The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

  Th0 g

  h

  well

  Suddenly

  Poirot

  uttered

  in ,.

  "Those

  holes

  there they

  are

  a

  h

  exclamation

  uri

  ·

  ,ous.

  One

  would

  THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST

  43

  say that they had been newly made."

  The holes in question were at the back of the

  chest against the wall. There were three or four of

  them. They were about a quarter of an inch in

  diameter- and certainly had the effect of having

  been freshly made.

  Poirot bent down to examine them, looking in-quiringly

  at the valet.

  "It's certainly curious, sir. I don't remember

  ever seeing those holes in the past, though maybe I

  wouldn't notice them."

  "It makes no matter," said Poirot.

  Closing the lid of the chest, he stepped back into

  the room until he was standing with his back

  against the window. Then he suddenly asked a

  question.

  "Tell me," he said. "When you brought the x

  cigarettes into your master that night,, was there

  not something out of place in the room?"

  Burgoyne hesitated for a minute, then with

  some slight reluctance he replied,

  "It's odd your saying that, sir. Now you come

  to mention it, there was. That screen there that

  cuts off the draft from the bedroom door--it was

  moved a bit more to the left."

  "Like this?"

  Poirot darted nimbly forward and pulled at the

  screen. It was a handsome affair of painted

  leather. It already slightly obscured the view of the

  chest, and as Poirot adjusted it, it hid the chest

  altogether.

  "That's right, sir," said the valet. "It was like

  that."

  "And the next morning?"

  44

  Agatha Christie

  "It was still like that. I remember. I moved it

  away and it was then I saw the stain. The carpet's

  gone to be cleaned, sir. That's why the boards are

  bare."

  Poirot nodded.

  "I see," he said. "I thank you."

  He placed a crisp piece of paper in the valet's

  palm.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Poirot," I said when we were out in the street,

  "that point about the screen--is that a point

  helpful to Rich?"

  "It is a further point against him," said Poirot

  ruefully. "The screen hid the chest from the room.

  It also hid the stain on the carpet. Sooner or later

  the blood was bound to soak through the wood

  and stain the carpet. The screen would prevent

  discovery for the moment. Yes--but there is some-thing

  there that I do not understand. The valet,

  Hastings, the valet."

  "What about the valet? He seemed a most in-telligent

  fellow."

  "As you say, most intelligent. Is it credible,

  then, that Major Rich failed to realize that the

  valet would certainly discover the body in the

  morning? Immediately after the deed he had no

  time for anything--granted. He shoves the body

  into the chest, pulls the screen in front of it and

  goes through the evening hoping for the best. But

  after the guests are gone? Surely, then is the time

  to dispose of the body."

  "Perhaps he hoped the valet wouldn't notice

  the stain?"

  "That, mort ami, is absurd. A stained carpet is

  THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST

  the first thing a good servant would be bound to,

  notice. And Major Rich, he goes to bed and snores

  there comfortably and does nothing at all about

  the matter. Very remarkable and interesting,

  that."

  "Curtiss might have seen the stains when he

  was changing the records the night before?" I sug,

  gested.

  "That is unlikely. The screen would throw

  deep shadow just there. No, but I begin to see,

  Yes, dimly I begin to see."

  "See what?" I asked eagerly.

  "The possibilities, shall we say, of an alter,,

  native explanation. Our next visit may throw light

  on things."

  Our next visit was to the doctor who had exam,

  ined the body. His evidence was a mere recapitula,

  tion of what he had already given at the inquest.

  Deceased had been stabbed to the heart with

  long thin knife something like a stiletto. The knife

  had been left in the wound. Death had been in,

  stantaneous. The knife was the property of Major

  Rich and usually lay on his writing table. Ther

  were no fingerprints on it, the doctor understood,

  It had been either wiped or held in a handkerchief.

  As regards time, any time between seven and hint

  seemed indicated.

  "He could not, for instance, have been kille

  after midnight?" asked Poirot.

  "No. That I can say. Ten o'clock at the outsid

  --but seven-thirty to eight seems clearly indi,

  cated."

  "There is a second hypothesis possible," Poirol

  said when we were back home. "I wonder if y0

  46

  Agatha Christie

  see it, Hastings. To me it is very plain, and I only

  need one point to clear up the matter for good and

  all. ' '

  "It's no good," I said. "I'm not there."

