Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  It was clear that the woman had thoroughly enjoyed herself. She had flown over to London and been taken there to certain "Night Clubs" by her olive-skinned cavalier. She had been photographed in Paris with him. Some of the places to which she had gone were not, she admitted, quite nice... Indeed, they were not respectable! And some of the photographs taken, they too, had not been very nice. But these things, they had told her, were necessary for "advertisement" - and Señor Ramon himself had always been most respectful.

  In answer to questioning she declared that the name of Mrs Ferrier had never been mentioned and that she had had no idea that it was that lady she was supposed to be understudying. She had meant no harm. She identified certain photographs which were shown to her as having been taken of her in Paris and on the Riviera.

  There was the hallmark of absolute honesty about Thelma Andersen.

  She was quite clearly a pleasant, but slightly stupid woman. Her distress at the whole thing, now that she understood it, was patent to everyone.

  The defence was unconvincing. A frenzied denial of having any dealings with the woman Andersen. The photos in question had been brought to the London office and had been believed to be genuine. Sir Mortimer's closing speech roused enthusiasm. He described the whole thing as a dastardly political plot, formed to discredit the Prime Minister and his wife. All sympathy would be extended to the unfortunate Mrs Ferrier.

  The verdict, a foregone conclusion, was given amidst unparallelled scenes. Damages were assessed at an enormous figure. As Mrs Ferrier and her husband and father left the court they were greeted by the appreciative roars of a vast crowd.

  XI

  Edward Ferrier grasped Poirot warmly by the hand.

  He said: "I thank you, M. Poirot, a thousand times. Well, that finishes the X-ray News. Dirty little rag. They're wiped out completely. Serves them right for cooking up such a scurrilous plot. Against Dagmar, too, the kindliest creature in the world. Thank goodness you managed to expose the whole thing for the wicked ramp it was... What put you on to the idea that they might be using a double?"

  "It is not a new idea," Poirot reminded him. "It was employed successfully in the case of Jeanne de la Motte when she impersonated Marie Antoinette."

  "I know. I must re-read The Queen's Necklace. But how did you actually find the woman they were employing?"

  "I looked for her in Denmark, and I found her there."

  "But why Denmark?"

  "Because Mrs Ferrier's grandmother was a Dane, and she herself is a markedly Danish type. And there were other reasons."

  "The resemblance is certainly striking. What a devilish idea! I wonder how the little rat came to think of it?"

  Poirot smiled.

  "But he did not."

  He tapped himself on the chest.

  "I thought of it!"

  Edward Ferrier stared. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

  Poirot said: "We must go back to an older story than that of The Queen's Necklace - to the cleansing of the Augean Stables. What Hercules used was a river - that is to say one of the great forces of Nature. Modernise that! What is a great force of Nature? Sex, is it not?

  It is the sex angle that sells stories, that makes news. Give people scandal allied to sex and it appeals far more than any mere political chicanery or fraud.

  "Eh bien, that was my task! First to put my own hands in the mud like Hercules to build up a dam that should turn the course of that river. A journalistic friend of mine aided me. He searched Denmark until he found a suitable person to attempt the impersonation. He approached her, casually mentioned the X-ray News to her, hoping she would remember it. She did.

  "And so, what happened? Mud - a great deal of mud! Caesar's wife is bespattered with it. Far more interesting to everybody than any political scandal. And the result - the denouement? Why, Reaction!

  Virtue vindicated! The pure woman cleared! A great tide of Romance and Sentiment sweeping through the Augean Stables.

  "If all the newspapers in the country publish the news of John Hammett's defalcations now, no one will believe it. It will be put down as another political plot to discredit the Government."

  Edward Ferrier took a deep breath. For a moment Hercule Poirot came nearer to being physically assaulted than at any other time in his career.

  "My wife! You dared to use her -"

  Fortunately, perhaps, Mrs Ferrier herself entered the room at this moment.

  "Well," she said. "That went off very well."

