Adventure of the Christmas Pudding and other stories

by Agatha Christie

  "I believe you, Mademoiselle," said Poirot; "you have explained many things that puzzled me. Your absolute certainty, for one thing, that Charles Leverson had committed the crime and at the same time your persistent efforts to keep me from coming down here."

  Lily nodded.

  "I was afraid of you," she admitted frankly. "Lady Astwell could not know, as I did, that Charles was guilty, and I couldn't say anything. I hoped against hope that you would refuse to take the case."

  "But for that obvious anxiety on your part, I might have done so," said Poirot dryly.

  Lily looked at him swiftly, her lips trembled a little.

  "And now, M. Poirot, what - what are you going to do?"

  "As far as you are concerned, Mademoiselle, nothing. I believe your story, and I accept it. The next step is to go to London and see Inspector Miller."

  "And then?" asked Lily.

  "And then," said Poirot, "we shall see."

  Outside the door of the study he looked once more at the little square of stained green chiffon which he held in his hand.

  "Amazing," he murmured to himself complacently, "the ingenuity of Hercule Poirot."

  Detective Inspector Miller was not particularly fond of M. Hercule Poirot. He did not belong to that small band of inspectors at the Yard who welcomed the little Belgian's cooperation. He was wont to say that Hercule Poirot was much overrated. In this case he felt pretty sure of himself, and greeted Poirot with high good humor in consequence.

  "Acting for Lady Astwell, are you? Well, you have taken up a mare's nest in that case."

  "There is, then, no possible doubt about the matter?"

  Miller winked. "Never was a clearer case, short of catching a murderer absolutely red-handed."

  "M. Leverson has made a statement, I understand?"

  "He had better have kept his mouth shut," said the detective. "He repeats over and over again that he went straight up to his room and never went near his uncle. That's a fool story on the face of it."

  "It is certainly against the weight of evidence," murmured Poirot. "How does he strike you, this young M. Leverson?"

  "Darned young fool."

  "A weak character, eh?"

  The inspector nodded.

  "One would hardly think a young man of that type would have the - how do you say it - the bowels to commit such a crime."

  "On the face of it, no," agreed the inspector. "But, bless you, I have come across the same thing many times. Get a weak, dissipated young man into a corner, fill him up with a drop too much to drink, and for a limited amount of time you can turn him into a fire-eater. A weak man in a corner is more dangerous than a strong man."

  "That is true, yes; that is true what you say."

  Miller unbent a little further.

  "Of course, it is all right for you, M. Poirot," he said. "You get your fees just the same, and naturally you have to make a pretense of examining the evidence to satisfy her Ladyship. I can understand all that."

  "You understand such interesting things," murmured Poirot, and took his leave.

  His next call was upon the solicitor representing Charles Leverson. Mr Mayhew was a thin, dry, cautious gentleman. He received Poirot with reserve. Poirot, however, had his own ways of inducing confidence. In ten minutes' time the two were talking together amicably.

  "You will understand," said Poirot, "I am acting in this case solely on behalf of M. Leverson. That is Lady Astwell's wish. She is convinced that he is not guilty."

  "Yes, yes, quite so," said Mr Mayhew without enthusiasm. Poirot's eyes twinkled. "You do not perhaps attach much importance to the opinions, of Lady Astwell?" he suggested.

  "She might be just as sure of his guilt tomorrow," said the lawyer dryly.

  "Her intuitions are not evidence certainly," agreed Poirot, "and on the face of it the case looks very black against this poor young man."

  "It is a pity he said what he did to the police," said the lawyer; "it will be no good his sticking to that story."

  "Has he stuck to it with you?" inquired Poirot.

  Mayhew nodded. "It never varies an iota. He repeats it like a parrot."

  "And that is what destroys your faith in him," mused the other. "Ah, don't deny it," he added quickly, holding up an arresting hand. "I see it only too plainly. In your heart you believe him guilty. But listen now to me, to me, Hercule Poirot. I present to you a case.

