Poirot Investigates

by Agatha Christie

  That placed a somewhat different complexion on the matter, and I placed myself at her service without more ado.

  A slight colour rose in her cheeks. “I thank you, monsieur. It is the death of M. Paul Déroulard that I ask you to investigate.”

  “Comment?” I exclaimed, surprised.

  “Monsieur, I have nothing to go upon—nothing but my woman’s instinct, but I am convinced—convinced, I tell you—that M. Déroulard did not die a natural death!”

  “But surely the doctors—”

  “Doctors may be mistaken. He was so robust, so strong. Ah, Monsieur Poirot, I beseech of you to help me—”

  The poor child was almost beside herself. She would have knelt to me. I soothed her as best I could.

  “I will help you, mademoiselle. I feel almost sure that your fears are unfounded, but we will see. First, I will ask you to describe to me the inmates of the house.”

  “There are the domestics, of course, Jeannette, Félice, and Denise the cook. She has been there many years; the others are simple country girls. Also there is François, but he too is an old servant. Then there is Monsieur Déroulard’s mother who lived with him, and myself. My name is Virginie Mesnard. I am a poor cousin of the late Madame Déroulard, M. Paul’s wife, and I have been a member of their ménage for over three years. I have now described to you the household. There were also two guests staying in the house.”

  “And they were?”

  “M. de Saint Alard, a neighbour of M. Déroulard’s in France. Also an English friend, Mr. John Wilson.”

  “Are they still with you?”

  “Mr. Wilson, yes, but M. de Saint Alard departed yesterday.”

  “And what is your plan, Mademoiselle Mesnard?”

  “If you will present yourself at the house in half an hour’s time, I will have arranged some story to account for your presence. I had better represent you to be connected with journalism in some way. I shall say you have come from Paris, and that you have brought a card of introduction from M. de Saint Alard. Madame Déroulard is very feeble in health, and will pay little attention to details.”

  On mademoiselle’s ingenious pretext I was admitted to the house, and after a brief interview with the dead deputy’s mother, who was a wonderfully imposing and aristocratic figure though obviously in failing health, I was made free of the premises.

  I wonder, my friend (continued Poirot), whether you can possibly figure to yourself the difficulties of my task? Here was a man whose death had taken place three days previously. If there had been foul play, only one possibility was admittable—poison! And I had no chance of seeing the body, and there was no possibility of examining, or analysing, any medium in which the poison could have been administered. There were no clues, false or otherwise, to consider. Had the man been poisoned? Had he died a natural death? I, Hercule Poirot, with nothing to help me, had to decide.

  First, I interviewed the domestics, and with their aid, I recapitulated the evening. I paid especial notice to the food at dinner, and the method of serving it. The soup had been served by M. Déroulard himself from a tureen. Next a dish of cutlets, then a chicken. Finally, a compote of fruits. And all placed on the table, and served by Monsieur himself. The coffee was brought in a big pot to the dinner-table. Nothing there, mon ami—impossible to poison one without poisoning all!

  After dinner Madame Déroulard had retired to her own apartments and Mademoiselle Virginie had accompanied her. The three men had adjourned to M. Déroulard’s study. Here they had chatted amicably for some time, when suddenly, without any warning, the deputy had fallen heavily to the ground. M. de Saint Alard had rushed out and told François to fetch the doctor immediately. He said it was without doubt an apoplexy, explained the man. But when the doctor arrived, the patient was past help.

  Mr. John Wilson, to whom I was presented by Mademoiselle Virginie, was what was known in those days as a regular John Bull Englishman, middle-aged and burly. His account, delivered in very British French, was substantially the same.

  “Déroulard went very red in the face, and down he fell.”

  There was nothing further to be found out there. Next I went to the scene of the tragedy, the study, and was left alone there at my own request. So far there was nothing to support Mademoiselle Mesnard’s theory. I could not but believe that it was a delusion on her part. Evidently she had entertained a romantic passion for the dead man which had not permitted her to take a normal view of the case. Nevertheless, I searched the study with meticulous care. It was just possible that a hypodermic needle might have been introduced into the dead man’s chair in such a way as to allow of a fatal injection. The minute puncture it would cause was likely to remain unnoticed. But I could discover no sign to support the theory. I flung myself down in the chair with a gesture of

  despair.

