Poirot smiled at him.
"Come now into the library," he said, "and look out of the window and I will show you something that may explain the mystery."
He led the way and they followed him.
"Consider once again," said Poirot, "the scene of the crime."
He pointed out of the window. A simultaneous gasp broke from the lips of all of them. There was no body lying on the snow, no trace of the tragedy seemed to remain except a mass of scuffled snow.
"It wasn't all a dream, was it?" said Colin faintly. "I - has someone taken the body away?"
"Ah," said Poirot. "You see? The Mystery of the Disappearing Body." He nodded his head and his eyes twinkled gently.
"Good lord," cried Michael. "M. Poirot, you are - you haven't - oh, look, he's been having us on all this time!"
Poirot twinkled more than ever.
"It is true, my children, I also have had my little joke. I knew about your little plot, you see, and so I arranged a counterplot of my own.
Ah, voilà Mademoiselle Bridget. None the worse, I hope, for your exposure in the snow? Never should I forgive myself if you attrapped une fluxion de poitrine."
Bridget had just come into the room. She was wearing a thick skirt and a woollen sweater. She was laughing.
"I sent a tisane to your room," said Poirot severely. "You have drunk it?"
"One sip was enough!" said Bridget. "I'm all right. Did I do it well, M.
Poirot? Goodness, my arm hurts still after that tourniquet you made me put on it."
"You were splendid, my child," said Poirot. "Splendid. But see, all the others are still in the fog. Last night I went to Mademoiselle Bridget. I told her that I knew about your little complot and I asked her if she would act a part for me. She did it very cleverly. She made the footprints with a pair of Mr Lee-Wortley's shoes."
Sarah said in a harsh voice:
"But what's the point of it all, M. Poirot? What's the point of sending Desmond off to fetch the police? They'll be very angry when they find out it's nothing but a hoax."
Poirot shook his head gently.
"But I do not think for one moment, Mademoiselle, that Mr Lee-
Wortley went to fetch the police," he said. "Murder is a thing in which Mr Lee-Wortley does not want to be mixed up. He lost his nerve badly. All he could see was his chance to get the ruby. He snatched that, he pretended the telephone was out of order and he rushed off in a car on the pretence of fetching the police. I think myself it is the last you will see of him for some time. He has, I understand, his own ways of getting out of England. He has his own plane, has he not, Mademoiselle?"
Sarah nodded. "Yes," she said. "We were thinking of..." she stopped.
"He wanted you to elope with him that way, did he not? Eh bien, that is a very good way of smuggling a jewel out of the country. When you are eloping with a girl, and that fact is publicised, then you will not be suspected of also smuggling a historic jewel out of the country. Oh yes, that would have made a very good camouflage."
"I don't believe it," said Sarah. "I don't believe a word of it!"
"Then ask his sister," said Poirot, gently nodding his head over her shoulder. Sarah turned her head sharply.
A platinum blonde stood in the doorway. She wore a fur coat and was scowling. She was clearly in a furious temper.
"Sister my foot!" she said, with a short unpleasant laugh. "That swine's no brother of mine! So he's beaten it, has he, and left me to carry the can? The whole thing was his idea! He put me up to it!
Said it was money for jam. They'd never prosecute because of the scandal. I could always threaten to say that Ali had given me his historic jewel. Des and I were to have shared the swag in Paris and now the swine runs out on me! I'd like to murder him!" She switched abruptly. "The sooner I get out of here... Can someone telephone for a taxi?"
"A car is waiting at the front door to take you to the station, Mademoiselle," said Poirot.
"Think of everything, don't you?"
"Most things," said Poirot complacently.
But Poirot was not to get off so easily. When he returned to the dining-room after assisting the spurious Miss Lee-Wortley into the waiting car, Colin was waiting for him.
There was a frown on his boyish face.
"But look here, M. Poirot. What about the ruby? Do you mean to say you've let him get away with it?"
Poirot's face fell. He twirled his moustaches. He seemed ill at ease.
"I shall recover it yet," he said weakly. "There are other ways. I shall still..."
"Well, I do think!" said Michael. "To let that swine get away with the ruby!"