  "Dagmar, did you - know all along?"

  "Of course, dear," said Dagmar Ferrier.

  And she smiled, the gentle, maternal smile of a devoted wife.

  "And you never told me!"

  "But, Edward, you would never have let M. Poirot do it."

  "Indeed I would not!"

  Dagmar smiled. "That's what we thought."

  "We?"

  "I and M. Poirot."

  She smiled at Hercule Poirot and at her husband.

  She added: "I had a very restful time with the dear Bishop - I feel full of energy now. They want me to christen the new battleship at Liverpool next month - I think it would be a popular thing to do."

  Chapter 6

  THE STYMPHALEAN BIRDS

  II

  That evening, Harold joined mother and daughter after dinner. Elsie

  Clayton was wearing a soft dull pink dress. Her eyelids, he noticed, were red. She had been crying.

  Mrs Rice said briskly: "I've found out who your two harpies are, Mr Waring. Polish ladies - of very good family, so the concierge says."

  Harold looked across the room to where the Polish ladies were sitting.

  Elsie said with interest: "Those two women over there? With the henna-dyed hair? They look rather horrible somehow - I don't know why."

  Harold said triumphantly: "That's just what I thought."

  Mrs Rice said with a laugh: "I think you are both being absurd. You can't possibly tell what people are like just by looking at them."

  Elsie laughed.

  She said: "I suppose one can't. All the same I think they're vultures!"

  "Picking out dead men's eyes!" said Harold.

  "Oh, don't," cried Elsie.

  Harold said quickly: "Sorry."

  Mrs Rice said with a smile: "Anyway they're not likely to cross our path."

  Elsie said: "We haven't got any guilty secrets!"

  "Perhaps Mr Waring has," said Mrs Rice with a twinkle.

  Harold laughed, throwing his head back.

  He said: "Not a secret in the world. My life's an open book." And it flashed across his mind: "What fools people are who leave the straight path. A clear conscience - that's all one needs in life. With that you can face the world and tell everyone who interferes with you to go to the devil!"

  He felt suddenly very much alive - very strong - very much master of his fate!

  III

  Harold Waring, like many other Englishmen, was a bad linguist. His

  French was halting and decidedly British in intonation. Of German and Italian he knew nothing.

  Up to now, these linguistic disabilities had not worried him. In most hotels on the Continent, he had always found, everyone spoke English, so why worry?

  But in this out-of-the-way spot, where the native language was a form of Slovak and even the concierge only spoke German it was sometimes galling to Harold when one of his two women friends acted as interpreter for him. Mrs Rice, who was fond of languages, could even speak a little Slovak.

  Harold determined that he would set about learning German. He decided to buy some text books and spend a couple of hours each morning in mastering the language.

  The morning was fine and after writing some letters, Harold looked at his watch and saw there was still time for an hour's stroll before lunch.

  He went down towards the lake and then turned aside into the pine woods. He had walked there for perhaps five minutes when he heard an unmistakable sound. Somewhere not far away a woman was sobbing her
heart out.

  Harold paused a minute, then he went in the direction of the sound.

  The woman was Elsie Clayton and was she sitting on a fallen tree with her face buried in her hands and her shoulders quivering with the violence of her grief.

  Harold hesitated a minute, then he came up to her.

  He said gently: "Mrs Clayton - Elsie?"

  She started violently and looked up at him. Harold sat down beside her.

  He said with real sympathy: "Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?"

  She shook her head.

  "No - no - you're very kind. But there's nothing any one can do for me."

  Harold said rather diffidently: "Is it to do with - your husband?"

  She nodded. Then she wiped her eyes and took out her powder compact, struggling to regain command of herself.

  She said in a quavering voice: "I didn't want Mother to worry. She's so upset when she sees me unhappy. So I came out here to have a good cry. It's silly, I know. Crying doesn't help. But - sometimes - one just feels that life is quite unbearable."

  Harold said: "I'm terribly sorry."

