Hercule Poirot- the Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  “No, as a matter of fact, I never came across Allen.”

  “But you know something about him?”

  “Heard he was by way of being a bad hat. Of course, that was only rumour.”

  “Mrs. Allen did not say anything?”

  “Never talked about him.”

  “You were on intimate terms with her?”

  Major Eustace shrugged his shoulders.

  “We were old friends, you know, old friends. But we didn’t see each other very often.”

  “But you did see her that last evening? The evening of November fifth?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”

  “You called at her house, I think.”

  Major Eustace nodded. His voice took on a gentle, regretful note.

  “Yes, she asked me to advise her about some investments. Of course, I can see what you’re driving at—her state of mind—all that sort of thing. Well, really, it’s very difficult to say. Her manner seemed normal enough and yet she was a bit jumpy, come to think of it.”

  “But she gave you no hint as to what she contemplated doing?”

  “Not the least in the world. As a matter of fact, when I said goodbye I said I’d ring her up soon and we’d do a show together.”

  “You said you’d ring her up. Those were your last words?”

  “Yes.”

  “Curious. I have information that you said something quite different.”

  Eustace changed colour.

  “Well, of course, I can’t remember the exact words.”

  “My information is that what you actually said was, ‘Well, think it over and let me know.’ ”

  “Let me see, yes I believe you’re right. Not exactly that. I think I was suggesting she should let me know when she was free.”

  “Not quite the same thing, is it?” said Japp.

  Major Eustace shrugged his shoulders.

  “My dear fellow, you can’t expect a man to remember word for word what he said on any given occasion.”

  “And what did Mrs. Allen reply?”

  “She said she’d give me a ring. That is, as near as I can remember.”

  “And then you said, ‘All right. So long.’ ”

  “Probably. Something of the kind anyway.”

  Japp said quietly:

  “You say that Mrs. Allen asked you to advise her about her investments. Did she, by any chance, entrust you with the sum of two hundred pounds in cash to invest for her?”

  Eustace’s face flushed a dark purple. He leaned forward and growled out:

  “What the devil do you mean by that?”

  “Did she or did she not?”

  “That’s my business, Mr. Chief Inspector.”

  Japp said quietly:

  “Mrs. Allen drew out the sum of two hundred pounds in cash from her bank. Some of the money was in five-pound notes. The numbers of these can, of course, be traced.”

  “What if she did?”

  “Was the money for investment—or was it—blackmail, Major Eustace?”

  “That’s a preposterous idea. What next will you suggest?”

  Japp said in his most official manner:

  “I think, Major Eustace, that at this point I must ask you if you are willing to come to Scotland Yard and make a statement. There is, of course, no compulsion and you can, if you prefer it, have your solicitor present.”

  “Solicitor? What the devil should I want with a solicitor? And what are you cautioning me for?”

  “I am inquiring into the circumstances of the death of Mrs. Allen.”

  “Good God, man, you don’t suppose—Why, that’s nonsense! Look here, what happened was this. I called round to see Barbara by appointment. . . .”

  “That was at what time?”

  “At about half past nine, I should say. We sat and talked. . . .”

  “And smoked?”

  “Yes, and smoked. Anything damaging in that?” demanded the major belligerently.

  “Where did this conversation take place?”

  “In the sitting room. Left of the door as you go in. We talked together quite amicably, as I say. I left a little before half past ten. I stayed for a minute on the doorstep for a few last words. . . .”

  “Last words—precisely,” murmured Poirot.

  “Who are you, I’d like to know?” Eustace turned and spart the words at him. “Some kind of damned dago! What are you butting in for?”

  “I am Hercule Poirot,” said the little man with dignity.

  “I don’t care if you are the Achilles statue. As I say, Barbara and I parted quite amicably. I drove straight to the Far East Club. Got there at five and twenty to eleven and went straight up to the card-room. Stayed there playing bridge until one thirty. Now then, put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

  “I do not smoke the pipe,” said Poirot. “It is a pretty alibi you have there.”

  “It should be a pretty cast iron one anyway! Now then, sir,” he looked at Japp. “Are you satisfied?”

  “You remained in the sitting room throughout your visit?”

  “Yes.”

  “You did not go upstairs to Mrs. Allen’s own boudoir?”

  “No, I tell you. We stayed in the one room and didn’t leave it.”

  Japp looked at him thoughtfully for a minute or two. Then he said:

  “How many sets of cuff links have you?”

  “Cuff links? Cuff links? What’s that got to do with it?”

  “You are not bound to answer the question, of course.”

  “Answer it? I don’t mind answering it. I’ve got nothing to hide. And I shall demand an apology. There are these . . .” he stretched out his arms.

  Japp noted the gold and platinum with a nod.

  “And I’ve got these.”

  He rose, opened a drawer and taking out a case, he opened it and shoved it rudely almost under Japp’s nose.

  “Very nice design,” said the chief inspector. “I see one is broken—bit of enamel chipped off.”

  “What of it?”

  “You don’t remember when that happened, I suppose?”

  “A day or two ago, not longer.”

  “Would you be surprised to hear that it happened when you were visiting Mrs. Allen?”