Bridget was sharper.
"He's having us on again," she cried. "You are, aren't you, M.
Poirot?"
"Shall we do a final conjuring trick, Mademoiselle? Feel in my lefthand pocket."
Bridget thrust her hand in. She drew it out again with a scream of triumph and held aloft a large ruby blinking in crimson splendour.
"You comprehend," explained Poirot, "the one that was clasped in your hand was a paste replica. I brought it from London in case it was possible to make a substitution. You understand? We do not want the scandal. Monsieur Desmond will try and dispose of that ruby in Paris or in Belgium or wherever it is that he has his contacts, and then it will be discovered that the stone is not real!
What could be more excellent? All finishes happily. The scandal is avoided, my princeling receives his ruby back again, he returns to his country and makes a sober and we hope a happy marriage. All ends well."
"Except for me," murmured Sarah under her breath.
She spoke so low that no one heard her but Poirot. He shook his head gently.
"You are in error, Mademoiselle Sarah, in what you say there. You have gained experience. All experience is valuable. Ahead of you I prophesy there lies happiness."
"That's what you say," said Sarah.
"But look here, M. Poirot," Colin was frowning. "How did you know about the show we were going to put on for you?"
"It is my business to know things," said Hercule Poirot. He twirled his moustache.
"Yes, but I don't see how you could have managed it. Did someone split - did someone come and tell you?"
"No, no, not that."
"Then how? Tell us how?"
They all chorused, "Yes, tell us how."
"But no," Poirot protested. "But no. If I tell you how I deduced that, you will think nothing of it. It is like the conjuror who shows how his tricks are done!"
"Tell us, M. Poirot! Go on. Tell us, tell us!"
"You really wish that I should solve for you this last mystery?"
"Yes, go on. Tell us."
"Ah, I do not think I can. You will be so disappointed."
"Now, come on, M. Poirot, tell us. How did you know?"
"Well, you see, I was sitting in the library by the window in a chair after tea the other day and I was reposing myself. I had been asleep and when I awoke you were discussing your plans just outside the window close to me, and the window was open at the top."
"Is that all?" cried Colin, disgusted. "How simple!"
"Is it not?" said Hercule Poirot, smiling. "You see? You are disappointed."
"Oh well," said Michael, "at any rate we know everything now."
"Do we?" murmured Hercule Poirot to himself. "I do not. I, whose business it is to know things."
He walked out into the hall, shaking his head a little. For perhaps the twentieth time he drew from his pocket a rather dirty piece of paper. "DON'T EAT NONE OF THE PLUM PUDDING. ONE AS
WISHES YOU WELL."
Hercule Poirot shook his head reflectively. He who could explain everything could not explain this! Humiliating. Who had written it?
Why had it been written? Until he found that out he would never know a moment's peace. Suddenly he came out of his reverie to be aware of a peculiar gasping noise. He looked sharply down. On the floor, busy with a dustpan and brush was a tow-headed creature in a fl
owered overall. She was staring at the paper in his hand with large round eyes.
"Oh sir," said this apparition. "Oh, sir. Please, sir."
"And who may you be, mon enfant?" inquired M. Poirot genially.
"Annie Bates, sir, please sir. I come here to help Mrs Ross. I didn't mean, sir, I didn't mean to to do anything what I shouldn't do. I did mean it well, sir. For your good, I mean."
Enlightenment came to Poirot. He held out the dirty piece of paper.
"Did you write that, Annie?"
"I didn't mean any harm, sir. Really I didn't."
"Of course you didn't, Annie." He smiled at her. "But tell me about it. Why did you write this?"