  “Enfin, I abandon it!” I said aloud. “There is not a clue anywhere! Everything is perfectly normal.”

  As I said the words, my eyes fell on a large box of chocolates standing on a table near by, and my heart gave a leap. It might not be a clue to M. Déroulard’s death, but here at least was something that was not normal. I lifted the lid. The box was full, untouched; not a chocolate was missing—but that only made the peculiarity that had caught my eye more striking. For, see you, Hastings, while the box itself was pink, the lid was blue. Now, one often sees a blue ribbon on a pink box, and vice versa, but a box of one colour, and a lid of another—no, decidedly—ça ne se voit jamais!

  I did not as yet see that this little incident was of any use to me, yet I determined to investigate it as being out of the ordinary. I rang the bell for François, and asked him if his late master had been fond of sweets. A faint melancholy smile came to his lips.

  “Passionately fond of them, monsieur. He would always have a box of chocolates in the house. He did not drink wine of any kind, you see.”

  “Yet this box has not been touched?” I lifted the lid to show him.

  “Pardon, monsieur, but that was a new box purchased on the day of his death, the other being nearly finished.”

  “Then the other box was finished on the day of his death,” I said slowly.

  “Yes, monsieur, I found it empty in the morning and threw it away.”

  “Did M. Déroulard eat sweets at all hours of the day?”

  “Usually after dinner, monsieur.”

  I began to see light.

  “François,” I said, “you can be discreet?”

  “If there is need, monsieur.”

  “Bon! Know, then, that I am of the police. Can you find me that other box?”

  “Without doubt, monsieur. It will be in the dustbin.”

  He departed, and returned in a few minutes with a dust-covered object. It was the duplicate of the box I held, save for the fact that this time the box was blue and the lid was pink. I thanked François, recommended him once more to be discreet, and left the house in the Avenue Louise without more ado.

  Next I called upon the doctor who had attended M. Déroulard. With him I had a difficult task. He entrenched himself prettily behind a wall of learned phraseology, but I fancied that he was not quite as sure about the case as he would like to be.

  “There have been many curious occurrences of the kind,” he observed, when I had managed to disarm him somewhat. “A sudden fit of anger, a violent emotion—after a heavy dinner, c’est entendu—then, with an access of rage, the blood flies to the head, and pst!—there you are!”

  “But M. Déroulard had had no violent emotion.”

  “No? I made sure that he had been having a stormy altercation with M. de Saint Alard.”

  “Why should he?”

  “C’est évident! ” The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “Was not M. de Saint Alard a Catholic of the most fanatical? Their friendship was being ruined by this question of church and state. Not a day passed without discussions. To M. de Saint Alard, Déroulard appeared almost as Antichrist.”

  This was unexpected, and gave me fo
od for thought.

  “One more question, Doctor: would it be possible to introduce a fatal dose of poison into a chocolate?”

  “It would be possible, I suppose,” said the doctor slowly. “Pure prussic acid would meet the case if there were no chance of evaporation, and a tiny globule of anything might be swallowed unnoticed—but it does not seem a very likely supposition. A chocolate full of morphine or strychnine—” He made a wry face. “You comprehend, M. Poirot—one bite would be enough! The unwary one would not stand upon ceremony.”

  “Thank you, M. le Docteur.”

  I withdrew. Next I made inquiries of the chemists, especially those in the neighbourhood of the Avenue Louise. It is good to be of the police. I got the information I wanted without any trouble. Only in one case could I hear of any poison having been supplied to the house in question. This was some eye drops of atropine sulphate for Madame Déroulard. Atropine is a potent poison, and for the moment I was elated, but the symptoms of atropine poisoning are closely allied to those of ptomaine, and bear no resemblance to those I was studying. Besides, the prescription was an old one. Madame Déroulard had suffered from cataracts in both eyes for many years.

