Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  “Both those affairs, Hastings, might happen to me on the train. No, I am in haste to be back in Ebermouth, because I want to proceed with our case.”

  “Our case?”

  “But, yes, my friend. Mademoiselle Durrant appealed to me to help her. Because the matter is now in the hands of the police, it does not follow that I am free to wash my hands of it. I came here to oblige an old friend, but it shall never be said of Hercule Poirot that he deserted a stranger in need!” And he drew himself up grandiloquently.

  “I think you were interested before that,” I said shrewdly. “In the office of cars, when you first caught sight of that young man, though what drew your attention to him I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you, Hastings? You should. Well, well, that must remain my little secret.”

  We had a short conversation with the police inspector in charge of the case before leaving. He had interviewed Mr. Norton Kane, and told Poirot in confidence that the young man’s manner had not impressed him favourably. He had blustered, denied, and contradicted himself.

  “But just how the trick was done, I don’t know,” he confessed. “He could have handed the stuff to a confederate who pushed off at once in a fast car. But that’s just theory. We’ve got to find the car and the confederate and pin the thing down.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

  “Do you think that was how it was done?” I asked him, as we were seated in the train.

  “No, my friend, that was not how it was done. It was cleverer than that.”

  “Won’t you tell me?”

  “Not yet. You know—it is my weakness—I like to keep my little secrets till the end.”

  “Is the end going to be soon?”

  “Very soon now.”

  We arrived in Ebermouth a little after six and Poirot drove at once to the shop which bore the name “Elizabeth Penn.” The establishment was closed, but Poirot rang the bell, and presently Mary herself opened the door, and expressed surprise and delight at seeing us.

  “Please come in and see my aunt,” she said.

  She led us into a back room. An elderly lady came forward to meet us; she had white hair and looked rather like a miniature herself with her pink-and-white skin and her blue eyes. Round her rather bent shoulders she wore a cape of priceless old lace.

  “Is this the great Monsieur Poirot?” she asked in a low charming voice. “Mary has been telling me. I could hardly believe it. And you will really help us in our trouble. You will advise us?”

  Poirot looked at her for a moment, then bowed.

  “Mademoiselle Penn—the effect is charming. But you should really grow a moustache.”

  Miss Penn gave a gasp and drew back.

  “You were absent from business yesterday, were you not?”

  “I was here in the morning. Later I had a bad headache and went directly home.”

  “Not home, mademoiselle. For your headache you tried the change of air, did you not? The air of Charlock Bay is very bracing, I believe.”

  He took me by the arm and drew me towards the door. He paused there and spoke over his shoulder.

  “You comprehend, I know everything. This little—farce—it must cease.”

  There was a menace in his tone. Miss Penn, her face ghastly white, nodded mutely. Poirot turned to the girl.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said gently, “you are young and charming. But participating in these little affairs will lead to that youth and charm being hidden behind prison walls—and I, Hercule Poirot, tell you that that will be a pity.”

  Then he stepped out into the street and I followed him, bewildered.

  “From the first, mon ami, I was interested. When that young man booked his place as far as Monkhampton only, I saw the girl’s attention suddenly riveted on him. Now why? He was not of the type to make a woman look at him for himself alone. When we started on the coach, I had a feeling that something would happen. Who saw the young man tampering with the luggage? Mademoiselle and mademoiselle only, and remember she chose that seat—a seat facing the window—a most unfeminine choice.

  “And then she comes to us with the tale of robbery—the despatch box forced which makes not the common sense, as I told you at the time.

  “And what is the result of it all? Mr. Baker Wood has paid over good money for stolen goods. The miniatures will be returned to Miss Penn. She will sell them and will have made a thousand pounds instead of five hundred. I make the discreet inquiries and learn that her business is in a bad state—touch and go. I say to myself—the aunt and niece are in this together.”

  “Then you never suspected Norton Kane?”