"Well, it was them two, sir. Mr Lee-Wortley and his sister. Not that she was his sister, I'm sure. None of us thought so! And she wasn't ill a bit. We could all tell that. We thought - we all thought something queer was going on. I'll tell you straight, sir. I was in her bathroom taking in the clean towels, and I listened at the door. He was in her room and they were talking together. I heard what they said plain as plain. 'This detecive,' he was saying. 'This fellow Poirot who's coming here. We've got to do something about it. We've got to get him out of the way as soon as possible.' And then he says to her in a nasty, sinister sort of way, lowering his voice, 'Where did you put it?' And she answered him 'In the pudding.' Oh, sir, my heart gave such a leap I thought it would stop beating. I thought they meant to poison you in the Christmas pudding. I didn't know what to do!' Mrs Ross, she wouldn't listen to the likes of me. Then the idea came to me as I'd write you a warning. And I did and I put it on your pillow where you'd find it when you went to bed." Annie paused breathlessly.
Poirot surveyed her gravely for some minutes.
"You see too many sensational films, I think, Annie," he said at last, "or perhaps it is the television that affects you? But the important thing is that you have the good heart and a certain amount of ingenuity. When I return to London I will send you a present."
"Oh thank you, sir. Thank you very much, sir."
"What would you like, Annie, as a present?"
"Anything I like, sir? Could I have anything I like?"
"Within reason," said Hercule Poirot prudently, "yes."
"Oh sir, could I have a vanity box? A real posh slap up vanity box like the one Mr Lee-Wortley's sister, wot wasn't his sister, had?"
"Yes," said Poirot, "yes, I think that could be managed."
"It is interesting," he mused. "I was in a museum the other day observing some antiquities from Babylon or one of those places, thousands of years old and among them were cosmetics boxes. The heart of women does not change."
"Beg your pardon, sir?" said Annie.
"It is nothing," said Poirot, "I reflect. You shall have your vanity box, child."
"Oh thank you, sir. Oh thank you very much indeed, sir."
Annie departed ecstatically. Poirot looked after her, nodding his head in satisfaction.
"Ah," he said to himself. "And now - I go. There is nothing more to be done here."
A pair of arms slipped round his shoulders unexpectedly.
"If you will stand just under the mistletoe..." said Bridget.
Hercule Poirot enjoyed it. He enjoyed it very much. He said to himself that he had had a very good Christmas.
THE MYSTERY OF THE SPANISH CHEST
Punctual to the moment, as always, Hercule Poirot entered the small room where Miss Lemon, his efficient secretary, awaited her instructions for the day.
At first sight Miss Lemon seemed to be composed entirely of angles - thus satisfying Poirot's demand for symmetry.
Not that where women were concerned Hercule Poirot carried his passion for geometrical precision so far. He was, on the contrary, old-fashioned. He had a continental prejudice for curves - it might he said for voluptuous curves. He liked women to be women. He liked them lush, highly colored, exotic. There had been a certain Russian countess - but that was long ago now. A folly of earlier days.
But Miss Lemon he had never considered as a woman. She was a human machine - an instrument of precision. Her efficiency was terrific. She was forty-eight years of age, and was fortunate enough to have no imagination whatever.
"Good morning, Miss Lemon."
"Good morning, M. Poirot."
Poirot sat down and Miss Lemon placed before him the morning's mail, neatly arranged in categories.
She resumed her seat and sat with pad and pencil at the ready.
But there was to be this morning a slight change in routine. Poirot had brought in with him the morning newspaper, and his eyes were scanning it with interest. The headlines were big and bold.
"SPANISH CHEST MYSTERY. LATEST DEVELOPMENTS."
"You have read the morning papers, I presume, Miss Lemon?"
"Yes, M. Poirot. The news from Geneva is not very good."
Poirot waved away the news from Geneva in a comprehensive sweep of the arm.
"A Spanish chest," he mused. "Can you tell me, Miss Lemon, what exactly is a Spanish chest?"
"I suppose, M. Poirot, that it is a chest that came originally from Spain."
"One might reasonably suppose so. You have then, no expert knowledge?"
"They are usually of the Elizabethan period, I believe. Large, and with a good deal of brass decoration on them. They look very nice when well kept and polished. My sister bought one at a sale. She keeps household linen in it. It looks very nice."
"I am sure that in the house of any sister of yours, all the furniture would be well kept," said Poirot, bowing gracefully.
Miss Lemon replied sadly that servants did not seem to know what elbow grease was nowadays.
Poirot looked a little puzzled, but decided not to inquire into the inward meaning of the mysterious phrase "elbow grease."