  "But make an effort, Hastings. Make an ef-fort.''

  "Very well," I said. "At seven-forty Clayton is

  alive and well. The last person to see him alive is

  Rich--"

  "So we assume."

  "Well, isn't it so?"

  "You forget, rnon ami, that Major Rich denies

  that. He states explicitly that Clayton had gone

  when he came in"

  "But the valet says that he would have heard

  Clayton leave because of the bang of the door.

  And also, if Clayton had left, when did he return?

  He couldn't have returned after midnight because

  the doctor says positively that he was dead at least

  two hours before that. That only leaves one alter-native."

  "Yes, rnon ami?" said Poirot.

  "That in the five minutes Clayton was alone in

  the sitting room, someone else came in and killed

  him. But there we have the same objection. Only

  someone with a key could come in without the

  valet's knowing, and in the same way the mur-derer

  on leaving would have had to bang the door,

  and that again the valet would have heard."

  "Exactly," said Poirot. "And therefore--"

  "And therefore--nothing," I said. "I can see

  no other solution."

  "It is a pity," murmured Poirot. "And it is

  THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST

  47

  really so exceedingly simple--as the clear blue eyes

  of Madame Clayton."

  "You really believe--"

  "I believe nothing--until I have got proof. One

  little proof will convince me."

  He took up the telephone and called japp at

  Scotland Yard.
/>
  Twenty minutes later we were standing before a

  little heap of assorted objects laid out on a table.

  They were the contents of the dead man's pockets.

  There was a handkerchief, a handful of loose

  change, a pocketbook containing three pounds ten

  shillings, a couple of bills and a worn snapshot of

  Marguerita Clayton. There was also a pocket-knife,

  a gold pencil and a cumbersome wooden

  tool.

  It was on this latter that Poirot swooped. He

  unscrewed it and several small blades fell out.

  "You see, Hastings, a gimlet and all the rest of

  it. Ah! it would be a matter of a very few minutes

  to bore a few holes in the chest with this.'

  "Those holes we saw?"

  "Precisely."

  "You mean it was Clayton who bored them

  himself?''

  "Mais, ouimrnais, oui! What did they suggest

  to you, those holes? They were not to see through,

  because they were at the back of the chest. What

  were they for, then? Clearly for air? But you do

  not make air holes for a dead body, so clearly they

  were not made by the murderer. They suggest one

  thing--and one thing only--that a man was going

  to hide in that chest. And at once, on that hypoth

  48

  Agatha Christie

  esis, things become ifitelligible. Mr. Clayton is

  jealous of his wife and Rich. He plays the old, old

  trick of pretending to go away. He watches Rich

  go out, then he gains admission, is left alone to

  write a note, quickly bores those holes and hides

  inside the chest. His wife is coming there that

  night. Possibly Rich will put the others off, possi-bly

  she will remain after the others have gone, or

  pretend to go and return. Whatever it is, Clayton

  will know. Anything is preferable to the ghastly

  torment of suspicion he is enduring."

  "Then you mean that Rich killed him after the

  others had gone? But the doctor said that was im-possible.''

  "Exactly. So you see, Hastings, he must have

  been killed during the evening."

  "But everyone was in the room!"

  "Precisely," said Poirot gravely. "You see the

  beauty of that? 'Everyone was in the room.' What

  an alibi! What sangfroid--what nerve--what au-dacity!''

  "I still don't understand." .

  "Who went behind that screen to wind up the

  phonograph and change the records? The phono-graph

  and the chest were side by side, remember.

  The others are dancing--the phonograph is play-ing.

  And the man who does not dance lifts the lid

  of the chest and thrusts the knife he has just

  .slipped into his sleeve deep into the body of the

  man who was hiding there."

  "Impossible! The man would cry out."

  "Not if he were drugged first?"

  "Drugged?"

  "Yes. Who did Clayton have a drink with at

  THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST

  49

  seven-thirty? Ah! Now you see. Curtiss! Curtiss

  has inflamed Clayton's mind with suspicions

  against his wife and Rich. Curtiss suggests this

  plan--the visit to Scotland, the concealment in the

  chest, the final touch of moving the screen. Not so

  that Clayton can raise the lid a little and get

  relief--no, so that he, Curtiss, can raise that lid

  unobserved. The plan is Curtiss', and observe the

  beauty of it, Hastings. If Rich had observed the

  screen was out of place and moved it back--well,

  no harm is done. He can make another plan.