  “Mon ami! With that moustache? A criminal is either clean-shaven or he has a proper moustache that can be removed at will. But what an opportunity for the clever Miss Penn—a shrinking elderly lady with a pink-and-white complexion as we saw her. But if she holds herself erect, wears large boots, alters her complexion with a few unseemly blotches and—crowning touch—adds a few sparse hairs to her upper lip. What then? A masculine woman, says Mr. Wood and ‘a man in disguise’ say we at once.”

  “She really went to Charlock yesterday?”

  “Assuredly. The train, as you may remember telling me, left here at eleven and got to Charlock Bay at two o’clock. Then the return train is even quicker—the one we came by. It leaves Charlock at four-five and gets here at six-fifteen. Naturally, the miniatures were never in the despatch case at all. That was artistically forced before being packed. Mademoiselle Mary has only to find a couple of mugs who will be sympathetic to her charm and champion beauty in distress. But one of the mugs was no mug—he was Hercule Poirot!”

  I hardly liked the inference. I said hurriedly: “Then when you said you were helping a stranger, you were wilfully deceiving me. That’s exactly what you were doing.”

  “Never do I deceive you, Hastings. I only permit you to deceive yourself. I was referring to Mr. Baker Wood—a stranger to these shores.” His face darkened. “Ah! When I think of that imposition, that iniquitous overcharge, the same fare single to Charlock as return, my blood boils to protect the visitor! Not a pleasant man, Mr. Baker Wood, not, as you would say, sympathetic. But a visitor! And we visitors, Hastings, must stand together. Me, I am all for the visitors!”

  Twenty-eight

  WASPS’ NEST

  “Wasps’ Nest” was first published as “The Wasps’ Nest” in the Daily Mail, November 20, 1928.

  Out of the house came John Harrison and stood a moment on the terrace looking out over the garden. He was a big man with a lean, cadaverous face. His aspect was usually somewhat grim but when, as now, the rugged features softened into a smile, there was something very attractive about him.

  John Harrison loved his garden, and it had never looked better than it did on this August evening, summery and languorous. The rambler roses were still beautiful; sweet peas scented the air.

  A well-known creaking sound made Harrison turn his head sharply. Who was coming in through the garden gate? In another minute, an expression of utter astonishment came over his face, for the dandified figure coming up the path was the last he expected to see in this part of the world.

  “By all that’s wonderful,” cried Harrison. “Monsieur Poirot!”

  It was, indeed, the famous Hercule Poirot whose renown as a detective had spread over the whole world.

  “Yes,” he said, “it is. You said to me once: ‘If you are ever in this part of the world, come and see me.’ I take you at your word. I arrive.”

  “And I’m obliged,” said Harrison heartily. “Sit down and have a drink.”

  With a hospitable hand, he indicated a table on the veranda bearing assorted bottles.

  “I thank you,” said Poirot, sinking down into a basket chair. “You have, I suppose, no sirop? No, no. I thought not. A little plain soda water then—no whisky.” And he added in a feeling voice as the other placed the glass beside him: “Alas, my moustaches are limp. It is this heat!”

  “And what b
rings you into this quiet spot?” asked Harrison as he dropped into another chair. “Pleasure?”

  “No, mon ami, business.”

  “Business? In this out-of-the-way place?”

  Poirot nodded gravely. “But yes, my friend, all crimes are not committed in crowds, you know?”

  The other laughed. “I suppose that was rather an idiotic remark of mine. But what particular crime are you investigating down here, or is that a thing I mustn’t ask?”

  “You may ask,” said the detective. “Indeed, I would prefer that you asked.”

  Harrison looked at him curiously. He sensed something a little unusual in the other’s manner. “You are investigating a crime, you say?” he advanced rather hesitatingly. “A serious crime?”

  “A crime of the most serious there is.”

  “You mean. . . .”

  “Murder.”

  So gravely did Hercule Poirot say that word that Harrison was quite taken aback. The detective was looking straight at him and again there was something so unusual in his glance that Harrison hardly knew how to proceed. At last, he said: “But I have heard of no murder.”

