Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  “Thank you, mademoiselle. It must have been a great shock to your nervous system. As to this tramp, could you describe him? Do you remember what he was wearing?”

  “No - it was all so quick. But I should know the man anywhere. His face is burnt in on my brain.”

  “Just one more question, mademoiselle. The curtains of the other window, the one giving on the drive, were they drawn?”

  For the first time a puzzled expression crept over the dancer’s face. She seemed to be trying to remember.

  “Eh bien, mademoiselle?”

  “I think - I am almost sure - yes, quite sure! They were not drawn.”

  “That is curious, since the other ones were. No matter. It is, I dare say, of no great importance. You are remaining here long, mademoiselle?”

  “The doctor thinks I shall be fit to return to town tomorrow.” She looked round the room. Miss Oglander had gone out.

  “Three people, they are very kind - but they are not of my world. I shock them! And to me - well, I am not fond of the bourgeoisie!” A faint note of bitterness underlay her words.

  Poirot nodded. “I understand. I hope I have not fatigued you unduly with my questions?”

  “Not at all, monsieur. I am only too anxious Paul should know all as soon as possible.”

  “Then I will wish you good day, mademoiselle.”

  As Poirot was leaving the room, he paused, and pounced on a pair of patent-leather slippers. “Yours, mademoiselle?”

  “Yes, monsieur. They have just been cleaned and brought up.”

  “Ah!” said Poirot, as we descended the stairs. “It seems that the domestics are not too excited to clean shoes, though they forget a grate. Well, mon ami, at first there appeared to be one or two points of interest, but I fear, I very much fear, that we must regard the case as finished. It all seems straightforward enough “And the murderer?”

  “Hercule Poirot does not hunt down tramps,” replied my friend grandiloquently. Miss Oglander met us in the hall. “If you will wait in the drawing-room a minute, Mamma would like to speak to you.” The room was still untouched, and Poirot idly gathered up the cards, shuffling them with his tiny, fastidiously groomed hands; “Do you know what I think, my friend?”

  “No?” I said eagerly.

  “I think that Miss Oglander made a mistake in going one trump. She should have gone three spades.”

  “Poirot You are the limit.”

  “Mon Dieu, I cannot always be talking blood and thunder!” Suddenly he stiffened: “Hastings - Hastings. See! The king of clubs is missing from the pack”

  “Hurrah” I cried.

  “Eh?” He did not seem to understand my illusion. Mechanically he stacked the cards and put them away in their cases. His face was very grave. “Hastings,” he said at last, “I, Hercule Poirot, have come near to making a big mistake - a very big mistake.” I gazed at him, impressed, but utterly uncomprehending.

  “We must begin again, Hastings. Yes, we must begin again. But this time we shall not err.” He was interrupted by the entrance of a handsome middle-aged lady. She carried some household books in her hand. Poirot bowed to her. “Do I understand, sir, that you are a friend of - er –Saintclair’s?”

  “I come from a friend of hers, madame.” “Oh, I see. I thought perhaps”

  Poirot suddenly waved brusquely at the window.

  “Your blinds were not pulled down last night?”

  “No - I suppose that is why Miss Saintclair saw the light plainly.”

  “There was moonlight last night. I wonder that you did not see Mademoiselle Saintclair from your seat here facing the windows?”

  “I suppose we were engrossed with our game. Nothing like this has ever happened before to us.”

  “I can quite believe that, madame. And I will put your mind at rest. Mademoiselle Saintclair is leaving tomorrow.”

  “Oh!” The good lady’s face cleared.

  “And I will wish you good morning, madame.”

  A servant was cleaning the steps as we went out of the front door. Poirot addressed her. “Was it you who cleaned the shoes of the young lady upstairs?”

  The maid shook her head. “No sir. I don’t think they’ve been cleaned.”

  “Who cleaned them, then?” I inquired of Poirot, as we walked down the road.

  “Nobody. They did not need cleaning.”

  “I grant that walking on the road or path on a fine night would not soil them. But surely after going through the long grass of the garden, they would have been soiled and stained.”

  “Yes,” said Poirot with a curious smile.

  “In that case, I agree, they would have been stained.”

