by Mark Place
He strode out of the room and banged the door. Superintendent Sugden threw his head back and laughed. He said: ‘We’ve got them going properly! Now we’ll see!’
Johnson said frowning: ‘Extraordinary business! Looks fishy. We must get a further statement out of her.’
Sugden said easily: ‘Oh! She’ll be back in a minute or two. When she’s decided what to say, eh, Mr Poirot?’
Poirot, who had been sitting in a dream, gave a start. ‘Pardon!’
‘I said she’ll be back.’
‘Probably—yes, possibly—oh, yes!’
Sugden said, staring at him: ‘What’s the matter, Mr Poirot? Seen a ghost?’
Poirot said slowly: ‘You know I am not sure that I have not done just exactly that.’
Colonel Johnson said impatiently: ‘Well, Sugden, anything else?’
Sugden said: ‘I’ve been trying to check up on the order in which everyone arrived on the scene of the murder. It’s quite clear what must have happened. After the murder when the victim’s dying cry had given the alarm, the murderer slipped out, locked the door with pliers, or something of that kind, and a moment or two later became one of the people hurrying to the scene of the crime. Unfortunately it’s not easy to check exactly whom everyone has seen because people’s memories aren’t very accurate on a point like that. Tressilian says he saw Harry and Alfred Lee cross the hall from the dining-room and race upstairs. That lets them out, but we don’t suspect them anyway. As far as I can make out, Miss Estravados got there late—one of the last. The general idea seems to be that Farr, Mrs George, and Mrs David were the first. Each of those three says one of the others was just ahead of them. That’s what’s so difficult, you can’t distinguish between a deliberate lie and a genuine haziness of recollection. Everybody ran there that’s agreed, but in what order they ran isn’t so easy to get at.’
Poirot said slowly: ‘You think that important?’
Sugden said: ‘It’s the time element. The time, remember, was incredibly short.’
Poirot said: ‘I agree with you that the time element is very important in this case.’
Sugden went on: ‘What makes it more difficult is that there are two staircases. There’s the main one in the hall here about equidistant from the dining-room and the drawing-room doors. Then there’s one the other end of the house. Stephen Farr came up by the latter. Miss Estravados came along the upper landing from that end of the house (her room is right the other end). The others say they went up by this one.’
Poirot said: ‘It is a confusion, yes.’
The door opened and Magdalene came quickly in. She was breathing fast and had a bright spot of colour in each cheek. She came up to the table and said quietly: ‘My husband thinks I’m lying down. I slipped out of my room quietly. Colonel Johnson,’ she appealed to him with wide, distressed eyes, ‘if I tell you the truth you will keep quiet about it, won’t you? I mean you don’t have to make everything public?’
Colonel Johnson said: ‘You mean, I take it, Mrs Lee, something that has no connection with the crime?’
‘Yes, no connection at all. Just something in my…my private life.’
The chief constable said: ‘You’d better make a clean breast of it, Mrs Lee, and leave us to judge.’
Magdalene said, her eyes swimming: ‘Yes, I will trust you. I know I can. You look so kind. You see, it’s like this. There’s somebody’ She stopped. ‘Yes, Mrs Lee?’
‘I wanted to telephone to somebody last night a man…a friend of mine, and I didn’t want George to know about it. I know it was very wrong of me…but well, it was like that. So I went to telephone after dinner when I thought George would be safely in the dining-room. But when I got here I heard him telephoning, so I waited.’
‘Where did you wait madame?’ asked Poirot.
‘There’s a place for coats and things behind the stairs. It’s dark there. I slipped back there, where I could see George come out from this room. But he didn’t come out, and then all the noise happened and Mr Lee screamed, and I ran upstairs.’
‘So your husband did not leave this room until the moment of the murder?’
‘No.’
The chief constable said: ‘And you yourself from nine o’clock to nine-fifteen were waiting in the recess behind the stairs?’
‘Yes, but I couldn’t say so, you see! They’d want to know what I was doing there. It’s been very, very awkward for me, you do see that, don’t you?’