  “No,” said Poirot, “you would not have heard of it.”

  “Who has been murdered?”

  “As yet,” said Hercule Poirot, “nobody.”

  “What?”

  “That is why I said you would not have heard of it. I am investigating a crime that has not yet taken place.”

  “But look here, that is nonsense.”

  “Not at all. If one can investigate a murder before it has happened, surely that is very much better than afterwards. One might even—a little idea—prevent it.”

  Harrison stared at him. “You are not serious, Monsieur Poirot.”

  “But yes, I am serious.”

  “You really believe that a murder is going to be committed? Oh, it’s absurd!”

  Hercule Poirot finished the first part of the sentence without taking any notice of the exclamation.

  “Unless we can manage to prevent it. Yes, mon ami, that is what I mean.”

  “We?”

  “I said we. I shall need your cooperation.”

  “Is that why you came down here?”

  Again Poirot looked at him, and again an indefinable something made Harrison uneasy.

  “I came here, Monsieur Harrison, because I—well—like you.”

  And then he added in an entirely different voice: “I see, Monsieur Harrison, that you have a wasps’ nest there. You should destroy it.”

  The change of subject made Harrison frown in a puzzled way. He followed Poirot’s glance and said in a bewildered voice: “As a matter of fact, I’m going to. Or rather, young Langton is. You remember Claude Langton? He was at that same dinner where I met you. He’s coming over this evening to take the nest. Rather fancies himself at the job.”

  “Ah,” said Poirot. “And how is he going to do it?”

  “Petrol and the garden syringe. He’s bringing his own syringe over; it’s a more convenient size than mine.”

  “There is another way, is there not?” asked Poirot. “With cyanide of potassium?”

  Harrison looked a little surprised. “Yes, but that’s rather dangerous stuff. Always a risk having it about the place.”

  Poirot nodded gravely. “Yes, it is deadly poison.” He waited a minute and then repeated in a grave voice, “Deadly poison.”

  “Useful if you want to do away with your mother-in-law, eh?” said Harrison with a laugh.

  But Hercule Poirot remained grave. “And you are quite sure, Monsieur Harrison, that it is with petrol that Monsieur Langton is going to destroy your wasps’ nest?”

  “Quite sure. Why?”

  “I wondered. I was at the chemist’s in Barchester this afternoon. For one of my purchases I had to sign the poison book. I saw the last entry. It was for cyanide of potassium and it was signed by Claude Langton.”

  Harrison stared. “That’s odd,” he said. “Langton told me the other day that he’d never dream of using the stuff; in fact, he said it oughtn’t to be sold for the purpose.”

  Poirot looked out over the garden. His voice was very quiet as he asked a question. “Do you like Langton?”

  The other started. The question somehow seemed to find him quite unprepared. “I—I—well, I mean—of course, I like him. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “I only wondered,” said Poirot placidly, “whether you did.”

  And as the other did not answer, he went on. “I also wondered if he liked you?”

  “What are you getting at, Monsieur Poirot? There’s something in your mind I can’t fathom.”

  “I am going to be very frank. You are engaged to be married, Monsieur Harrison. I know Miss Molly Deane. She is a very charming, a very beautiful girl. Before she was engaged to you, she was engaged to Claude Langton. She threw him over for you.”

  Harrison nodded.

  “I do not ask what her reasons were: she may have been justified. But I tell you this, it is not too much to suppose that Langton has not forgotten or forgiven.”

  “You’re wrong, Monsieur Poirot. I swear you’re wrong. Langton’s been a sportsman; he’s taken things like a man. He’s been amazingly decent to me—gone out of his way to be friendly.”

  “And that does not strike you as unusual? You use the word ‘amazingly,’ but you do not seem to be amazed.”

  “What do you mean, M. Poirot?”

  “I mean,” said Poirot, and his voice had a new note in it, “that a man may conceal his hate till the proper time comes.”

  “Hate?” Harrison shook his head and laughed.