  She threw him a grateful glance. Then she said hurriedly: "It's my own fault, of course. I married Philip of my own free will. It - it's turned out badly, I've only myself to blame."

  Harold said: "It's very plucky of you to put it like that."

  Elsie shook her head. "No, I'm not plucky. I'm not brave at all. I'm an awful coward. That's partly the trouble with Philip. I'm terrified of him absolutely terrified - when he gets in one of his rages."

  Harold said with feeling: "You ought to leave him!"

  "I daren't. He - he wouldn't let me."

  "Nonsense! What about a divorce?"

  She shook her head slowly. "I've no grounds." She straightened her shoulders. "No, I've got to carry on. I spend a fair amount of time with Mother, you know. Philip doesn't mind that. Especially when we go somewhere off the beaten track like this."

  She added, the colour rising in her cheeks, "You see, part of the trouble is that he's insanely jealous. If - if I so much as speak to another man he makes the most frightful scenes."

  Harold's indignation rose. He had heard many women complain of the jealousy of a husband, and whilst professing sympathy, had been secretly of the opinion that the husband was amply justified. But Elsie Clayton wasn't one of those women. She had never thrown him so much as a flirtatious glance.

  Elsie drew away from him with a slight shiver. She glanced up at the sky.

  "The sun's gone in. It's quite cold. We'd better get back to the hotel. It must be nearly lunch time."

  They got up and turned in the direction of the hotel. They had walked for perhaps a minute when they overtook a figure going in the same direction. They recognised her by the flapping cloak she wore. It was one of the Polish sisters.

  They passed her, Harold bowing slightly. She made no response but her eyes rested on them both for a minute and there was a certain appraising quality in the glance which made Harold feel suddenly hot.

  He wondered if the woman had seen him sitting by Elsie on the tree trunk. If so, she probably thought...

  Well, she looked as though she thought... A wave of indignation overwhelmed him! What foul minds some women had!

  Odd that the sun had gone in and that they should both have shivered perhaps just at the moment that that woman was watching them...

  Somehow, Harold felt a little uneasy.

  IV

  That evening, Harold went to his room a little after ten. The English mail had arrived and he had received a number of letters, some of which needed immediate answers.

  He got into his pyjamas and a dressing-gown and sat down at the desk to deal with his correspondence. He had written three letters and was just starting on the four th when the door was suddenly flung open and Elsie Clayton staggered into the room.

  Harold jumped up, startled. Elsie had pushed the door to behind her and was standing clutching at the chest of drawers. Her breath was coming in great gasps, her face was the colour of chalk. She looked frightened to death.

  She gasped out: "It's my husband! He arrived unexpectedly. I - I think he'll kill me. He's mad - quite mad. I came to you. Don't - don't let him find me."

  She took a step or two forward, swaying so much that she almost fell.

  Harold put out an arm to support her.

  As he did so, the door was flung open and a man stood in the doorway.

  He was of medium height with thick eyebrows and a sleek, dark head.

  In his hand he carried a heavy car spanner. His voice rose high and shook with rage. He almost screamed the words.

  "So that Polish woman was right! You are carrying on with this fellow!"

  Elsie cried: "No, no, Philip. It's not true. You're wrong."

  Harold thrust the girl swiftly behind him, as Philip Clayton advanced on them both. The latter cried:

  "Wrong, am I? When I find you here in his room? You she-devil. I'll kill you for this."

  With a swift, sideways movement he dodged Harold's arm. Elsie, with a cry, ran round the other side of Harold, who swung round to fend the other off.

  But Philip Clayton had only one idea, to get at his wife. He swerved round again. Elsie, terrified, rushed out of the room. Philip Clayton dashed after her, and Harold, with not a moment's hesitation, followed him.

  Elsie had darted back into her own bedroom at the end of the corridor.

  Harold could hear the sound of the key turning in the lock, but it did not turn in time. Before the lock could catch Philip Clayton wrenched the door open. He disappeared into the room and Harold heard Elsie's frightened cry. In another minute Harold burst in after them.

