Poirot's Early Cases hp-38

by Agatha Christie

  But Hercule Poirot remained grave. 'And you are quite sure, Monsieur Harrison, that it is with petrol that Monsieur Langton ia going to destroy your wasps' nest?' 'Quite sure. Why?' 'I wondered. I was at the chemist's in Barchester this afternoon.

  For one of my purchases I had to sign the poison book. I saw the last entry. It was for cyanide of potassium and it was signed for by Claude Langton.'

  Harrison stared. 'That's odd,' he said. 'Langton told me the other day that he'd never dream of using the stuff; in fact, he said it oughtn't to be sold for the purpose.'

  Poirot looked out over the roses. His voice was very quiet as he asked a question. 'Do you like Langton?'

  The other started. The question somehow seemed to find him quite unprepared. 'I - I - well, I mean - of course, I like him.

  Why shouldn't I?'

  'I only wondered,' said Poirot placidly, 'whether you did.'

  And as the other did not answer, he went on. 'I also wondered if he liked you?'

  'What are you getting at, Monsieur Poirot? There's something in your mind I can't fathom.'

  'I am going to be very frank. You are engaged to be married, Monsieur Harrison. I know Miss Molly Dearie. She is a very charming, a very beautiful girl. Before she was engaged to you, she was engaged to Claude Langton. She threw him over for you.'

  Harrison nodded.

  'I do not ask what her reasons were; she may have been justified.

  But I tell you this, it is not too much to suppose that Langton has not forgotten or forgiven.'

  'You're wrong, Monsieur Poirot. I swear you're wrong. Lang-ton's been a sportsman; he's taken things like a man. He's been amazingly decent to me - gone out of his way to be friendly.'

  'And that does not strike you as unusual? You use the word

  "amazingly", but you do not seem to be amazed.'

  'What do you mean, M. Poirot?'

  'I mean,' said Poirot, and his voice had a new note in it, 'that a man may conceal his hate till the proper time comes.'

  'Hate?' Harrison shook his head and laughed.

  'The English are very stupid,' said Poirot. 'They think that they can deceive anyone but that no one can deceive them. The sportsman - the good fellow - never will they believe evil of him.

  And because they are brave, but stupid, sometimes they die when they need not die.' /

  'You are warning me,' said Harrison in a low voice. 'I see it now - what has puzzled me all along. You are warning me against Claude Langton. You came here today to warn me…'

  Poirot nodded. Harrison sprang up suddenly. 'But you are mad, Monsieur Poirot. This is England. Things don't happen like that here. Disappointed suitors don't go about stabbing people in the back and poisoning them. And you're wrong about Langton. That chap wouldn't hurt a fly.'

  'The lives of flies are not my concern,' said Poirot placidly.

  'And although you say Monsieur Langton would not take the life of one, yet you forget that he is even now preparing to take the lives of several thousand wasps.'

  Harrison did not at once reply. The little detective in his turn sprang to his feet. He advanced to his friend and laid a hand on his shoulder. So agitated was he that he almost shook the big man, and, as he did so, he hissed into his ear: 'Rouse yourself, my friend, rouse yourself. And look - look where I am pointing. There on the bank, close by that tree root. See you, the wasps returning home, placid at the end of the day? In a little hour, there will be destruction, and they know it not. There is no one to tell them.

  They have not, it seems, a Hercule Poirot. I tell you, Monsieur Harrison, I am down here on business. Murder is my business.

  And it is my business before it has happened as well as afterwards.

  At what time does Monsieur Langton come to take this wasps' nest?'

  'Langton would never…'

  'At what time?'

  'At nine o'clock. But I tell you, you're all wrong. Langton would never…°

  'These Englishl' cried Poirot in a passion. He caught up his hat and stick and moved down the path, pausing to speak over his shoulder. 'I do not stay to argue with you. I should only enrage myself. But you understand, I return at nine o'clock?'