  I was turning away discouraged when the chemist’s voice called me back.

  “Un moment, M. Poirot. I remember, the girl who brought that prescription, she said something about having to go on to the English chemist. You might try there.”

  I did. Once more enforcing my official status, I got the information I wanted. On the day before M. Déroulard’s death they had made up a prescription for Mr. John Wilson. Not that there was any making up about it. They were simply little tablets of trinitrine. I asked if I might see some. He showed me them, and my heart beat faster—for the tiny tablets were of chocolate.

  “Is it a poison?” I asked.

  “No, monsieur.”

  “Can you describe to me its effect?”

  “It lowers the blood pressure. It is given for some forms of heart trouble—angina pectoris for instance. It relieves the arterial tension. In arteriosclerosis—”

  I interrupted him. “Ma foi! This rigmarole says nothing to me. Does it cause the face to flush?”

  “Certainly it does.”

  “And supposing I ate ten—twenty of your little tablets, what then?”

  “I should not advise you to attempt it,” he replied drily.

  “And yet you say it is not poison?”

  “There are many things not called poison which can kill a man,” he replied as before.

  I left the shop elated. At last, things had begun to march!

  I now knew that John Wilson had the means for the crime—but what about the motive? He had come to Belgium on business, and had asked M. Déroulard, whom he knew slightly, to put him up. There was apparently no way in which Déroulard’s death could benefit him. Moreover, I discovered by inquiries in England that he had suffered for some years from that painful form of heart disease known as angina. Therefore he had a genuine right to have those tablets in his possession. Nevertheless, I was convinced that someone had gone to the chocolate box, opening the full one first by mistake, and had abstracted the contents of the last chocolate, cramming in instead as many little trinitrine tablets as it would hold. The chocolates were large ones. Between twenty or thirty tablets, I felt sure, could have been inserted. But who had done this?

  There were two guests in the house. John Wilson had the means. Saint Alard had the motive. Remember, he was a fanatic, and there is no fanatic like a religious fanatic. Could he, by any means, have got hold of John Wilson’s trinitrine?

  Another little idea came to me. Ah, you smile at my little ideas! Why had Wilson run out of trinitrine? Surely he would bring an adequate supply from England. I called once more at the house in the Avenue Louise. Wilson was out, but I saw the girl who did his room, Félice. I demanded of her immediately whether it was not true that M. Wilson had lost a bottle from his washstand some little time ago. The girl responded eagerly. It was quite true. She, Félice, had been blamed for it. The English gentleman had evidently thought that she had broken it, and did not like to say so. Whereas she had never even touched it. Without doubt it was Jeannette—always nosing round where she had no business to be—

  I calmed the flow of words, and took my leave. I knew now all that I wanted to know. It remained for me to prove my case. That, I felt, would not be easy. I might be sure that Saint Alard had removed the bottle of trinitrine from John Wilson’s washstand, but to convince others, I would have to produce evidence. And I had none to produce!

  Never mind. I knew—that was the great thing. You remember our difficulty in the Styles case, Hastings? There again, I knew—but it took me a long time to find the last link which made my chain of evidence against the murderer complete.

  I asked for an interview with Mademoiselle Mesnard. She came at once. I demanded of her the address of M. de Saint Alard. A look of trouble came over her face.

  “Why do you want it, monsieur?”

  “Mademoiselle, it is necessary.”

  She seemed doubtful—troubled.

  “He can tell you nothing. He is a man whose thoughts are not in this world. He hardly notices what goes on around him.”

  “Possibly, mademoiselle. Nevertheless, he was an old friend of M. Déroulard’s. There may be things he can tell me—things of the past—old grudges—old love-affairs.”

  The girl flushed and bit her lip. “As you please—but—but I feel sure now that I have been mistaken. It was good of you to accede to my demand, but I was upset—almost distraught at the time. I see now that there is no mystery to solve. Leave it, I beg of you, monsieur.”

  I eyed her closely.

