by Mark Place
“Yes; that is the annoying part of it! I feel then that I could have done it myself.”
“And so you could, Hastings, so you could. If you would but take the trouble of arranging your ideas! Without method – “
“Yes, yes,” I said hastily, for I knew Poirot's eloquence when started on his favourite theme only too well. “Tell me, what do we do next? Are you really going to reconstruct the crime?”
“Hardly that. Shall we say that the drama is over, but that I propose to add a - harlequinade?”
The following Tuesday was fixed upon by Poirot as the day for this mysterious performance. The preparations greatly intrigued me. A white screen was erected at one side of the room, flanked by heavy curtains at either side. A man with some lighting apparatus arrived next, and finally a group of members of the theatrical profession, who disappeared into Poirot's bedroom, which had been rigged up as a temporary dressing-room. Shortly before eight, Japp arrived, in not a very cheerful mood. I gathered that the official detective hardly approved of Poirot's plan.
“Bit melodramatic, like all his ideas. But there, it can do no harm, and as he says, it might save us a good bit of trouble. He's been very smart over the case. I was on the same scent myself, of course – “
I felt instinctively that Japp was straining the truth here – “but there, I promised to let him play the thing out his own way. Ah! Here is the crowd.”
His Lordship arrived first, escorting Mrs Mallaby, whom I had not as yet seen. She was a pretty, dark-haired woman, and appeared perceptibly nervous. The Davidsons followed. Chris Davidson also I saw for the first time. He was handsome enough in a rather obvious style, tall and dark, with the easy grace of the actor. Poirot had arranged seats for the party facing the screen. This was illuminated by a bright light. Poirot switched out the other lights so that the room was in darkness except for the screen. Poirot's voice rose out of the gloom.
“Messieurs, mesdames, a word of explanation. Six figures in turn will pass across the screen. They are familiar to you. Pierrot and his Pierrette; Punchinello the buffoon, and elegant Pulcinella; beautiful Columbine, lightly dancing, Harlequin, the spirt, invisible to man”
With these words of introduction, the show began. In turn each figure that Poirot had mentioned bounded before the screen, stayed there a moment poised, and then vanished. The lights went up, and a sigh of relief went round. Everyone had been nervous, fearing they knew not what. It seemed to me that the proceedings had gone singularly flat. If the criminal was among us, and Poirot expected him to break down at the mere sight of a familiar figure, the device had failed signally - as it was almost bound to do. Poirot, however, appeared not a whit discomposed. He stepped forward, beaming.
“Now, messieurs and mesdames, will you be so good as to tell me, one at a time what it is that we have just seen? Will you begin, milor'?”
The gentleman looked rather puzzled. “I'm afraid I don't quite understand.”
“Just tell me what we have been seeing.”
“I - er - well, I should say we have seen six figures passing in front of a screen and dressed to represent the personages in the old Italian Comedy, or - er - ourselves the other night.”
“Never mind the other night, milord” broke in Poirot. “The first part of your speech was what I wanted. Madame you agree with Milord' Cronshaw?” He had turned as he spoke to Mrs Mallaby.
“I - er - yes, of course.”
“You agree that you have seen six figures representing the Italian Comedy?”
“Why, certainly.”
“Monsieur Davidson? You too?”
“Yes.”
“Madame?”
“Yes.”
“Hastings? Japp? Yes? You are all in accord?”
He looked around upon us; his face grew rather pale, and his eyes were green as any cat's. “And yet - you are all wrong…your eyes have lied to you - as they lied to you on the night of the Victory Ball. To "see things with your own eyes", as they say, is not always to see the truth. One must see with eyes of the mind; one must employ the little cells of grey! Know, then, that tonight and on the night of the Victory Ball, you saw not six figures but five! See!”
The lights went out again. A figure bounded in front of the screen – Pierrot!
“Who is that?” demanded Poirot.
“Is it Pierrot?”
“Yes,” we all cried.
“Look again” With a swift movement the man divested himself of his loose Pierrot garb. There in the limelight stood glittering Harlequin! At the same moment there was a cry and an overturned chair.