  Harrison opened his mouth to speak, but Poirot did not give him the chance. 'I know what you would say: "Langton would never," et cetera. Ah, Langton would never{But all the same I return at nine o'clock. But, yes, it will amuse me - put it like that - it will amuse me to see the taking of a wasps' nest. Another of your English sports' He waited for no reply but passed rapidly down the path and out through the door that creaked. Once outside on the road, his pace slackened. His vivacity died down, his face became grave and troubled. Once he drew his watch from his pocket and con-suited it. The hands pointed to ten minutes past eight. 'Over three quarters of an hour,' he murmured. 'I wonder if I should have waited.' His footsteps slackened; he almost seemed on the point of returning. Some vague foreboding seemed to assail him. He shook it off resolutely, however, and continued to walk in the direction of the village. But his face was still troubled, and once or twice he shook his head like a man only partly satisfied.

  It was still some minutes of nine when he once more approached the garden door. It was a clear, still evening; hardly a breeze stirred the leaves. There was, perhaps, something a little sinister in the stillness, like the lull before a storm.

  Poirot's footsteps quickened every so slightly. He was suddenly alarmed - and uncertain. He feared he knew not what.

  And at that moment the garden door opened and Claude Langton stepped quickly out into the road. He started when he saw Poirot.

  'Oh - er - good evening.' 'Good evening, Monsieur Langton. You are early.' Langton stared at him. 'I don't know what you mean.' 'You have taken the wasps' nest?' 'As a matter of fact, I didn't.' 'Oh!' said Poirot softly. 'So you did not take the wasps' nest.

  What did you do then?' 'Oh, just sat and yarned a bit with old Harrison. I really must hurry along now, Monsieur Poirot. I'd no idea you were remaining in this part of the world.' 'I-had business here, you see.'

  'Ohl Well, you'll find Harrison on the terrace. Sorry I can't stop.'

  He hurried away. Poirot looked after him. A nervous young fellow, good-looking with a weak mouthl

  'So I shall find Harrison on the terrace,' murmured Poirot.

  'I wonder.' He went in through the garden door and up the path.

  Harrison was sitting in a chair by the table. He sat motionless and did not even turn his head as Poirot came up to him.

  'Ah! Mon ami,' said Poirot. 'You are all right, eh?'

  There was a long pause and, then Harrison said in a queer, dazed voice, 'What did you say?'

  'I said - are you all right?'

  'All right? Yes, I'm all right. Why not?' 'You feel no ill effects? That is good.' 'Ill effects? From what?' 'Washing soda.'

  Harrison roused himself suddenly. 'Washing soda? What do you mean?'

  Poirot made an apologetic gesture. 'I infinitely regret the necessity, but I put some in your pocket.'

  'You put some in my pocket? What on earth for?'

  IIarrison stared at him. Poirot spoke quietly and impersonally like a lecturer coming down to the level of a small child.

  'You see, one of the advantages, or disadvantages, of being a detective is that it brings you into contact with the criminal classes. And the criminal classes, they can teach you some very interesting and curious things. There was a pickpocket once - I interested myself in him because for once in a way he has not done what they say he has done - and so I get him off. And because he is grateful he pays me in the only way he can think of - which is to show me the tricks of his trade.

  'And so it happens that I can pick a man's pocket if I choose without his ever suspecting the fact. I lay one hand on his shoulder, I excite myself, and he feels nothing. But all the same I have managed to transfer what is in his pocket to my pocket and leave washing soda in its place.

  'You see,' continued Poirot dreamily, 'if a man wants to get a
t some poison quickly to put in a glass, unobserved, he positively must keep it in his right-hand coat pocket; there is nowhere else.

  I knew it would be there.' He dropped his hand into his pocket and brought out a few white, lumpy crystals. 'Exceedingly dangerous,' he murmured, 'to carry it like that - loose.' Calmly and without hurrying himself, he took from another pocket a wide-mouthed bottle. He slipped in the crystals, stepped to the table and filled up the bottle with plain water. Then carefully corking it, he shook it until all the crystals were dissolved.

  Harrison watched him as though fascinated.

  Satisfied with his solution, Poirot stepped across to the nest.

  He uncorked the bottle, turned his head aside, and poured the solution into the wasps' nest, then stood back a pace or two watching.

  Some wasps that were returning alighted, quivered a little and then lay still. Other wasps crawled out of the hole only to die.

  Poirot watched for a minute or two and then nodded his head and came back to the veranda.