  “But - “

  “Have patience a little half-hour, my friend. We are going back to Mon D’sir.”

  The butler looked surprised at our reappearance, but offered no objection to our returning to the library.

  “Hi, that’s the wrong window, Poirot,” I cried as he made for the one overlooking the carriage-drive.

  “I think not, my friend. See here.” He pointed to the marble lion’s head. On it was a faint discoloured smear. He shifted his finger and pointed to a similar stain on the polished floor.

  “Someone struck Reedburn a blow with his clenched fist between the eyes. He fell backward on this projecting bit of marble then slipped to the floor. Afterwards, he was dragged across the floor to the other window, and laid there instead, but not quite at the same angle, as the Doctor’s evidence told us.”

  “But why? It seems utterly unnecessary.”

  “On the contrary, it was essential. Also, it is the key to the murderer’s identity - though, by the way, he had no intention of killing Reedburn and so it is hardly permissible to call him a murderer. He must be a very strong man!”

  “Because of having dragged the body across the floor?” “Not altogether. It has been an interesting case. I nearly made an imbecile of myself, though.”

  “Do you mean to say it is over, that you know everything?”

  “Yes.” A remembrance smote me.

  “No,” I cried. “There is one thing you do not know!”

  “And that is?”

  “You do not know where the missing king of clubs is!”

  “Eh? Oh, that is droll! That is very droll, my friend.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is in my pocket!” He drew it forth with a flourish. “Oh!” I said, rather crestfallen.

  “Where did you find it? Here?”

  “There was nothing sensational about it. It had simply not been taken out with the other cards. It was in the box.”

  “H’m All the same, it gave you an idea, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, my friend. I present my respects to His Majesty.”

  “And to Madame Zara!”

  “Ah, yes - to the lady also.”

  “Well, what are we going to do now?”

  “We are going to return to town. But I must have a few words with a certain lady at Daisymead first.” The same little maid opened the door to us. “They’re all at lunch now, sir - unless it’s Miss Saintclair you want to see, and she’s resting.”

  “It will do if I can see Mrs Oglander for a few minutes. Will you tell her?” We were led into the drawing-room to wait. I had a glimpse of the family in the dining-room as we passed, now reinforced by the presence of two heavy, solid-looking men, one with a moustache, the other with a beard also. In a few minutes Mrs Oglander came into the room, looking inquiringly at Poirot, who bowed.

  “Madame, we, in our country, have a great tenderness, a great respect for the mother. The matron defamille, she is everything!” Mrs Oglander looked rather astonished at this opening.

  “It is for that reason that I have come - to allay a mother’s anxiety. The murderer of Mr Reedburn will not be discovered.

  “Have no fear. I, Hercule Poirot, tell you so. I am right, am I not? Or is it a wife that I must reassure?” There was a moment’s pause. Mrs Oglander seemed searching Poirot wi
th her eyes. At last she said quietly: “I don’t know how you know - but yes, you are right.”

  Poirot nodded gravely. “That is all, madame. But do not be uneasy. Your English policemen have not the eyes of Hercule Poirot.” He tapped the family portrait on the wall with his finger-nail.

  “You had another daughter once. She is dead, madame?” Again there was a pause, as she searched him with her eyes. Then she answered: “Yes, she is dead.”

  “Ah!” said Poirot briskly. “Well, we must return to town. You permit that I return the king of clubs to the pack? It was your only slip. You understand, to have played bridge for an hour or so, with only fifty-one cards - well, no one who knows anything of the game would credit it for a minute! Bonjour!”

  “fine now, my friend,” said Poirot as we stepped towards the station, “you see it all? I see nothing! Who killed Reedburn?”

  “John Oglander, Junior. I was not quite sure if it was the father or the son, but I fixed on the son as being the stronger and younger of the two. It had to be one of them, because of the window.”

  “Why?”