“Curse you,” snarled Davidson's voice. “Curse you! How did you guess?”
Then came the clink of handcuffs and Japp's calm official voice. “I arrest you, Christopher Davidson - charge of murdering Viscount Cronshaw - anything you say used in evidence against you.”
It was a quarter of an hour later. A little supper had appeared; and Poirot, beaming all over his face, was dispensing hospitality and answering our eager questions.
“It was all very simple. The circumstances in which the green pompon was found suggested at once that it had been torn from the costume of the murderer. I dismissed Pierrette from my mind (since it takes considerable strength to drive a table-knife home) and fixed upon Pierrot as the criminal. But Pierrot left the ball nearly two hours before the murder was committed. So he must either have returned to the ball later to kill Lord Cronshaw, or eh bien, he must have killed him before he left!”
“Was that impossible?”
Who had seen Lord Cronshaw after supper that evening? Only Mrs Davidson, whose statement, I suspected, was a deliberate fabrication uttered with the object of accounting for the missing pompon, which, of course, she cut from her own dress to replace the one missing on her husband's costume. But then, Harlequin, who was seen in the box at one-thirty, must have been an impersonation. For a moment, earlier, I had considered the possibility of Mr Beltane being the guilty party. But with his elaborate costume, it was clearly impossible that he could have doubled the roles of Punchinello and Harlequin. On the other hand, to David-son, a young man of about the same height as the murdered man and an actor by profession, the thing was simplicity itself.
But one thing worried me. Surely a doctor could not fail to perceive the difference between a man who had been dead two hours and one who had been dead ten minutes! Eh, the doctor did perceive it! But he was not taken to the body and asked "How long has this man been dead?" On the contrary, he was informed that the man had been seen alive ten minutes ago, and so he merely commented at the inquest on the abnormal stiffening of the limbs for which he was quite unable to account! 'All was now marching famously for my theory. Davidson had killed Lord Cronshaw immediately after supper, when.,.. as you remember, he was seen to draw him back into the supper-room.
“Then he departed with Miss Courtenay, left her at the door of her flat (instead of going in and trying to pacify her as he affirmed) and returned post-haste to the Colossus - but as Harlequin, not Pierrot - a simple transformation effected by removing his outer costume.”
The uncle of the dead man leaned forward, his eyes perplexed.
“But if so, he must have come to the ball prepared to kill his victim. What earthly motive could he have had? The motive, that's what I can't get.”
“Ah! There we come to the second tragedy - that of Miss Courtenay. There was one simple point which everyone over-looked. Miss Courtenay died of cocaine poisoning - but her supply of the drug was in the enamel box which was found on Lord Cronshaw's body. Where, then, did she obtain the dose which killed her? Only one person could have supplied her with it -Davidson. And that explains everything. It accounts for her friendship with the Davidsons and her demand that Davidson should escort her home. Lord Cronshaw, who was almost fanatic-ally opposed to drug-taking, discovered that she was addicted to cocaine, and suspected that Davidson supplied her with it.”
“Davidson doubtless denied this, but Lord Cronshaw determi
ned to get the truth from Miss Courtenay at the ball. He could forgive the wretched girl, but he would certainly have no mercy on the man who made a living by trafficking in drugs. Exposure and ruin confronted Davidson. He went to the ball determined that Cronshaw's silence must be obtained at any cost.”
“Was Coco's death an accident, then?”
“I suspect that it was an accident cleverly engineered by Davidson. She was furiously angry with Cronshaw, first for his reproaches, and secondly for taking her cocaine from her. Davidson supplied her with more, and probably suggested her augmenting the dose as a defiance to "old Cronch'.”
“One other thing,” I said. “the recess and the curtain? How did you know about them?”
“Why, mon ami, that was the most simple of all. Waiters had been in and out of that little room, so, obviously, the body could not have been lying where it was found on the floor. There must be some place in the room where it could be hidden. I deduced a curtain and a recess behind it. Davidson dragged the body there, and later, after drawing attention to himself in the box, he dragged it out again before finally leaving the Hall. It was one of his best moves. He is a clever fellow?”
