Hercule Poirot- the Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  “You are aware that Diana Maberly’s engagement to Hugh Chandler has been broken off?”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “And you know the reason for it?”

  Frobisher replied stiffly:

  “I don’t know anything about that. Young people manage these things between them. Not my business to butt in.”

  Poirot said:

  “Hugh Chandler told Diana that it was not right that they should marry, because he was going out of his mind.”

  He saw the beads of perspiration break out on Frobisher’s forehead. He said:

  “Have we got to talk about the damned thing? What do you think you can do? Hugh’s done the right thing, poor devil. It’s not his fault, it’s heredity—germ plasm—brain cells . . . But once he knew, well, what else could he do but break the engagement? It’s one of those things that just has to be done.”

  “If I could be convinced of that—”

  “You can take it from me.”

  “But you have told me nothing.”

  “I tell you I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Why did Admiral Chandler force his son to leave the Navy?”

  “Because it was the only thing to be done.”

  “Why?”

  Frobisher shook an obstinate head.

  Poirot murmured softly:

  “Was it to do with some sheep being killed?”

  The other man said angrily:

  “So you’ve heard about that?”

  “Diana told me.”

  “That girl had far better keep her mouth shut.”

  “She did not think it was conclusive.”

  “She doesn’t know.”

  “What doesn’t she know?”

  Unwillingly, jerkily, angrily, Frobisher spoke:

  “Oh well, if you must have it . . . Chandler heard a noise that night. Thought it might be someone got in the house. Went out to investigate. Light in the boy’s room. Chandler went in. Hugh asleep on bed—dead asleep—in his clothes. Blood on the clothes. Basin in the room full of blood. His father couldn’t wake him. Next morning heard about sheep being found with their throats cut. Questioned Hugh. Boy didn’t know anything about it. Didn’t remember going out—and his shoes found by the side door caked in mud. Couldn’t explain the blood in the basin. Couldn’t explain anything. Poor devil didn’t know, you understand.

  “Charles came to me, talked it over. What was the best thing to be done? Then it happened again—three nights later. After that—well, you can see for yourself. The boy had got to leave the service. If he was here, under Charles’ eye, Charles could watch over him. Couldn’t afford to have a scandal in the Navy. Yes, it was the only thing to be done.”

  Poirot asked: “And since then?”

  Frobisher said fiercely, “I’m not answering any more questions. Don’t you think Hugh knows his own business best?”

  Hercule Poirot did not answer. He was always loath to admit that anyone could know better than Hercule Poirot.

  III

  As they came into the hall, they met Admiral Chandler coming in. He stood for a moment, a dark figure silhouetted against the bright light outside.

  He said in a low, gruff voice:

  “Oh there you both are. M. Poirot, I would like a word with you. Come into my study.”

  Frobisher went out through the open door, and Poirot followed the Admiral. He had rather the feeling of having been summoned to the quarterdeck to give an account of himself.

  The Admiral motioned Poirot to take one of the big easy chairs and himself sat down in the other. Poirot, whilst with Frobisher, had been impressed by the other’s restlessness, nervousness and irritability—all the signs of intense mental strain. With Admiral Chandler he felt a sense of hopelessness, of quiet, deep despair. . . .

  With a deep sigh, Chandler said: “I can’t help being sorry Diana has brought you into this . . . Poor child, I know how hard it is for her. But—well—it is our own private tragedy, and I think you will understand, M. Poirot, that we don’t want outsiders.”

  “I can understand your feeling, certainly.”

  “Diana, poor child, can’t believe it . . . I couldn’t at first. Probably wouldn’t believe it now if I didn’t know—”

  He paused.

  “Know what?”

  “That it’s in the blood. The taint, I mean.”

  “And yet you agreed to the engagement?”

  Admiral Chandler flushed.

  “You mean, I should have put my foot down then? But at the time I’d no idea. Hugh takes after his mother—nothing about him to remind you of the Chandlers. I hoped he’d taken after her in every way. From his childhood upwards, there’s never been a trace of abnormality about him until now. I couldn’t know that—dash it all, there’s a trace of insanity in nearly every old family!”