  Elsie was standing at bay against the curtains of the window. As Harold entered Philip Clayton rushed at her brandishing the spanner.

  She gave a terrified cry, then snatching up a heavy paper-weight from the desk beside her, she flung it at him.

  Clayton went down like a log. Elsie screamed. Harold stopped petrified in the doorway. The girl fell on her knees beside her husband. He lay quite still where he had fallen.

  Outside in the passage, there was the sound of the bolt of one of the doors being drawn back. Elsie jumped up and ran to Harold.

  "Please - please -" Her voice was low and breathless. "Go back to your room. They'll come - they'll find you here."

  Harold nodded. He took in the situation like lightning. For the moment, Philip Clayton was hors de combat. But Elsie's scream might have been heard. If he were found in her room it could only cause embarrassment and misunderstanding. Both for her sake and his own there must be no scandal.

  As noiselessly as possible, he sprinted down the passage and back into his room. Just as he reached it, he heard the sound of an opening door.

  He sat in his room for nearly half an hour, waiting. He dared not go out.

  Sooner or later, he felt sure, Elsie would come.

  There was a light tap on his door. Harold jumped up to open it.

  It was not Elsie who came in but her mother and Harold was aghast at her appearance. She looked suddenly years older. Her grey hair was dishevelled and there were deep black circles under her eyes.

  He sprang up and helped her to a chair. She sat down, her breath coming painfully.

  Harold said quickly: "You look all in, Mrs Rice. Can I get you something?"

  She shook her head. "No. Never mind me. I'm all right, really. It's only the shock. Mr Waring, a terrible thing has happened."

  Harold asked: "Is Clayton seriously injured?"

  She caught her breath. "Worse than that. He's dead..."

  V

  The room spun round.

  A feeling as of icy water trickling down his spine rendered Harold incapable of speech for a moment or two.

  He repeated dully: "Dead?"

  Mrs Rice nodded.

  She said, and her voice had the flat level tones of complete exhaustion:

  "The corner of that marble paper
weight caught him right on the temple and he fell back with his head on the iron fender. I don't know which it was that killed him - but he is certainly dead. I have seen death often enough to know."

  Disaster - that was the word that rang insistently in Harold's brain.

  Disaster, disaster, disaster...

  He said vehemently: "It was an accident... I saw it happen."

  Mrs Rice said sharply: "Of course it was an accident. I know that. But but - is any one else going to think so? I'm - frankly, I'm frightened, Harold! This isn't England."

  Harold said slowly: "I can confirm Elsie's story."

  Mrs Rice said: "Yes, and she can confirm yours. That - that is just it!"

  Harold's brain, naturally a keen and cautious one, saw her point. He reviewed the whole thing and appreciated the weakness of their position.

  He and Elsie had spent a good deal of their time together. Then there was the fact that they had been seen together in the pinewoods by one of the Polish women under rather compromising circumstances. The Polish ladies apparently spoke no English, but they might nevertheless understand it a little. The woman might have known the meaning of words like "jealously" and "husband" if she had chanced to overhear their conversation. Anyway it was clear that it was something she had said to Clayton that had aroused his jealousy. And now - his death.

  When Clayton had died, he, Harold, had been in Elsie Clayton's room.

  There was nothing to show that he had not deliberately assaulted Philip Clayton with the paperweight. Nothing to show that the jealous husband had not actually found them together. There was only his word and Elsie's. Would they be believed?

  A cold fear gripped him.

  He did not imagine - no, he really did not imagine - that either he or Elsie was in danger of being condemned to death for a murder they had not committed. Surely, in any case, it could only be a charge of manslaughter brought against them. (Did they have manslaughter in these foreign countries?) But even if they were acquitted of blame there would have to be an inquiry - it would be reported in all the papers. An English man and woman accused - jealous husband - rising politician. Yes, it would mean the end of his political career. It would never survive a scandal like that.