  'A quick death,' he said. 'A very quick death.' Harrison found his voice. 'How much do you know?' Poirot looked straight ahead. 'As I told you, I saw Claude Langton's name in the book. What I did not tell you was that almost immediately afterwards, I happened to meet him. He told me he had been buying cyanide of potassium at your request - to take a wasps' nest. That struck me as a little odd, my friend, because I remember that at that dinner of which you spoke, you held forth on the superior merits of petrol and denounced the buying of cyanide as dangerous and unnecessary.' 'Go on.' 'I knew something else. I had seen Claude Langton and Molly Deane together when they thought no one saw them. I do not know what lovers' quarrel it was that originally parted them and drove her into your arms, but I realized that misunderstandings were over and that Miss Deane was drifting back to her love.' Go on.' 'I knew something more, my fricnd. I was in Harley Street the

  other day, and I saw you come out of a certain doctor's house. I know that doctor and for what disease one consults him, and I read the expression on your face. I have seen it only once or twice in my lifetime, but it is not easily mistaken. It was the face of a man under sentence of death. I am right, am I not?' 'Quite right. He gave me two months.' 'You did not see me, my friend, for you had other things to think about. I saw something else on your face - the thing that I told you this afternoon men try to conceal. I saw hate there, my friend. You did not trouble to conceal it, because you thought there were none to observe.' 'Go on,' said Harrison.

  'There is not much more to say. I came down here, saw Lang-ton's name by accident in the poison book as I tell you, met him, and came here to you. I laid traps for you. You denied having asked Langton to get cyanide, or rather you expressed surprise at his having done so. You were taken aback at first at my appearance, but presently you saw how well it would fit in and you encouraged my suspicions. I knew from Langton himself that he was coming at half past eight. You told me nine o'clock, thinking I should come and find everything over. And so I knew everything.' 'Why did you come?' cried Harrison. 'If only you hadn't comel' Poirot drew himself up. 'I told you,' he said, 'murder is my business.' 'Murder? Suicide, you mean.' 'No.' Poirot's voice rang out sharply and clearly. 'I mean murder.

  Your death was to be quick and easy, but the death you planned for Langton was the worst death any man can die. He bought the poison; he comes to see you, and he is alone with you. You die suddenly, and the cyznide is found in your glass, and Claude Langton hangs. That was your plan.' Again Harrison moaned.

  'Why did you come? Why did you come?' 'I have told you, but there is another reason. I liked you.

  Listen, rnon ami, you are a dying man; you have lost the girl you loved, but there is one thing that you are not: you are not a murderer. Tell me now: are you glad or sorry that I came?'

  There was a moment's pause and Harrison drew himself up.

  There was a new dignity in his face - the look of a man who has conquered his own baser self. He stretched out his hand across the table.

  'Thank goodness you came,' he cried. 'Oh, thank goodness you came.'

  Chapter XVI. The Veiled Lady

  I had noticed that for some time Poirot had been growing in-creasingly dissatisfied and restless. We had had no interesting cases of late, nothing on which my little friend could exercise his keen wits and remarkable powers of deduction. This morning he flung down the newspaper with an impatient 'Tchah!' - a favourite exclamation of his which sounded exactly like a cat sneezing.

  'They fear me, Hastings; the criminals of your England they fear mci When the cat is there, the little mice, they come no more to the cheesel'

  'I don't suppose the greater part of them even know of your existence,' I said, laughing.

  Poirot looked at me reproachfully. He always imagines that the whole world is thinking and talking of Hercule Poirot. tie had certainly made a name for himself in London, but I could hardly believe that his existence struck terror into the criminal world.

  'What about that daylight robbery of jewels in Bond Street the other day?' I asked.

  'A neat coup,' said Poirot approvingly, 'though not in my line.

  Pas de finesse, seuelment de l'audace! A man with a loaded cane smashes the plate-glass window of a jeweller's shop and grabs a number of precious stones. Worthy citizens immediately seize him; a policeman arrives. He is caught red-handed with the jewels on him. He is marched off to the police, and then it is discovered that the stones are paste. He has passed the real ones to a confederate - one of the aforementioned worthy citizens. He will go to prison - true; but when he comes out, there will be a nice little fortune awaiting him. Yes, not badly imagined. But I could do better than that. Sometimes, Hastings, I regret that I am of such a moral disposition. To work against the law, it would be pleasing, for a change.'