He looked down again at the newspaper, conning over the names:
Major Rich, Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, Commander McLaren, Mr. and Mrs. Spence. Names, nothing but names to him; yet all possessed of human personalities, hating, loving, fearing. A drama, this, in which he, Hercule Poirot, had no part. And he would have liked to have a part in it! Six people at an evening party, in a room with a big Spanish chest against the wall, six people, five of them talking, eating a buffet supper, putting records on the gramophone, dancing, and the sixth dead, in the Spanish chest...
Ah, thought Poirot. How my dear friend Hastings would have enjoyed this! What romantic flights of imagination he would have had. What ineptitudes he would have uttered! Ah, ce cher Hastings, at this moment, today, I miss him. Instead -
He sighed and looked at Miss Lemon. Miss Lemon, intelligently perceiving that Poirot was in no mood to dictate letters, had uncovered her typewriter and was awaiting her moment to get on with certain arrears of work. Nothing could have interested her less than sinister Spanish chests containing dead bodies.
Poirot sighed and looked down at a photographed face.
Reproductions in newsprint were never very good, and this was decidedly smudgy - but what a face! Mrs. Clayton, the wife of the murdered man...
On an impulse, he thrust the paper at Miss Lemon.
"Look," he demanded. "Look at that face."
Miss Lemon looked at it obediently, without emotion.
"What do you think of her, Miss Lemon? That is Mrs. Clayton."
Miss Lemon took the paper, glanced casually at the picture, and remarked:
"She's a little like the wife of our bank manager when we lived at Croydon Heath."
"Interesting," said Poirot. "Recount to me, if you will be so kind, the history of your bank manager's wife."
"Well, it's not really a very pleasant story, M. Poirot."
"It was in my mind that it might not be. Continue."
"There was a good deal of talk - about Mrs. Adams and a young artist. Then Mr. Adams shot himself. But Mrs. Adams wouldn't marry the other man and he took some kind of poison - but they pulled him through all right; and finally Mrs. Adams married a young solicitor. I believe there was more trou
ble after that, only of course we'd left Croydon Heath by then so I didn't hear very much more about it."
Hercule Poirot nodded gravely. "She was beautiful?"
"Well - not really what you'd call beautiful - But there seemed to be something about her -"
"Exactly. What is that something that they possess - the sirens of this world, the Helens of Troy, the Cleopatras -?"
Miss Lemon inserted a piece of paper vigorously into her typewriter.
"Really, M. Poirot, I've never thought about it. It seems all very silly to me. If people would just go on with their jobs and didn't think about such things it would be much better."
Having thus disposed of human frailty and passion, Miss Lemon let her fingers hover over the keys of the typewriter, waiting impatiently to be allowed to begin her work.
"That is your view," said Poirot. "And at this moment it is your desire that you should be allowed to get on with your job. But your job, Miss Lemon, is not only to ta ke down my letters, to file my papers, to deal with my telephone calls, to typewrite my letters - all these things you do admirably. But me, I deal not only with documents but with human beings. And there, too, I need assistance."
"Certainly, M. Poirot," said Miss Lemon patiently. "What is it you want me to do?"
"This case interests me. I should be glad if you would make a study of this morning's report of it in all the papers and also of any additional reports in the evening papers - make me a précis of the facts."
"Very good, M. Poirot."
Poirot withdrew to his sitting room, a rueful smile on his face.
"It is indeed the irony," he said to himself, "that after my dear friend Hastings I should have Miss Lemon. What greater contrast can one imagine? Ce cher Hastings - how he would have enjoyed himself.
How he would have walked up and down talking about it, putting the most romantic construction on every incident, believing as gospel truth every word the papers have printed about it. And my poor Miss Lemon, what I have asked her to do, she will not enjoy at all!"
Miss Lemon came to him in due course with a typewritten sheet.
"I've got the information you wanted, M. Poirot. I'm afraid though, it can't be regarded as reliable. The papers vary a good deal in their accounts. I shouldn't like to guarantee that the facts as stated are more than sixty per cent accurate."
Short Stories Page 178