But in Poirot's green eyes I read unmistakably the unspoken remark: “But not quite so clever as Hercule Poirot!”
The Adventure
Of The Italian Nobleman
BY
AGATHA CHRISTIE
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ITALIAN NOBLEMAN
Poirot and I had many friends and acquaintances of a rather informal nature. Amongst these was to be numbered Dr Hawker, a near neighbour of ours, and a member of the medical profession. It was the genial doctor's habit to drop in sometimes of an evening and have a chat with Poirot, of whose genius he was an ardent admirer. The doctor himself, frank and unsuspicious to the last degree, admired the talents so far removed from his own. On one particular evening in early June, he arrived about half-past eight and settled down to a comfortable discussion on the cheery topic of the prevalence of arsenical poisoning in crimes. It must have been about a quarter of an hour later when the door of our sitting-room flew open, and a distracted female precipitated herself into the room.
"Oh, doctor, you're wanted! Such a terrible voice. It gave me a turn, it did indeed."
I recognized in our new visitor Dr Hawker's housekeeper, Miss Rider. The doctor was a bachelor, and lived in a gloomy old house a few streets away. The usually placid Miss Rider was now in a state bordering on incoherence.
"What terrible voice? Who is it, and what's the trouble?"
"It was the telephone, doctor. I answered it -and a voice spoke. 'Help,' it said. 'Doctor, help.
They've killed me!' Then it sort of trailed away. 'Who's speaking?' I said. 'Who's speaking?' Then I got a reply, just a whisper, it seemed, 'Foscatine' -something like that, 'Regent's Court.'"
The doctor uttered an exclamation.
"Court Foscatini. He has a flat in Regent's Court. I must go at once. What can have happened?"
"A patient of yours?" asked Poirot.
"I attended him for some slight ailment a few weeks ago. An Italian, but he speaks English perfectly. Well I must wish you good night, Monsieur Poirot, unless" He hesitated.
"I perceive the thought in your mind," said Poirot, smiling. "I shall be delighted to accompany you. Hastings, run down and get hold of a taxi."
Taxis always make themselves sought for when one is particularly pressed for time, but I captured one at last, and we were soon bowling along in the direction of Regent's Park. Regent's Court was a new block of flats, situated just off St John's Wood Road. They had only recently been built, and contained the latest service devices. There was no one in the hall. The doctor pressed the lift-bell impatiently, and when the lift arrived questioned the uniformed attendant sharply. "Flat 11. Count Foscatini. There's been an accident there, I understand." The man stared at him.
"First I've heard of it. Mr Graves -that's Count Foscatini's man -went out about half an hour ago, and he said nothing."
"Is the Count alone in the flat?"
"No, sir, he's got two gentlemen dining with him."
"What are they like?" I asked eagerly. We were in the lift now, ascending rapidly to the second floor, on which Flat 11 was situated.
"I didn't see them myself, sir, but I understand that they were foreign gentlemen." He pulled back the iron door, and we stepped out on the landing. No. 11 was opposite to us. The doctor rang the bell. There was no reply, and we could hear no sound from within. The doctor rang again and again; we could hear the bell trilling within, but no sign of life rewarded us.
"This is getting serious," muttered the doctor. He turned to the lift attendant.
"Is there any passkey to this door?"
"There is one in the porter's office downstairs."
"Get it, then, and, look here, I think you'd better send for the police." Poirot approved with a nod of the head. The man returned shortly; with him came the manager. "Will you tell me, gentlemen, what is the meaning of all this?"
"Certainly. I received a telephone message from Count Foscatini stating that he had been attacked and was dying. You can understand that we must lose no time, if we are not already too late."
The manager produced the key without more ado, and we all entered the flat. We passed first into a small square lounge hall. A door on the right of it was half open. The manager indicated it with a nod.
"The dining room."