Johnson said dryly: ‘It was certainly awkward.’
She smiled at him sweetly.
‘I’m so relieved to have told you the truth. And you won’t tell my husband, will you? No, I’m sure you won’t! I can trust you, all of you.’
She included them all in her final pleading look, then she slipped quickly out of the room. Colonel Johnson drew a deep breath.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘It might be like that! It’s a perfectly plausible story. On the other hand’
‘It might not,’ finished Sugden. ‘That’s just it. We don’t know.’
III
Lydia Lee stood by the far window of the drawing-room looking out. Her figure was half hidden by the heavy window curtains. A sound in the room made her turn with a start to see Hercule Poirot standing by the door.
She said: ‘You startled me, M. Poirot.’
‘I apologize, madame. I walk softly.’
She said: ‘I thought it was Horbury.’
Hercule Poirot nodded.
‘It is true, he steps softly, that one like a cat…or a thief.’
He paused a minute, watching her.
Her face showed nothing, but she made a slight grimace of distaste as she said: ‘I have never cared for that man. I shall be glad to get rid of him.’
‘I think you will be wise to do so, madame.’
She looked at him quickly. She said: ‘What do you mean? Do you know anything against him?’
Poirot said: ‘He is a man who collects secrets and uses them to his advantage.’
She said sharply: ‘Do you think he knows anything about the murder?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said: ‘He has quiet feet and long ears. He may have overheard something that he is keeping to himself.’
Lydia said clearly: ‘Do you mean that he may try to blackmail one of us?’
‘It is within the bounds of possibility. But that is not what I came here to say.’
‘What did you come to say?’
Poirot said slowly: ‘I have been talking with M. Alfred Lee. He has made me a proposition, and I wished to discuss it with you before accepting or declining it. But I was so struck by the picture you made the charming pattern of your jumper against the deep red of the curtains, that I paused to admire.’
Lydia said sharply: ‘Really, M. Poirot, must we waste time in compliments?’
‘I beg your pardon, madame, so few English ladies understand la toilette. The dress you were wearing the first night I saw you, its bold but simple pattern, it had grace…distinction.’
Lydia said impatiently: ‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’
Poirot became grave.
‘Just this, madame. Your husband, he wishes me to take up the investigation very seriously. He demands that I stay here, in the house, and do my utmost to get to the bottom of the matter.’
Lydia said sharply: ‘Well?’
Poirot said slowly: ‘I should not wish to accept an invitation that was not endorsed by the lady of the house.’
She said coldly: ‘Naturally I endorse my husband’s invitation.’
‘Yes, madame, but I need more than that. Do you really want me to come here?’
‘Why not?’
‘Let us be more frank. What I ask you is this: do you want the truth to come out, or not?’
‘Naturally.’
Poirot sighed.
‘Must you return me these conventional replies?’
Lydia said: ‘I am a conventional woman.’
Then she bit
her lip, hesitated, and said: ‘Perhaps it is better to speak frankly. Of course I understand you! The position is not a pleasant one. My father-in-law has been brutally murdered, and unless a case can be made out against the most likely suspect Horbury for robbery and murder…and it seems that it cannot…then it comes to this…one of his own family killed him. To bring that person to justice will mean bringing shame and disgrace on us all…If I am to speak honestly I must say that I do not want this to happen.’
Poirot said: ‘You are content for the murderer to escape unpunished?’
‘There are probably several undiscovered murderers at large in the world.’
‘That, I grant you.’
‘Does one more matter, then?’
Poirot said: ‘And what about the other members of the family? The innocent?’ She stared. ‘What about them?’
‘Do you realize that if it turns out as you hope, no one will ever know . The shadow will remain on all alike…’
She said uncertainly: ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
Poirot said: ‘No one will ever know who the guilty person is…’ He added softly: ‘Unless you already know madame?’
She cried out: ‘You have no business to say that! It’s not true! Oh! If only it could be a stranger not a member of the family.’