  “The English are very stupid,” said Poirot. “They think that they can deceive anyone but that no one can deceive them. The sportsman—the good fellow—never will they believe evil of him. And because they are brave, but stupid, sometimes they die when they need not die.”

  “You are warning me,” said Harrison in a low voice. “I see it now—what has puzzled me all along. You are warning me against Claude Langton. You came here today to warn me. . . .”

  Poirot nodded. Harrison sprang up suddenly. “But you are mad, Monsieur Poirot. This is England. Things don’t happen like that here. Disappointed suitors don’t go about stabbing people in the back and poisoning them. And you’re wrong about Langton. That chap wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “The lives of flies are not my concern,” said Poirot placidly. “And although you say Monsieur Langton would not take the life of one, yet you forget that he is even now preparing to take the lives of several thousand wasps.”

  Harrison did not at once reply. The little detective in his turn sprang to his feet. He advanced to his friend and laid a hand on his shoulder. So agitated was he that he almost shook the big man, and, as he did so, he hissed into his ear: “Rouse yourself, my friend, rouse yourself. And look—look where I am pointing. There on the bank, close by that tree root. See you, the wasps returning home, placid at the end of the day? In a little hour, there will be destruction, and they know it not. There is no one to tell them. They have not, it seems, a Hercule Poirot. I tell you, Monsieur Harrison, I am down here on business. Murder is my business. And it is my business before it has happened as well as afterwards. At what time does Monsieur Langton come to take this wasps’ nest?”

  “Langton would never. . . .”

  “At what time?”

  “At nine o’clock. But I tell you, you’re all wrong. Langton would never. . . .”

  “These English!” cried Poirot in a passion. He caught up his hat and stick and moved down the path, pausing to speak over his shoulder. “I do not stay to argue with you. I should only enrage myself. But you understand, I return at nine o’clock?”

  Harrison opened his mouth to speak, but Poirot did not give him the chance. “I know what you would say: ‘Langton would never,’ et cetera. Ah, Langton would never! But all the same I return at nine o’clock. But, yes, it will amuse me—put it like that—it will amuse me to see the taking of
a wasps’ nest. Another of your English sports!”

  He waited for no reply but passed rapidly down the path and out through the door that creaked. Once outside on the road, his pace slackened. His vivacity died down, his face became grave and troubled. Once he drew his watch from his pocket and consulted it. The hands pointed to ten minutes past eight. “Over three quarters of an hour,” he murmured. “I wonder if I should have waited.”

  His footsteps slackened; he almost seemed on the point of returning. Some vague foreboding seemed to assail him. He shook it off resolutely, however, and continued to walk in the direction of the village. But his face was still troubled, and once or twice he shook his head like a man only partly satisfied.

  It was still some minutes off nine when he once more approached the garden door. It was a clear, still evening; hardly a breeze stirred the leaves. There was, perhaps, something a little sinister in the stillness, like the lull before a storm.

  Poirot’s footsteps quickened ever so slightly. He was suddenly alarmed—and uncertain. He feared he knew not what.

  And at that moment the garden door opened and Claude Langton stepped quickly out into the road. He started when he saw Poirot.

  “Oh—er—good evening.”

  “Good evening, Monsieur Langton. You are early.”

  Langton stared at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You have taken the wasps’ nest?”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t.”

  “Oh,” said Poirot softly. “So you did not take the wasps’ nest. What did you do then?”

  “Oh, just sat and yarned a bit with old Harrison. I really must hurry along now, Monsieur Poirot. I’d no idea you were remaining in this part of the world.”

  “I had business here, you see.”

  “Oh! Well, you’ll find Harrison on the terrace. Sorry I can’t stop.”

  He hurried away. Poirot looked after him. A nervous young fellow, good-looking with a weak mouth!

  “So I shall find Harrison on the terrace,” murmured Poirot. “I wonder.” He went in through the garden door and up the path. Harrison was sitting in a chair by the table. He sat motionless and did not even turn his head as Poirot came up to him.