Dr Hawker led the way. We followed close on his heels. As we entered the room I gave a gasp. The round table in the centre bore the remains of a meal; three chairs were pushed back, as though their occupants had just risen. In the corner, to the right of the fire place, was a big writing table, and sitting at it was a man or what had been a man. His right hand still grasped the base of the telephone, but he had fallen forward, struck down by a terrific blow on the head from behind. The weapon was not far to seek. A marble statuette stood where it had been hurriedly put down, the base of it stained with blood. The doctor's examination did not take a minute. "Stone dead. Must have been almost instantaneous. I wonder he even managed to telephone. It will be better not to move him until the police arrive."
On the manager's suggestion we searched the flat, but the result was a foregone conclusion. It was not likely that the murderers would be concealed there when all they had to do was to walk out. We came back to the dining room. Poirot had not accompanied us in our tour. I found him studying the centre table with close attention. I joined him. It was a well-polished round mahogany table. A bowl of roses decorated the centre, and white lace mats reposed on the gleaming surface. There was a dish of fruit, but the three dessert plates were untouched. There were three coffee-cups with remains of coffee in them, two black, one with milk. All three men had taken port, and the decanter, half-full, stood before the centre plate. One of the men had smoked a cigar, the other two cigarettes. A tortoise shell and silver box, holding cigars and cigarettes, stood open upon the table. I enumerated all these facts to myself, but I was forced to admit that they did not shed any brilliant light on the situation. I wondered what Poirot saw in them to make him so intent. I asked him.
"Mon ami," he replied, "you miss the point. I am looking for something that I do not see."
"What is that?"
"A mistake, even a little mistake, on the part of the murderer."
He stepped swiftly to the small adjoining kitchen, looked in, and shook his head.
"Monsieur," he said to the manager, "explain to me, I pray, your system of serving meals here."
The manager stepped to a small hatch in the wall.
"This is the service lift," he explained. "It runs to the kitchens at the top of the building.
You order through this telephone, and the dishes are sent down in the lift, one course at a time. The dirty plates and dishes are sent up in the same manner. No domestic worries, you understand, and at the same time you avoid the wearying publicity of always dining in a restaurant." Poirot nodded.
<
br /> "Then the plates and dishes that were used tonight are on high in the kitchen. You permit that I mount there?"
"Oh, certainly, if you like! Roberts, the lift man, will take you up and introduce you; but I'm afraid you won't find anything that's of any use. They're handling hundreds of plates and dishes, and they'll be all lumped together."
Poirot remained firm, however, and together we visited the kitchens and questioned the man who had taken the order from flat 11.
"The order was given from the à la carte menu for three," he explained. "Soup julienne, filet de sole normande, tournedos of beef, and a rice soufflé.”
“What time?”
“Just about eight o'clock, I should say. No, I'm afraid the plates and dishes have been all washed up by now. Unfortunate. You were thinking of finger-prints, I suppose?"
"Not exactly," said Poirot, with an enigmatical smile. "I am more interested in Count Foscatini's appetite. Did he partake of every dish?"
"Yes; but of course I can't say how much of each he ate. The plates were all soiled, and the dishes empty that is to say, with the exception of the rice soufflé. There was a fair amount of that left."
"Ah!" said Poirot, and seemed satisfied with the fact.
As we descended to the flat again he remarked in a low tone: "We have decidedly to do with a man of method."
"Do you mean the murderer, or Count Foscatini?"
"The latter was undoubtedly an orderly gentleman. After imploring help and announcing his approaching demise, he carefully hung up the telephone receiver."
I stared at Poirot. His words now and his recent inquiries gave me the glimmering of an idea. "You suspect poison?" I breathed. "The blow on the head was a blind." Poirot merely smiled.
We re-entered the flat to find the local inspector of police had arrived with two constables. He was inclined to resent our appearance, but Poirot calmed him with the mention of our Scotland Yard friend, Inspector Japp, and we were accorded a grudging permission to remain. It was a lucky thing we were, for we had not been back five minutes before an agitated middle aged man came rushing into the room with every appearance of grief and agitation.