  Clayton hides in the chest, the mild narcotic that

  Curtiss had administered takes effect. He sinks

  into unconsciousness. Curtiss lifts up the lid and

  strikes--and the phonograph goes on playing

  Walking My Baby Back Home."

  I found my voice. "Why? But why?"

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  "Why did a man shoot himself? Why did two

  Italians fight a duel? Curtiss is of a dark passion-ate

  temperament. He wanted Marguerita Clayton.

  With her husband and Rich out of the way, she

  would, or so he thought, turn to him."

  He added musingly:

  "These simple childlike women . . . they are

  very dangerous. But mon Dieu.t what an artistic

  masterpiece! It goes to my heart to hang a man

  like that. I may be a genius myself, but I am

  capable of recognizing genius in other people. A

  perfect murder, mon ami. I, Hercule Poirot, say it

  to you. A perfect murder, tpatant,t''

  How Does your

  Garden Grow?

  Hercule Poirot arranged his letters in a neat pile in

  front of him. He picked up the topmost letter,

  studied the address for a moment, then neatly slit

  the back of the envelope with a little paper knife

  that he kept on the breakfast table for that express

  purpose and extracted the contents. Inside was yet

  another envelope, carefully sealed with purple wax

  and marked "Private and Confidential."

  Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose a little on his

  egg-shaped head. He murmured, "Patience! Nous

  allons arriver!" and once more brought the little

  paper knife into play. This time the envelope

  yielded a letter--written in a rather shaky and

  spiky handwriting. Several words were heavily

  underlined.

  Hercule Poirot unfolded it and read. The letter

  was headed once again "Private and Confiden

  tial." On the right-hand side was the address

  53

  Agatha Christie

  --Rosebank, Charman's Green, Bucks--and the

  date--March twenty-first.

  Dear M. Poirot: I have been recommended

  to you by an old and valued friend of mine

  who knows the worry and distress I have been

  in lately. Not that this friend knows the actual

  circumstances--those I have kept entirely to

  myself--the matter being strictly private. My

  friend assures me that you are discretion

  itself--and that there will be no fear of my

  being involved in a police matter which, if my

  suspicions should prove correct, I should very

  much dislike. But it is of course possible that

  I am entirely mistaken. I do not feel myself

  clear-headed enough nowadays--suffering

  as I do from insomnia and the result of a

  severe illness last winter--to investigate

  things for myself. I have neither the means

  nor the ability. On the other hand, I must

  reiterate once more that this is a very delicate

  family matter and that for many reasons I

  may want the whole thing hushed up. If I am

  once assured of the facts, I can deal with the

  matter myself and should prefer to do so. I

  hope that I have made myself clear on this

  point. If you will undertake this investiga-tion,

  perhaps you will let me know to the

  above address?

  Yours very truly,

  AMELIA BARROWBY.

  Poirot read the letter through twice. Again his

  HOW DOES YOUR GARDEI$R()W?

  55

  eyebrows rose
slightly. Then he laced it on one

  side and pr-o, ceeded to the next envelop ¢ in the pile.

  At ten o clock precisely he eter-d the room

  where Miss Lemon, his confidenlial scretary, sat

  awaiting her instructions for the day. Miss Lemon

  was forty-eight and of unprepossessing appearance.

  Her general effect was that of a lot of bones

  flung together at random. She had a passion for

  order almost equaling that of Poirot aimself; and

  though capable of thinking, sh nx'er thought

  unless told to do so.

  Poirot handed her the morning correspondence'

  "Have the goodness, mademoiselle, to write refusals

  couched in correct terms to all (if these."

  Miss Lemon ran an eye over the vafious letters,

  scribbling in turn a hieroglyphic n egtch of them.

  These marks were legible to her al0na and were in

  a code of her own: "Soft soap"; ,'slap in the

  face"; "purr purr"; "curt"; anti so on. Having

  done this, she nodded and looked uP for further

  instructions.

  Poirot handed her Amelia Barro*vbY's letter.

  She extracted it from its double envelope, read it