  Poirot said softly: “You have not consulted a doctor?”

  Chandler roared: “No, and I’m not going to! The boy’s safe enough here with me to look after him. They shan’t shut him up between four walls like a wild beast. . . .”

  “He is safe here, you say. But are others safe?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Poirot did not reply. He looked steadily into Admiral Chandler’s sad, dark eyes.

  The Admiral said bitterly:

  “Each man to his trade. You’re looking for a criminal! My boy’s not a criminal, M. Poirot.”

  “Not yet.”

  “What do you mean by ‘not yet?’ ”

  “These things increase . . . Those sheep—”

  “Who told you about the sheep?”

  “Diana Maberly. And also your friend Colonel Frobisher.”

  “George would have done better to keep his mouth shut.”

  “He is a very old friend of yours is he not?”

  “My best friend,” the Admiral said gruffly.

  “And he was a friend of—your wife’s too?”

  Chandler smiled.

  “Yes. George was in love with Caroline, I believe. When she was very young. He’s never married. I believe that’s the reason. Ah well, I was the lucky one—or so I thought. I carried her off—only to lose her.”

  He sighed and his shoulders sagged.

  Poirot said: “Colonel Frobisher was with you when your wife was—drowned?”

  Chandler nodded.

  “Yes, he was with us down in Cornwall when it happened. She and I were out in the boat together—he happened to stay at home that day. I’ve never understood how that boat came to capsize . . . Must have sprung a sudden leak. We were right out in the bay—strong tide running. I held her up as long as I could . . .” His voice broke. “Her body was washed up two days later. Thank the Lord we hadn’t taken little Hugh out with us! At least, that’s what I thought at the time. Now—well—better for Hugh, poor devil, perhaps, if he had been with us. If it had all been finished and done for then. . . .”

  Again there came that deep, hopeless sigh.

  “We’re the last of the Chandlers, M. Poirot. There will be no more Chandlers at Lyde after we’re gone. When Hugh got engaged to Diana, I hoped—well, it’s no good talking of that. Thank God, they didn’t marry. That’s all I can say!”

  IV

  Hercule Poirot sat on a seat in the rose garden. Beside him sat Hugh Chandler. Diana Maberly had just left them.

  The young man turned a handsome, tortured face towards his companion.

  He said:

  “You’ve got to make her understand, M. Poirot.”

  He paused for a minute and then went on:

  “You see, Di’s a fighter. She won’t give in. She won’t accept what she’s darned well got to accept. She—she will go on believing that I’m—sane.”

  “While you yourself are quite certain that you are—pardon me—insane?”

  The young man winced. He said:

  “I’m not actually hopelessly off my head yet—but it’s getting worse. Diana doesn’t know, bless her. She’s only seen
me when I am—all right.”

  “And when you are—all wrong, what happens?”

  Hugh Chandler took a long breath. Then he said:

  “For one thing—I dream. And when I dream, I am mad. Last night, for instance—I wasn’t a man any longer. I was first of all a bull—a mad bull—racing about in blazing sunlight—tasting dust and blood in my mouth—dust and blood . . . And then I was a dog—a great slavering dog. I had hydrophobia—children scattered and fled as I came—men tried to shoot me—someone set down a great bowl of water for me and I couldn’t drink. I couldn’t drink. . . .”

  He paused. “I woke up. And I knew it was true. I went over to the washstand. My mouth was parched—horribly parched—and dry. I was thirsty. But I couldn’t drink, M. Poirot . . . I couldn’t swallow . . . Oh, my God, I wasn’t able to drink. . . .”

  Hercule Poirot made a gentle murmur. Hugh Chandler went on. His hands were clenched on his knees. His face was thrust forward, his eyes were half closed as though he saw something coming towards him.

  “And there are things that aren’t dreams. Things that I see when I’m wide awake. Spectres, frightful shapes. They leer at me. And sometimes I’m able to fly, to leave my bed, and fly through the air, to ride the winds—and fiends bear me company!”