  "This young man comes home, he has drunk the cocktail, the cocktail, and again the cocktail, also without doubt the English whisky and soda many times. He is full of, what you call it? the courage Dutch, and in that mood he lets himself into the house with his latchkey, and he goes with unsteady steps up to the Tower room. He looks in at the door and sees in the dim light his uncle, apparently bending over the desk.

  "M. Leverson is full, as we have said, of the courage Dutch. He lets himself go, he tells his uncle just what he thinks of him. He defies him, he insults him, and the more his uncle does not answer back, the more he is encouraged to go on, to repeat himself, to say the same thing over and over again, and each time more loudly. But at last the continued silence of his uncle awakens an apprehension. He goes nearer to him, he lays his hand on his uncle's shoulder, and his uncle's figure crumples under his touch and sinks in a heap to the ground.

  "He is sobered, then, this M. Leverson. The chair falls with a crash, and he bends over Sir Reuben. He realizes what has happened, he looks at his hand covered with something warm and red. He is in a panic then, he would give anything on earth to recall the cry which has just sprung from his lips, echoing through the house. Mechanically he picks up the chair, then he hastens out through the door and listens. He fancies he hears a sound, and immediately, automatically, he pretends to be speaking to his uncle through the open door.

  "The sound is not repeated. He is convinced he has been mistaken in thinking he heard one. Now all is silence, he creeps up to his room, and at once it occurs to him how much better it will be if he pretends never to have been near his uncle that night. So he tells his story. Parsons at that time, remember, has said nothing of what he heard. When he does do so, it is too late for M. Leverson to change. He is stupid, and he is obstinate, he sticks to his story. Tell me, Monsieur, is that not possible?"

  "Yes," said the lawyer, "I suppose in the way you put it that it is possible."

  Poirot rose to his feet.

  "You have the privilege of seeing M. Leverson," he said. "Put to him the story I have told you, and ask him if it is not true."

  Outside the lawyer's office, Poirot hailed a taxi.

  "348 Harley Street," he murmured to the driver.

  Poirot's departure for London had taken Lady Astwell by surprise, for the little man had not made any mention of what he proposed doing. On his return, after an absence of twenty-four hours, he was informed by Parsons that Lady Astwell would like to see him as soon as possible. Poirot found the lady in her own boudoir. She was lying down on the divan, her head propped up by cushions, and she looked startlingly ill and haggard; far more so than she had done on the day Poirot arrived.

  "So you have come back, M. Poirot?"

  "I have returned, milady."

  "You went to London?"

  Poirot nodded.

  "You didn't tell me you were going," said Lady Astwell sharply.

  "A thousand apologies, milady, I am in error, I should have done so. La prochaine fois -"

  "You will do exactly the same," interrupted Lady Astwell with a shrewd touch of humor. "Do things first and tell people afterward, that is your motto right enough."

  "Perhaps it has also been milady's motto?" His eyes twinkled.

  "Now and then, perhaps," admitted the other. "What did you go up to London for, M. Poirot? You can tell me now, I suppose?"

  "I had an interview with the good Inspector Miller, and also with the excellent Mr Mayhew."

  Lady Astwell's eyes searched his face.

  "And you think, now -?" she said slowly.

  Poirot's eye
s were fixed on her steadily.

  "That there is a possibility of Charles Leverson's innocence," he said gravely.

  "Ah!" Lady Astwell moved suddenly, sending two cushions rolling to the ground. "I was right, then, I was right!"

  "I said a possibility, Madame, that is all."

  Something in his tone seemed to strike her. She raised herself on one elbow and regarded him piercingly.

  "Can I do anything?" she asked.

  "Yes," he nodded his head, "you can tell me, Lady Astwell, why you suspect Owen Trefusis."

  "I have told you I know - that's all."

  "Unfortunately that is not enough," said Poirot dryly. "Cast your mind back to the fatal evening, milady. Remember each detail, each tiny happening. What did you notice or observe about the secretary? I, Hercule Poirot, tell you there must have been something."

  Lady Astwell shook her head.

  "I hardly noticed him at all that evening," she said, "and I certainly was not thinking of him."

  "Your mind was taken up by something else?"

  "Yes."

  "With your husband's animus against Miss Lily Margrave?"

