Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  With a swift movement Desmond bent down and plucked the red stone out of Bridget’s hand.

  “You should not do that,” said Poirot reproachfully. “Nothing should have been disturbed.”

  “I haven’t disturbed the body, have I? But this thing might—might get lost and it’s evidence. The great thing is to get the police here as soon as possible. I’ll go at once and telephone.”

  He wheeled round and ran sharply towards the house. Sarah came swiftly to Poirot’s side.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered. Her face was dead white. “I don’t understand.” She caught at Poirot’s arm. “What did you mean about—about the footprints?”

  “Look for yourself, Mademoiselle.”

  The footprints that led to the body and back again were the same as the ones just made accompanying Poirot to the girl’s body and back.

  “You mean—that it was Desmond? Nonsense!”

  Suddenly the noise of a car came through the clear air. They wheeled round. They saw the car clearly enough driving at a furious pace down the drive and Sarah recognized what car it was.

  “It’s Desmond,” she said. “It’s Desmond’s car. He—he must have gone to fetch the police instead of telephoning.”

  Diana Middleton came running out of the house to join them.

  “What’s happened?” she cried in a breathless voice. “Desmond just came rushing into the house. He said something about Bridget being killed and then he rattled the telephone but it was dead. He couldn’t get an answer. He said the wires must have been cut. He said the only thing was to take a car and go for the police. Why the police? . . .”

  Poirot made a gesture.

  “Bridget?” Diana stared at him. “But surely—isn’t it a joke of some kind? I heard something—something last night. I thought that they were going to play a joke on you, M. Poirot?”

  “Yes,” said Poirot, “that was the idea—to play a joke on me. But now come into the house, all of you. We shall catch our deaths of cold here and there is nothing to be done until Mr. Lee-Wortley returns with the police.”

  “But look here,” said Colin, “we can’t—we can’t leave Bridget here alone.”

  “You can do her no good by remaining,” said Poirot gently. “Come, it is a sad, a very sad tragedy, but there is nothing we can do anymore to help Mademoiselle Bridget. So let us come in and get warm and have perhaps a cup of tea or of coffee.”

  They followed him obediently into the house. Peverell was just about to strike the gong. If he thought it extraordinary for most of the household to be outside and for Poirot to make an appearance in pyjamas and an overcoat, he displayed no sign of it. Peverell in his old age was still the perfect butler. He noticed nothing that he was not asked to notice. They went into the dining room and sat down. When they all had a cup of coffee in front of them and were sipping it, Poirot spoke.

  “I have to recount to you,” he said, “a little history. I cannot tell you all the details, no. But I can give you the main outline. It concerns a young princeling who came to this country. He brought with him a famous jewel which he was to have reset for the lady he was going to marry, but unfortunately before that he made friends with a very pretty young lady. This pretty young lady did not care very much for the man, but she did care for his jewel—so much so that one day she disappeared with this historic possession which had belonged to his house for generations. So the poor young man, he is in a quandary, you see. Above all he cannot have a scandal. Impossible to go to the police. Therefore he comes to me, to Hercule Poirot. ‘Recover for me,’ he says, ‘my historic ruby.’ Eh bien, this young lady, she has a friend, and the friend, he has put through several very questionable transactions. He has been concerned with blackmail and he has been concerned with the sale of jewellery abroad. Always he has been very clever. He is suspected, yes, but nothing can be proved. It comes to my knowledge that this very clever gentleman, he is spending Christmas here in this house. It is important that the pretty young lady, once she has acquired the jewel, should disappear for a while from circulation, so that no pressure can be put upon her, no questions can be asked her. It is arranged, therefore, that she comes here to Kings Lacey, ostensibly as the sister of the clever gentleman—”

  Sarah drew a sharp breath.

  “Oh, no. Oh, no, not here! Not with me here!”

  “But so it is,” said Poirot. “And by a little manipulation I, too, become a guest here for Christmas. This young lady, she is supposed to have just come out of hospital. She is much better when she arrives here. But then comes the news that I, too, arrive, a detective—a well-known detective. At once she has what you call the windup. She hides the ruby in the first place she can think of, and then very quickly she has a relapse and takes to her bed again. She does not want that I should see her, for doubtless I have a photograph and I shall recognize her. It is very boring for her, yes, but she has to stay in her room and her brother, he brings her up the trays.”

  “And the ruby?” demanded Michael.

  “I think,” said Poirot, “that at the moment it is mentioned I arrive, the young lady was in the kitchen with the rest of you, all laughing and talking and stirring the Christmas puddings. The Christmas puddings are put into bowls and the young lady she hides the ruby, pressing it down into one of the pudding bowls. Not the one that we are going to have on Christmas Day. Oh no, that one she knows is in a special mould. She put it in the other one, the one that is destined to be eaten on New Year’s Day. Before then she will be ready to leave, and when she leaves no doubt that Christmas pudding will go with her. But see how fate takes a hand. On the very morning of Christmas Day there is an accident. The Christmas pudding in its fancy mould is dropped on the stone floor and the mould is shattered to pieces. So what can be done? The good Mrs. Ross, she takes the other pudding and sends it in.”

  “Good lord,” said Colin, “do you mean that on Christmas Day when Grandfather was eating his pudding that that was a real ruby he’d got in his mouth?”

  “Precisely,” said Poirot, “and you can imagine the emotions of Mr. Desmond Lee-Wortley when he saw that. Eh bien, what happens next? The ruby is passed round. I examine it and I manage unobtrusively to slip it in my pocket. In a careless way as though I were not interested. But one person at least observes what I have done. When I lie in bed that person searches my room. He searches me. He does not find the ruby. Why?”

  “Because,” said Michael breathlessly, “you had given it to Bridget. That’s what you mean. And so that’s why—but I don’t understand quite—I mean—Look here, what did happen?”

  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 here, 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?”
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  “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 publicized, 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 left-hand 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 substitute. 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 conjurer 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 flowered 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 detective,’ he was saying. ‘This fellow Poirot who’s coming here. We’ve got to do something about it. We’ve got to get hi
m 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 cosmetic boxes. The heart of woman 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.