  “Mademoiselle,” I said, “it is sometimes difficult for a dog to find a scent, but once he has found it, nothing on earth will make him leave it! That is if he is a good dog! And I, mademoiselle, I, Hercule Poirot, am a very good dog.”

  Without a word she turned away. A few minutes later she returned with the address written on a sheet of paper. I left the house. François was waiting for me outside. He looked at me anxiously.

  “There is no news, monsieur?”

  “None as yet, my friend.”

  “Ah! Pauvre Monsieur Déroulard!” he sighed. “I too was of his way of thinking. I do not care for priests. Not that I would say so in the house. The women are all devout—a good thing perhaps. Madame est très pieuse—et Mademoiselle Virginie aussi.”

  Mademoiselle Virginie? Was she “très pieuse?” Thinking of the tear-stained passionate face I had seen that first day, I wondered.

  Having obtained the address of M. de Saint Alard, I wasted no time. I arrived in the neighbourhood of his château in the Ardennes but it was some days before I could find a pretext for gaining admission to the house. In the end I did—how do you think—as a plumber, mon ami! It was the affair of a moment to arrange a neat little gas leak in his bedroom. I departed for my tools, and took care to return with them at an hour when I knew I should have the field pretty well to myself. What I was searching for, I hardly knew. The one thing needful, I could not believe there was any chance of finding. He would never have run the risk of keeping it.

  Still when I found the little cupboard above the washstand locked, I could not resist the temptation of seeing what was inside it. The lock was quite a simple one to pick. The door swung open. It was full of old bottles. I took them up one by one with a trembling hand. Suddenly, I uttered a cry. Figure to yourself, my friend, I held in my hand a little phial with an English chemist’s label. On it were the words: “Trinitrine Tablets. One to be taken when required. Mr. John Wilson.”

  I controlled my emotion, closed the cupboard, slipped the bottle into my pocket, and continued to repair the gas leak! One must be methodical. Then I left the château, and took train for my own country as soon as possible. I arrived in Brussels late that night. I was writing out a report for the préfet in the morning, when a note was brought to me. It was from old Madame
Déroulard, and it summoned me to the house in the Avenue Louise without delay.

  François opened the door to me.

  “Madame la Baronne is awaiting you.”

  He conducted me to her apartments. She sat in state in a large armchair. There was no sign of Mademoiselle Virginie.

  “M. Poirot,” said the old lady, “I have just learned that you are not what you pretend to be. You are a police officer.”

  “That is so, madame.”

  “You came here to inquire into the circumstances of my son’s death?”

  Again I replied: “That is so, madame.”

  “I should be glad if you would tell me what progress you have made.”

  I hesitated.

  “First I would like to know how you have learned all this, madame.”

  “From one who is no longer of this world.”

  Her words, and the brooding way she uttered them, sent a chill to my heart. I was incapable of speech.

  “Therefore, monsieur, I would beg of you most urgently to tell me exactly what progress you have made in your investigation.”

  “Madame, my investigation is finished.”

  “My son?”

  “Was killed deliberately.”

  “You know by whom?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “Who, then?”

  “M. de Saint Alard.”

  “You are wrong. M. de Saint Alard is incapable of such a crime.”

  “The proofs are in my hands.”

  “I beg of you once more to tell me all.”

  This time I obeyed, going over each step that had led me to the discovery of the truth. She listened attentively. At the end she nodded her head.

  “Yes, yes, it is all as you say, all but one thing. It was not M. de Saint Alard who killed my son. It was I, his mother.”

  I stared at her. She continued to nod her head gently.

  “It is well that I sent for you. It is the providence of the good God that Virginie told me before she departed for the convent, what she had done. Listen, M. Poirot! My son was an evil man. He persecuted the church. He led a life of mortal sin. He dragged down the other souls beside his own. But there was worse than that. As I came out of my room in this house one morning, I saw my daughter-in-law standing at the head of the stairs. She was reading a letter. I saw my son steal up behind her. One swift push, and she fell, striking her head on the marble steps. When they picked her up she was dead. My son was a murderer, and only I, his mother, knew it.”