  “Tcha, tcha,” said Hercule Poirot.

  It was a gentle, deprecating little noise.

  Hugh Chandler turned to him.

  “Oh, there isn’t any doubt. It’s in my blood. It’s my family heritage. I can’t escape. Thank God I found it out in time! Before I’d married Diana. Suppose we’d had a child and handed on this frightful thing to him!”

  He laid a hand on Poirot’s arm.

  “You must make her understand. You must tell her. She’s got to forget. She’s got to. There will be someone else someday. There’s young Steve Graham—he’s crazy about her and he’s an awfully good chap. She’d be happy with him—and safe. I want her—to be happy. Graham’s hard up, of course, and so are her people, but when I’m gone they’ll be all right.”

  Hercule’s voice interrupted him.

  “Why will they be ‘all right’ when you are gone?”

  Hugh Chandler smiled. It was a gentle, lovable smile. He said:

  “There’s my mother’s money. She was an heiress, you know. It came to me. I’ve left it all to Diana.”

  Hercule Poirot sat back in his chair. He said: “Ah!”

  Then he said:

  “But you may live to be quite an old man, Mr. Chandler.”

  Hugh Chandler shook his head. He said sharply:

  “No, M. Poirot. I am not going to live to be an old man.”

  Then he drew back with a sudden shudder.

  “My God! Look!” He stared over Poirot’s shoulder. “There—standing by you . . . it’s a skeleton—its bones are shaking. It’s calling to me—beckoning—”

  His eyes, the pupils widely dilated, stared into the sunshine. He leaned suddenly sideways as though collapsing.

  Then, turning to Poirot, he said in an almost childlike voice:

  “You didn’t see—anything?”

  Slowly, Hercule Poirot shook his head.

  Hugh Chandler said hoarsely:

  “I don’t mind this so much—seeing things. It’s the blood I’m frightened of. The blood in my room—on my clothes . . . We had a parrot. One morning it was there in my room with its throat cut—and I was lying on the bed with the razor in my hand wet with its blood!”

  He leant closer to Poirot.

  “Even just lately things have been killed,” he whispered. “All around—in the village—out on the downs. Sheep, young lambs—a collie dog. Father locks me in at night, but sometimes—sometimes—the door’s open in the morning. I must have a key hidden somewhere but I don’t know where I’ve hidden it. I don’t know. It isn’t I who do these things—it’s someone else who comes into me—who takes possession of me—who turns me from a man into a raving monster who wants blood and who can’t drink water. . . .”

  Suddenly he buried his face in his hands.

  After a minute or two, Poirot asked:

  “I still do not understand why you have not seen a doctor?”

  Hugh Chandler shook his head. He said:

  “Don’t you really understand? Physically I’m strong. I’m as strong as a bull. I might live for years—years—shut up between four walls! That I can’t face! It would be better to go out altogether . . . There are ways, you know. An accident, cleaning a gun . . . that sort of thing. Diana will understand . . . I’d rather take my own way out!”

  He looked defiantly at Poirot, but Poirot did not respond to the challenge. Instead he asked mildly:

  “What do you eat and drink?”

  Hugh Chandler flung his head back. He roared with laughter.

  “Nightmares after indigestion? Is that your idea?”

  Poirot merely repeated gently:

  “What do you eat and drink?”

  “Just what everybody else eats and drinks.”

  “No special medicine? Cachets? Pills?”

  “Good Lord, no. Do you really think patent pills would cure my trouble?” He quoted derisively: “ ‘Canst thou then minister to a mind diseased?’ ”

  Hercule Poirot said drily:

  “I am trying to. Does anyone in this house suffer with eye trouble?”

  Hugh Chandler stared at him. He said:

  “Father’s eyes give him a good deal of trouble. He has to go to an oculist fairly often.”

  “Ah!” Poirot meditated for a moment or two. Then he said:

  “Colonel Frobisher, I suppose, has spent much of his life in India?”

  “Yes, he was in the Indian Army. He’s very keen on India—talks about it a lot—native traditions—and all that.”