  “Why shouldn’t it? I’ve not denied that I was there.” The major spoke haughtily. He continued to bluster, to act the part of the justly indignant man, but his hands were trembling.

  Japp leaned forward and said with emphasis:

  “Yes, but that bit of cuff link wasn’t found in the sitting room. It was found upstairs in Mrs. Allen’s boudoir—there in the room where she was killed, and where a man sat smoking the same kind of cigarettes as you smoke.”

  The shot told. Eustace fell back into his chair. His eyes went from side to side. The collapse of the bully and the appearance of the craven was not a pretty sight.

  “You’ve got nothing on me.” His voice was almost a whine. “You’re trying to frame me . . . But you can’t do it. I’ve got an alibi . . . I never came near the house again that night. . . .”

  Poirot in his turn, spoke.

  “No, you did not come near the house again . . . You did not need to . . . For perhaps Mrs. Allen was already dead when you left it.”

  “That’s impossible—impossible—She was just inside the door—she spoke to me—People must have heard her—seen her. . . .”

  Poirot said softly:

  “They heard you speaking to her . . . and pretending to wait for her answer and then speaking again . . . It is an old trick that . . . People may have assumed she was there, but they did not see her, because they could not even say whether she was wearing evening dress or not—not even mention what colour she was wearing. . . .”

  “My God—it isn’t true—it isn’t true—”

  He was shaking now—collapsed. . . .

  Japp looked at him with disgust. He spoke crisply.

  “I’ll have to ask you, sir, to come with me.”

  “
You’re arresting me?”

  “Detained for inquiry—we’ll put it that way.”

  The silence was broken with a long, shuddering sigh. The despairing voice of the erstwhile blustering Major Eustace said:

  “I’m sunk. . . .”

  Hercule Poirot rubbed his hands together and smiled cheerfully. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

  XII

  “Pretty the way he went all to pieces,” said Japp with professional appreciation, later that day.

  He and Poirot were driving in a car along the Brompton Road.

  “He knew the game was up,” said Poirot absently.

  “We’ve got plenty on him,” said Japp. “Two or three different aliases, a tricky business over a cheque, and a very nice affair when he stayed at the Ritz and called himself Colonel de Bathe. Swindled half a dozen Piccadilly tradesmen. We’re holding him on that charge for the moment—until we get this affair finally squared up. What’s the idea of this rush to the country, old man?”

  “My friend, an affair must be rounded off properly. Everything must be explained. I am on the quest of the mystery you suggested. The Mystery of the Missing Attaché Case.”

  “The Mystery of the Small Attaché Case—that’s what I called it—It isn’t missing that I know of.”

  “Wait, mon ami.”

  The car turned into the mews. At the door of No. 14, Jane Plenderleith was just alighting from a small Austin Seven. She was in golfing clothes.

  She looked from one to the other of the two men, then produced a key and opened the door.

  “Come in, won’t you?”

  She led the way. Japp followed her into the sitting room. Poirot remained for a minute or two in the hall, muttering something about:

  “C’est embêtant—how difficult to get out of these sleeves.”

  In a moment or two he also entered the sitting room minus his overcoat but Japp’s lips twitched under his moustache. He had heard the very faint squeak of an opening cupboard door.

  Japp threw Poirot an inquiring glance and the other gave a hardly perceptible nod.

  “We won’t detain you, Miss Plenderleith,” said Japp briskly.

  “Only came to ask if you could tell us the name of Mrs. Allen’s solicitor.”

  “Her solicitor?” The girl shook her head. “I don’t even know that she had one.”

  “Well, when she rented this house with you, someone must have drawn up the agreement?”

  “No, I don’t think so. You see, I took the house, the lease is in my name. Barbara paid me half the rent. It was quite informal.”

  “I see. Oh! well, I suppose there’s nothing doing then.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” said Jane politely.

  “It doesn’t really matter very much.” Japp turned towards the door. “Been playing golf?”

  “Yes.” She flushed. “I suppose it seems rather heartless to you. But as a matter of fact it got me down rather, being here in this house. I felt I must go out and do something—tire myself—or I’d choke!”

  She spoke with intensity.

  Poirot said quickly:

  “I comprehend, mademoiselle. It is most understandable—most natural. To sit in this house and think—no, it would not be pleasant.”

  “So long as you understand,” said Jane shortly.

  “You belong to a club?”

  “Yes, I play at Wentworth.”

  “It has been a pleasant day,” said Poirot.

  “Alas, there are few leaves left on the trees now! A week ago the woods were magnificent.”

  “It was quite lovely today.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Plenderleith,” said Japp formally. “I’ll let you know when there’s anything definite. As a matter of fact we have got a man detained on suspicion.”

  “What man?”

  She looked at them eagerly.

  “Major Eustace.”

  She nodded and turned away, stooping down to put a match to the fire.

  “Well?” said Japp as the car turned the corner of the mews.

  Poirot grinned.

  “It was quite simple. The key was in the door this time.”

  “And—?”

  Poirot smiled.

  “Eh, bien, the golf clubs had gone—”

  “Naturally. The girl isn’t a fool, whatever else she is. Anything else gone?”