  'Cheer up, Poirot; you know you are unique in your own line.' 'But what is there on hand in my own line?' I picked up the paper.

  'Here's an Englishman mysteriously done to death in Holland,' I said.

  'They always say that - and later they find that he ate the tinned fish and that his death is perfectly natural.' 'Well, if you're determined to grouse?

  'Tiens!' said Poirot, who had strolled across to the window.

  'Here in the street is what they call in novels a "heavily veiled lady". She mounts the steps; she rings the bell - she comes to consult us. Here is a possibility of something interesting. When one is as young and pretty as that one, one does not veil the face except for a big affair.' A minute later our visitor was ushered in. As Poirot had said, she was indeed heavily veiled. It was impossible to distinguish her features until she raised her veil of black Spanish lace. Then I saw that Poirot's intuition had been right; the lady was extremely pretty, with fair hair and large blue eyes. From the costly simplicity of her attire, I deduced at once that she belonged to the upper strata of society.

  'Monsieur Poirot,' said the lady in a soft, musical voice, 'I am in great trouble. I can hardly believe that you can help me, but I have heard such wonderful things of you that I come literally as a last hope to beg you to do the impossible.' 'The impossible, it pleases me always,' said Poirot. 'Continue, I beg of you, mademoiselle.' Our fair guest hesitated.

  'But you must be frank,' added Poirot. 'You must not leave me in the dark on any point.' 'I will trust you,' said the girl suddenly. 'You have heard of Lady Millicent Castle Vaughan?' I looked up with keen interest. The announcement of Lady Millicent's engagement to the young Duke of Southshire had appeared a few days previously. She was, I knew, the fifth daughter of an impecunious Irish peer, and the Duke of Southshire was one of the best matches in England.

  'Iarn Lady Millicent,' continued the girl. 'You may have read of nY engagement. I should be one of the happiest girls alive; but oh, M. Poirot, I am in terrible troublel There is a man, a horrible man - his name is Lavington; and he - I hardly know how to tell you. 'Ihere was a letter I wrote - I was only sixteen at the time; and he - he - '

  '? lett
er that you wrote to this Mr Lavington?'

  'Oh no - not to him! To a young soldier - I was very fond of him- he was killed in the war.'

  'I understand,' said Poirot kindly.

  'It v/as a foolish letter, an indiscreet letter, but indeed, M.

  PoirOt, nothing more. But there are phrases in it which - which might bear a different interpretation.'

  'I see,' said Poirot. 'And this letter has come into the possession of lgr Lavington?'

  '?e, and he threatens, unless I pay him an enormous sum of money, a sum that it is quite impossible for me to raise, to send it to the Duke.'

  'The dirty swinel' I ejaculated. 'I beg your pardon, Lady Millicent.'

  'l/culd it not be wiser to confess all to your future husband?' 'I amp;are not, M. Poirot. The Duke is a rather peculiar character, jealous and suspicious and prone to believe the worst. I might as well break off my engagement at once.'

  'l)ear, dear,' said Poirot with an expressive grimace. 'And what do you want me to do, milady?'

  'I thought perhaps that I might ask Mr Lavington to call upon you. I would tell him that you were empowered by me to discuss the matter. Perhaps you could reduce his demands.'

  'Btlat sum does he mention?'

  've'enty thousand pounds - an impossibility. I doubt if I could xaise a thousand, even.'

  "/ora might perhaps borrow the money on the prospect of your aplrOching marriage - but I doubt if you could get hold of half that sram. Besides - eh bien, it is repugnant to me that you should payl 1o, the ingenuity of Hercule Poirot shall defeat your enemiesl

  ' Cheer up, Poirot; you know you are unique in your own line.' · But what is there on hand in my own line?' I picked up the paper.

  ' Here's an Englishman mysteriously done to death in Holland,' I staid.

  ' They always say that - and later they find that he ate the tinned fisl and that his death is perfectly natural.' ' Well, if you're determined to grouse!' "Tiens!' said Poirot, who had strolled across to the window.