  Poirot murmured “Ah!” again.

  Then he remarked:

  “I see that you have cut your chin.”

  Hugh put his hand up.

  “Yes, quite a nasty gash. Father startled me one day when I was shaving. I’m a bit nervy these days, you know. And I’ve had a bit of a rash over my chin and neck. Makes shaving difficult.”

  Poirot said:

  “You should use a soothing cream.”

  “Oh, I do. Uncle George gave me one.”

  He gave a sudden laugh.

  “We’re talking like a woman’s beauty parlour. Lotions, soothing creams, patent pills, eye trouble. What does it all amount to? What are you getting at, M. Poirot?”

  Poirot said quietly:

  “I am trying to do the best I can for Diana Maberly.”

  Hugh’s mood changed. His face sobered. He laid a hand on Poirot’s arm.

  “Yes, do what you can for her. Tell her she’s got to forget. Tell her that it’s no good hoping . . . Tell her some of the things I’ve told you . . . Tell her—oh, tell her for God’s sake to keep away from me! That’s the only thing she can do for me now. Keep away—and try to forget!”

  V

  “Have you courage, Mademoiselle? Great courage? You will need it.”

  Diana cried sharply:

  “Then it’s true. It’s true? He is mad?”

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “I am not an alienist, Mademoiselle. It is not I who can say, ‘This man is mad. This man is sane.’ ”

  She came closer to him.

  “Admiral Chandler thinks Hugh is mad. George Frobisher thinks he is mad. Hugh himself thinks he is mad—”

  Poirot was watching her.

  “And you, Mademoiselle?”

  “I? I say he isn’t mad! That’s why—”

  She stopped.

  “That is why you came to me?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t have had any other reason for coming to you, could I?”

  “That,” said Hercule Poirot, “is exactly what I have been asking myself, Mademoiselle!”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Who is Stephen Graham?”

  She stared.

  “Stephen Gra
ham? Oh, he’s—he’s just someone.”

  She caught him by the arm.

  “What’s in your mind? What are you thinking about? You just stand there—behind that great moustache of yours—blinking your eyes in the sunlight, and you don’t tell me anything. You’re making me afraid—horribly afraid. Why are you making me afraid?”

  “Perhaps,” said Poirot, “because I am afraid myself.”

  The deep grey eyes opened wide, stared up at him. She said in a whisper:

  “What are you afraid of?”

  Hercule Poirot sighed—a deep sigh. He said:

  “It is much easier to catch a murderer than it is to prevent a murder.”

  She cried out: “Murder? Don’t use that word.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Hercule Poirot, “I do use it.”

  He altered his tone, speaking quickly and authoritatively.

  “Mademoiselle, it is necessary that both you and I should pass the night at Lyde Manor. I look to you to arrange the matter. You can do that?”

  “I—yes—I suppose so. But why—?”

  “Because there is no time to lose. You have told me that you have courage. Prove that courage now. Do what I ask and make no questions about it.”

  She nodded without a word and turned away.

  Poirot followed her into the house after the lapse of a moment or two. He heard her voice in the library and the voices of three men. He passed up the broad staircase. There was no one on the upper floor.

  He found Hugh Chandler’s room easily enough. In the corner of the room was a fitted washbasin with hot and cold water. Over it, on a glass shelf, were various tubes and pots and bottles.

  Hercule Poirot went quickly and dexterously to work. . . .

  What he had to do did not take him long. He was downstairs again in the hall when Diana came out of the library, looking flushed and rebellious.

  “It’s all right,” she said.

  Admiral Chandler drew Poirot into the library and closed the door. He said: “Look here, M. Poirot. I don’t like this.”

  “What don’t you like, Admiral Chandler?”

  “Diana has been insisting that you and she should both spend the night here. I don’t want to be inhospitable—”

  “It is not a question of hospitality.”

  “As I say, I don’t like being inhospitable—but frankly, I don’t like it, M. Poirot. I—I don’t want it. And I don’t understand the reason for it. What good can it possibly do?”