  "That's right," said Lady Astwell, nodding her head; "you seem to know all about it, M. Poirot."

  "Me, I know everything," declared the little man with an absurdly grandiose air.

  "I am fond of Lily, M. Poirot; you have seen that for yourself. Reuben began kicking up a rumpus about some reference or other of hers. Mind you, I don't say she hadn't cheated about it. She had. But, bless you, I have done many worse things than that in the old days. You have got to be up to all sorts of tricks to get around theatrical managers. There is nothing I wouldn't have written, or said, or done, in my time.

  "Lily wanted this job, and she put in a lot of slick work that was not quite - well, quite the thing, you know. Men are so stupid about that sort of thing; Lily really might have been a bank clerk absconding with millions for the fuss he made about it. I was terribly worried all the evening, because, although I could usually get round Reuben in the end, he was terribly pigheaded at times, poor darling. So of course I hadn't time to go noticing secretaries, not that one does notice M. Trefusis much, anyway. He is just there and that's all there is to it."

  "I have noticed that fact about M. Trefusis," said Poirot. "His is not a personality that stands forth, that shines, that hits you cr-r-rack."

  "No," said Lady Astwell, "he is not like Victor."

  "M. Victor Astwell is, I should say, explosive."

  "That is a splendid word for him," said Lady Astwell. "He explodes all over the house, like one of those thingamy-jig firework things."

  "A somewhat quick temper, I should imagine?" suggested Poirot.

  "Oh, he's a perfect devil when roused," said Lady Astwell, "but bless you, I'm not afraid of him. All bark and no bite to Victor."

  Poirot looked at the ceiling.

  "And you can tell me nothing about the secretary that evening?" he murmured gently.

  "I tell you, M. Poirot, I know. It's intuition. A woman's intuition -"

  "Will not hang a man," said Poirot, "and what is more to the point, it will not save a man from being hanged. Lady Astwell, if you sincerely believe that M. Leverson is innocent, and that your suspicions of the secretary are well-founded, will you consent to a little experiment?"

  "What kind of an experiment?" demanded Lady Astwell suspiciously.

  "Will you permit yourself to be put into a condition of hypnosis?"

  "Whatever for?"

  Poirot leaned forward.

  "If I were to tell you, Madame, that your intuition is based on certain facts recorded subconsciously, you would probably be skeptical. I will only say, then, that this experiment I propose may be of great importance to that unfortunate young man, Charles Leverson. You will not refuse?"

  "Who is going to put me into a trance?" demanded Lady Astwell suspiciously. "You?"

  "A friend of mine, Lady Astwell, arrives, if I mistake not, at this very minute. I hear the wheels of the car outside."

  "Who is he?"

  "A Doctor Cazalet of Harley Street."

  "Is he - all right?" asked Lady Astwell apprehensively.

  "He is not a quack, Madame, if that is what you mean. You can trust yourself in his hands quite safely."

  "Well," said Lady Astwell with a sigh, "I think it is all bunkum, but you can try if you like. Nobody is going to say that I stood in your way."

  "A thousand thanks, milady."

  Poirot hurried from the room. In a few minutes he returned ushering in a cheerful, round-faced little man, with spectacles, who was very upsetting to Lady Astwell's conception of what a hypnotist should look like. Poirot introduced them.

  "Well," said Lady Astwell good-humoredly, "how do we start this tomfoolery?"

  "Quite simple, Lady Astwell, quite simple," said the little doctor. "Just lean back, so - that's right, that's right. No need to be uneasy."

  "I am not in the least uneasy," said Lady Astwell. "I should like to see anyone hypnotizing me against my will."

  Doctor Cazalet smiled broadly.

  "Yes, but if you consent, it won't be against your will, will it?" he said cheerfully. "That's right. Turn off that other light, will you, M. Poirot? Just let yourself go to sleep, Lady Astwell."

  He shifted his position a little.

  "It's getting late. You are sleepy - very sleepy. Your eyelids are heavy, they are closing - closing - closing. Soon you will be asleep..."