Poirot said: ‘It might be both.’
She stared at him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It might be a member of the family and, at the same time, a stranger…You do not see what I mean? Eh bien, it is an idea that has occurred to the mind of Hercule Poirot.’ He looked at her. ‘Well, madame, what am I to say to Mr Lee?’
Lydia raised her hands and let them fall in a sudden helpless gesture. She said: ‘Of course—you must accept.’
IV
Pilar stood in the centre of the music-room. She stood very straight, her eyes darting from side to side like an animal who fears an attack. She said: ‘I want to get away from here!’
Stephen Farr said gently: ‘You’re not the only one who feels like that. But they won’t let us go, my dear.’
‘You mean the police?’
‘Yes.’
Pilar said very seriously: ‘It is not nice to be mixed up with the police. It is a thing that should not happen to respectable people.’
Stephen said with a faint smile: ‘Meaning yourself?’
Pilar said: ‘No, I mean Alfred and Lydia and David and George and Hilda and yes…Magdalene too.’
Stephen lit a cigarette. He puffed at it for a moment or two before saying: ‘Why the exception?’
‘What is that, please?’
Stephen said: ‘Why leave out brother Harry?’
Pilar laughed, her teeth showing white and even.
‘Oh, Harry is different! I think he knows very well what it is to be mixed up with the police.’
‘Perhaps you are right. He certainly is a little too picturesque to blend well into the domestic picture.’
He went on: ‘Do you like your English relations, Pilar?’
Pilar said doubtfully: ‘They are kind they are all very kind. But they do not laugh much, they are not gay.’
‘My dear girl, there’s just been a murder in the house!’
‘Y-es,’ said Pilar doubtfully. ‘A murder,’ said Stephen instructively, ‘is not such an everyday occurrence as your nonchalance seems to imply. In England they take their murders seriously whatever they may do in Spain.’
Pilar said: ‘You are laughing at me…’
Stephen said: ‘You’re wrong. I’m not in a laughing mood.’
Pilar looked at him and said: ‘Because you, too, wish to get away from here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the big, handsome policeman will not let you go?’
‘I haven’t asked him. But if I did, I’ve no doubt he’d say no. I’ve got to watch my step, Pilar, and be very very careful.’
‘That is tiresome,’ said Pilar, nodding her head.
‘It’s just a little bit more than tiresome, my dear. Then there’s that lunatic foreigner prowling about. I don’t suppose he’s any good but he makes me feel jumpy.’
Pilar was frowning. She said:
‘My grandfather was very, very rich, was he not?’
‘I should imagine so.’
‘Where does his money go to now? To Alfred and the others?’
‘Depends on his will.’
Pilar said thoughtfully: ‘He might have left me some money, but I am afraid that perhaps he did not.’
Stephen said kindly: ‘You’ll be all right. After all, you’re one of the family. You belong here. They’ll have to look after you.’
Pilar said with a sigh: ‘I belong here. It is very funny, that. And yet it is not funny at all.’
‘I can see that you mightn’t find it very humorous.’
Pilar sighed again. She said:
‘Do you think if we put on the gramophone, we could dance?’
Stephen said dubiously: ‘It wouldn’t look any too good. This is a house of mourning, you callous Spanish baggage.’
Pilar said, her big eyes opening very wide: ‘But I do not feel sad at all. Because I did not really know my grandfather, and though I liked to talk to him, I do not want to cry and be unhappy because he is dead. It is very silly to pretend.’
Stephen said: ‘You’re adorable!’
Pilar said coaxingly: ‘We could put some stockings and some gloves in the gramophone, and then it would not make much noise, and no one would hear.’
‘Come along then, temptress.’
She laughed happily and ran out of the room, going along towards the ballroom at the far end of the house. Then, as she reached the side passage which led to the garden door, she stopped dead. Stephen caught up with her and stopped also. Hercule Poirot had unhooked a portrait from the wall and was studying it by the light from the terrace. He looked up and saw them.
‘Aha!’ he said. ‘You arrive at an opportune moment.’
