings said he liked the steak and kidney pie served at the Cheshire Cheese, which is only on the menu on Saturdays, you remarked that you found it too rich for your tastes. French cuisine, of which Monsieur Anatole is a worthy ambassador, often uses oil or butter, depending whether it is meridional or normand. Therefore, Mademoiselle Craye, I regret to say, but it is possible, although not necessarily probable, that you somehow coerced Monsieur Anatole to not cook a proper meal in order to, excuse my forthrightness, keep your shape.”
There are rare moments in life when the truly unexpected happens. For instance, when a sudden flash of inspiration leads you to bet on a horse no one ever heard of, and it goes in to win the Grand National. I was certain that Florence was going to fall upon the little Belgian and claw out his green eyes, but instead she said:
“I’ll have one.”
“A steak and kidney pie?”
“No, a cigarette.”
Florence began puffing on it with all the energy of the Orient-Express but otherwise stayed silent. Monsieur Poirot was the only man I knew to have ever muzzled that howler monkey, and that inspired respect in everyone present. Even Aunt Dahlia meekly screeched:
“Your notion of blackmail is absurd. In fact, it’s Anatole who’s constantly been threatening to quit if we don’t raise his wages.”
Hercule Poirot responded in a tone one generally uses in hospitals when speaking to the insane or terminally ill.
“We shall keep our tempers, n’est-ce-pas? Then we shall organize facts in a coherent pattern, and analyze them. Those that prove significant, we shall keep. The others... Poof!”
He pulled a piece of paper out of nowhere much like a magician does with a rabbit. I made a note to ask him how he did it so I could use the trick during our next gala at the Drones Club.
Poirot continued:
“Let us discuss Monsieur Anatole’s performance then. I have here a list of the meals he was instructed to cook during the last week. Each follows a strict dietary requirement. Is it possible that this distinguished Chef suffered from being turned into a mere provider of ordinary food and to not be able to enjoy the full practice of his art? In other words, you may have hurt his pride.”
“How did you reach such a conclusion?” asked Uncle Tom, who was still watching the trinkets Poirot had rearranged.
“I do not usually explain my methods before I solve a case. But you should know that the solution will be found by the little grey cells,” said the detective, tapping his temple with his finger.
I thought that the little Belgian ought to be careful to not repeat his performance before Sir Roderick Glossop, because the latter would soon have him locked up.
I then noticed Jeeves stood behind me. As usual, he had appeared like a genie out of his lamp. I got up and whispered to him:
“Are you up to speed?”
“Reasonably so, sir.”
“From the beginning?”
“For the most part.”
“Any ideas?”
“Perhaps, sir, but I must first help Seppings.”
“Oh, bother Old Stuffy!”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but Mrs. Travers’ staff is facing an unforeseen emergency.”
“I should say so! We may be forced to eat stale fish food tomorrow, Jeeves. You must untangle this business.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“I will donate my moustache to the cause.” We Woosters are as magnanimous in defeat as in victory.
“Thank you very much, sir.”
As we spoke, Poirot joined us. The man had the discretion of a cat. It was another thing he had in common with Jeeves.
“Someone mentioned a moustache?” he said, caressing his.
“It must be in fashion,” said Hastings.
Until then, the Captain had remained rather discreet. But just right now, I saw a malicious twinkle in his eyes, like a gambler about to cash his prize. He turned towards the others.
“I have observed my friend Poirot during his past investigations,” he said, “and I have no doubt that he will solve this mystery. But if Mr. Wooster’s gentleman thinks he can do better, I suggest a bet.”
That was a jolly good idea, worthy of a true Brit. In less than a minute, I settled the terms with the Captain. Then he announced:
“If Monsieur Poirot wins, Mr. Wooster will keep his moustache. If Mr. Jeeves wins, my friend will shave his.”
“And I’ll do the same,” I added, although no one ap
peared to care.
The detective looked at Hastings with some concern.
“Mais enfin, mon ami, it is unthinkable!”
“Why not? Don’t you say that no one is better than you?”
“Naturellement but...”
“That you are the greatest detective in the world?”
“Bien sur, but...”
“I’ve never seen you fail since our first meeting in Belgium years ago.”
The spectators had begun to circle around. Poirot was cornered. His pride, or the fact that escape was impossible, made him consent reluctantly.
“Très bien! My little grey cells are vastly superior to the average. The man who would succeed where I would fail has not been born yet.”
“ Jeeves?”
Nodding to indicate his agreement, Jeeves emitted a small cough before entering the lion’s den.
“When we arrived at Market Snodbury, I first took care of my master’s luggage, before meeting with the Chef as is our habit. I believe there are some old family recipes which...”
“The facts, Jeeves!” thundered Aunt Dhalia.
“I beg the your pardon,” he said respectfully. “When I came in, I noticed that Monsieur Anatole was involved in a lively conversation with Monsieur Poirot. Both gentlemen were making demonstrative gestures to strengthen their respective points. They seemed to be discussing a matter of étiquette...”
All heads turned to look at the detective. I could not resist doing so. Poirot’s face was as white as chalk, which contrasted nicely with the inky black of his dyed hair.
Jeeves waited for everyone to regain their composure, then continued:
“Monsieur Anatole was planning to serve his Consommé aux Pommes d’Amour in soup bowls. Monsieur Poirot corrected him, using the terminology of soup plates. Even though France and Belgium are neighboring nations, each has its own linguistic peculiarities. What the French call soup plates, the Belgians call soup bowls. So Monsieur Poirot was not mistaken when he said that Monsieur Anatole’s pride had been hurt. That is why he served the consommé in the salad plates. It was his way of avenging his honor as a Frenchman, which had been severely wounded by Monsieur Poirot.”
I think the San Francisco Earthquake cannot have produced a more resounding silence in its aftermath. The detective eventually broke it by saying:
Tales of the Shadowmen 4: Lords of Terror Page 17