  His voice droned on, low, soothing, and monotonous. Presently he leaned forward and gently lifted Lady Astwell's right eyelid. Then he turned to Poirot, nodding in a satisfied manner.

  "That's all right," he said in a low voice. "Shall I go ahead?"

  "If you please."

  The doctor spoke out sharply and authoritatively: "You are asleep, Lady Astwell, but you hear me, and you can answer my questions."

  Without stirring or raising an eyelid, the motionless figure on the sofa replied in a low, monotonous voice:

  "I hear you. I can answer your questions."

  "Lady Astwell, I want you to go back to the evening on which your husband was murdered. You remember that evening?"

  "Yes."

  "You are at the dinner table. Describe to me what you saw and felt."

  The prone figure stirred a little restlessly.

  "I am in great distress. I am worried about Lily."

  "We know that; tell us what you saw."

  "Victor is eating all the salted almonds; he is greedy. Tomorrow I shall tell Parsons not to put the dish on that side of the table."

  "Go on. Lady Astwell."

  "Reuben is in a bad humor tonight. I don’t think it is altogether about Lily. It is something to do with business. Victor looks at him in a queer way."

  "Tell us about Mr Trefusis, Lady Astwell."

  "His left shirt cuff is frayed. He puts a lot of grease on his hair. I wish men didn't, it ruins the covers in the drawing-room."

  Cazalet looked at Poirot; the other made a motion with his head.

  "It is after dinner, Lady Astwell, you are having coffee. Describe the scene to me."

  "The coffee is good tonight. It varies. Cook is very unreliable over her coffee. Lily keeps looking out of the window, I don't know why. Now, Reuben comes into the room; he is in one of his worst moods tonight, and bursts out with a perfect flood of abuse to poor Mr Trefusis. Mr Trefusis has his hand round the paper-knife, the big one with the sharp blade like a knife. How hard he is grasping it; his knuckles are quite white. Look, he has dug it so hard in the table that the point snaps. He holds it just as you would hold a dagger you were going to stick into someone. There, they have gone out together now. Lily has got her green evening dress on; she looks so pretty in green, just like a lily. I must have the covers cleaned next week."

  "Just a minute, Lady Astwell."

  The doctor leaned across to Poirot.

  "We have got it, I think," he murmured; "that action with the paper-knife, that'
s what convinced her that the secretary did the thing."

  "Let us go on to the Tower room now."

  The doctor nodded, and began once more to question Lady Astwell in his high, decisive voice.

  "It is later in the evening; you are in the Tower room with your husband. You and he have had a terrible scene together, have you not?"

  Again the figure stirred uneasily.

  "Yes - terrible - terrible. We said dreadful things - both of us."

  "Never mind that now. You can see the room clearly, the curtains were drawn, the lights were on."

  "Not the middle light, only the desk light."

  "You are leaving your husband now, you are saying good night to him."

  "No, I was too angry."

  "It is the last time you will see him; very soon he will be murdered. Do you know who murdered him, Lady Astwell?"

  "Yes. Mr Trefusis."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because of the bulge - the bulge in the curtain."

  "There was a bulge in the curtain?"

  "Yes."

  "You saw it?"

  "Yes. I almost touched it."

  "Was there a man concealed there - Mr Trefusis?"

  "Yes."

  "How do you know?"

  For the first time the monotonous answering voice hesitated and lost confidence.

  "I - I - because of the paper-knife."

  Poirot and the doctor again interchanged swift glances.

  "I don't understand you, Lady Astwell. There was a bulge in the curtain, you say? Someone concealed there? You didn't see that person?"

  "No."

  "You thought it was Mr Trefusis because of the way he held the paper-knife earlier?"

  "Yes."

  "But Mr Trefusis had gone upstairs, had he not?"

  "Yes - yes, that's right, he had gone upstairs."

  "So he couldn't have been behind the curtain in the window?"

  "No - no, of course not, he wasn't there."

  "He had said good night to your husband some time before, hadn't he?"

  "Yes."

  "And you didn't see him again?"

  "No."

  She was stirring now, throwing herself about, moaning faintly.

  "She is coming out," said the doctor. "Well, I think we have got all we can, eh?"