  Poirot nodded his head.

  “Yes, my friend—the little attaché case!”

  The accelerator leaped under Japp’s foot.

  “Damnation!” he said. “I knew there was something. But what the devil is it? I searched that case pretty thoroughly.”

  “My poor Japp—but it is—how do you say, ‘obvious, my dear Watson?’ ”

  Japp threw him an exasperated look.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  Poirot consulted his watch.

  “It is not yet four o’clock. We could get to Wentworth, I think, before it is dark.”

  “Do you think she really went there?”

  “I think so—yes. She would know that we might make inquiries. Oh, yes, I think we will find that she has been there.”

  Japp grunted.

  “Oh well, come on.” He threaded his way dexterously through the traffic. “Though what this attaché case business has to do with the crime I can’t imagine. I can’t see that it’s got anything at all to do with it.”

  “Precisely, my friend, I agree with you—it has nothing to do with it.”

  “Then why—No, don’t tell me! Order and method and everything nicely rounded off! Oh, well, it’s a fine day.”

  The car was a fast one. They arrived at Wentworth Golf Club a little after half past four. There was no great congestion there on a week day.

  Poirot went straight to the caddie-master and asked for Miss Plenderleith’s clubs. She would be playing on a different course tomorrow, he explained.

  The caddie master raised his voice and a boy sorted through some golf clubs standing in a corner. He finally produced a bag bearing the initials, J.P.

  “Thank you,” said Poirot. He moved away, then turned carelessly and asked, “She did not leave with you a small attaché case also, did she?”

  “Not today, sir. May have left it in the clubhouse.”

  “She was down here today?”

  “Oh, yes, I saw her.”

  “Which caddie did she have, do you know? She’s mislaid an attaché case and can’t remember where she had it last.”

  “She didn’t take a caddie. She came in here and bought a couple of balls. Just took out a couple of irons. I rather fancy she had a little case in her hand then.”

  Poirot turned away with a word of thanks. The two men walked round the clubhouse. Poirot stood a moment admiring the view.

  “It is beautiful, is it not, the dark pine trees—and then the lake. Yes, the lake—”

  Japp gave him a quick glance.

  “That’s the idea, is it?”

  Poirot smiled.

  “I think it possible that someone may have seen something. I should set the inquiries in motion if I were you.”

  XIII

  Poirot stepped back, his head a little on one side as he surveyed the arrangement of the room. A chair here—another chair there. Yes, that was very nice. And now a ring at the bell—that would be Japp.

  The Scotland Yard man came in alertly.

  “Quite right, old cock! Straight from the horse’s mouth. A young woman was seen to throw something into the lake at Wentworth yesterday. Description of her answers to Jane Plenderleith. We managed to fish it up without much difficulty. A lot of reeds just there.”

  “And it was?”

  “It was the attaché case all right! But why, in heaven’s name? Well, it beats me! Nothing inside it—not even the magazines. Why a presumably sane young woman should want to fling an expensively-fitted dressing case into a lake—d’you know, I worried all night because I couldn’t get the hang of it.”

  “Mon pauvre
Japp! But you need worry no longer. Here is the answer coming. The bell has just rung.”

  Georges, Poirot’s immaculate manservant, opened the door and announced:

  “Miss Plenderleith.”

  The girl came into the room with her usual air of complete self-assurance. She greeted the two men.

  “I asked you to come here—” explained Poirot. “Sit here, will you not, and you here, Japp—because I have certain news to give you.”

  The girl sat down. She looked from one to the other, pushing aside her hat. She took it off and laid it aside impatiently.

  “Well,” she said. “Major Eustace has been arrested.”

  “You saw that, I expect, in the morning paper?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is at the moment charged with a minor offence,” went on Poirot. “In the meantime we are gathering evidence in connection with the murder.”

  “It was murder, then?”

  The girl asked it eagerly.

  Poirot nodded his head.

  “Yes,” he said. “It was murder. The wilful destruction of one human being by another human being.”

  She shivered a little.

  “Don’t,” she murmured. “It sounds horrible when you say it like that.”

  “Yes—but it is horrible!”

  He paused—then he said:

  “Now, Miss Plenderleith, I am going to tell you just how I arrived at the truth in this matter.”

  She looked from Poirot to Japp. The latter was smiling.

  “He has his methods, Miss Plenderleith,” he said. “I humour him, you know. I think we’ll listen to what he has to say.”

  Poirot began:

  “As you know, mademoiselle, I arrived with my friend at the scene of the crime on the morning of November the sixth. We went into the room where the body of Mrs. Allen had been found and I was struck at once by several significant details. There were things, you see, in that room that were decidedly odd.”

  “Go on,” said the girl.

  “To begin with,” said Poirot, “there was the smell of cigarette smoke.”

  “I think you’re exaggerating there, Poirot,” said Japp. “I didn’t smell anything.”

  Poirot turned on him in a flash.

  “Precisely. You did not smell any stale smoke. No more did I. And that was very, very strange—for the door and the window were both closed and on an ashtray there were the stubs of no fewer than ten cigarettes. It was odd, very odd, that the room should smell—as it did, perfectly fresh.”