Pilar said: ‘What are you doing?’
She came and stood beside him. Poirot said gravely: ‘I am studying something very important, the face of Simeon Lee when he was a young man.’
‘Oh, is that my grandfather?’
‘Yes, mademoiselle.’
She stared at the painted face. She said slowly: ‘How different, how very different…He was so old, so shrivelled up. Here he is like Harry, like Harry might have been ten years ago.’
Hercule Poirot nodded.
‘Yes, mademoiselle. Harry Lee is very much the son of his father. Now here—’ He led her a little way along the gallery. ‘Here is madame, your grandmother—a long gentle face, very blonde hair, mild blue eyes.’
Pilar said:
‘Like David.’
Stephen said:
‘Just a look of Alfred too.’
Poirot said: ‘The heredity, it is very interesting. Mr Lee and his wife were diametrically opposite types. On the whole, the children of the marriage took after the mother. See here, mademoiselle.’
He pointed to a picture of a girl of nineteen or so, with hair like spun gold and wide, laughing blue eyes. The colouring was that of Simeon Lee’s wife, but there was a spirit, a vivacity that those mild blue eyes and placid features had never known. ‘Oh!’ said Pilar. The colour came up in her face. Her hand went to her neck. She drew out a locket on a long gold chain. She pressed the catch and it flew open. The same laughing face looked up at Poirot. ‘My mother,’ said Pilar.
Poirot nodded. On the opposite side of the locket was the portrait of a man. He was young and handsome, with black hair and dark blue eyes. Poirot said: ‘Your father?’
Pilar said: ‘Yes, my father. He is very beautiful, is he not?’
‘Yes, indeed. Few Spaniards have blue eyes, have they, señorita?’
‘Sometimes, in the North. Besides, my father’s mother was Irish.’
Poirot said thoughtfully: ‘So you have Spanish blood, and Irish and English, and a touch of gipsy
too. Do you know what I think, mademoiselle? With that inheritance, you should make a bad enemy.’
Stephen said, laughing: ‘Remember what you said in the train, Pilar? That your way of dealing with your enemies would be to cut their throats. Oh!’
He stopped, suddenly realizing the import of his words. Hercule Poirot was quick to lead the conversation away. He said: ‘Ah, yes, there was something, señorita, I had to ask you. Your passport. It is needed by my friend the superintendent. There are, you know, police regulations very stupid, very tiresome, but necessary for a foreigner in this country. And of course, by law, you are a foreigner.’
Pilar’s eyebrows rose. ‘My passport? Yes, I will get it. It is in my room.’
Poirot said apologetically as he walked by her side: ‘I am most sorry to trouble you. I am indeed.’
They had reached the end of the long gallery. Here was a flight of stairs. Pilar ran up and Poirot followed. Stephen came too. Pilar’s bedroom was just at the head of the stairs. She said as she reached the door: ‘I will get it for you.’
She went in. Poirot and Stephen Farr remained waiting outside.
Stephen said remorsefully: ‘Damn’ silly of me to say a thing like that. I don’t think she noticed, though, do you?’
Poirot did not answer. He held his head a little on one side as though listening. He said: ‘The English are extraordinarily fond of fresh air. Miss Estravados must have inherited that characteristic.’
Stephen said staring: ‘Why?’
Poirot said softly: ‘Because though it is today extremely cold the black frost you call it (not like yesterday so mild and sunny) Miss Estravados has just flung up her lower window-sash. Amazing to love so much the fresh air.’
Suddenly there was an exclamation in Spanish from inside the room and Pilar reappeared laughingly dismayed. ‘Ah!’ she cried. ‘But I am stupid—and clumsy. My little case it was on the window-sill, and I was sorting through it so quickly and very stupidly I knock my passport out of the window. It is down on the flower-bed below. I will get it.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Stephen, but Pilar had flown past him and cried back over her shoulder: ‘No, it was my stupidity. You go to the drawing-room with M. Poirot and I will bring it to you there.’