  “There were four exits from the library - two doors, two windows; but evidently only one would do. Three exits gave on the front, directly or indirectly. The tragedy had to occur in the back window in order to make it appear that Valerie Saintclair came to Daisymead by chance. Really, of course, she fainted, and John Oglander carried her across over his shoulders. That is why I said he must be a strong man.” “Did they go there together, then?” “Yes. You remember Valerie’s hesitation when I asked her if she was not afraid to go alone? John Oglander went with her which didn’t improve Reedburn’s temper, I fancy. They quarrelled, and it was probably some insult levelled at Valerie that made Oglander hit him. The rest, you know.”

  “But why the bridge?”

  “Bridge presupposes four players. A simple thing like that carries a lot of conviction. Who would have supposed that there had been only three people in that room all the evening?” I was still puzzled.

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand. What have the Oglanders to do with the dancer Valerie Saintclair?”

  “Ah, that I wonder you did not see. And yet you looked long enough at that picture on the wall - longer than I did.

  Mrs Oglander’s other daughter may be dead to her family, but the world knows her as Valerie Saintclair!”

  “What?”

  “Did you not see the resemblance the moment you saw the two sisters together?”

  “No,” I confessed. “I only thought how extraordinarily dissimilar they were.”

  “That is because your mind is so open to external romantic impressions, my dear Hastings. The features are almost identical. So is the colouring. The interesting thing is that Valerie is ashamed of her family, and her family is ashamed of her. Nevertheless, in a moment of peril, she turned to her brother for help, and when things went wrong, they all hung together in a remarkable way. Family strength is a marvellous thing. They can all act that family. That is where Valerie gets her histrionic talent from. I, like Prince Paul, believe in heredity! They deceived me But for a lucky accident, and test question to Mrs Oglander by which I got her to contradict her daughter’s account of how they were sitting, the Oglander family would have put a defeat on Hercule Poirot.”

  “What shall you tell the Prince?”

  “That Valerie could not possibly have committed the crime, and that I doubt if that tramp will ever be found. Also, to convey my compliments to Zara. A curious coincidence, that! I think I shall call this little affair the Adventure of the King of Clubs. What do you think, my friend?”

  Third Girl

  BY

  AGATHA CHRISTIE

  CHAPTER ONE

  HERCULE POIROT was sitting at the breakfast table. At his right hand was a steaming cup of chocolate.

  He had always had a sweet tooth. To accompany the chocolate was a brioche. It went agreeably with chocolate. He nodded his approval. This was from the fourth shop he had tried. It was a Danish patisserie but infinitely superior to the so-called French one nearby. That had been nothing less than a fraud. He was satisfied gastronomically. His stomach was at peace. His mind also was at peace, perhaps somewhat too much so. He had finished his Magnum Opus, an analysis of great writers of detective fiction. He had dared to speak scathingly of Edgar Alien Poe, he had complained of the lack of method or order in the romantic outpourings of Wilkie Collins, had lauded to the skies two American authors who were practically unknown, and had in various other ways given honour where honour was due and sternly withheld it where he considered it was not. He had seen the volume through the press, had looked upon the results and, apart from a really incredible number of printer's errors, pronounced that it was good.

  He had enjoyed this literary achievement and enjoyed the vast amount of reading he had had to do, had enjoyed snorting with disgust as he flung a book across the floor (though always remembering to rise, pick it up and dispose of it tidily in the waste-paper basket) and had enjoyed appreciatively nodding his head on the rare occasions when such approval was justified. And now? He had had a pleasant interlude of relaxation, very necessary after his intellectual labour. But one could not relax for ever; one had to go on to the next thing. Unfortunately he had no idea what the next thing might be. Some further literary accomplishment? He thought not.

  Do a thing well then leave it alone. That was his maxim. The truth of the matter was, he was bored. All this strenuous mental activity in which he had been indulging--there had been too much of it. It had got him into bad habits, it had made him restless. Vexatious! He shook his head and took another sip of chocolate.

  The door opened and his well-trained servant, George, entered. His manner was deferential and slightly apologetic. He coughed and murmured, "A —" he paused," — a — young lady has called." Poirot looked at him with surprise and mild distaste.

  "I do not see people at this hour," he said reprovingly.

  "No, sir," agreed George.

  Master and servant looked at each other. Communication was sometimes fraught with difficulties for them. By inflexion or innuendo or a certain choice of words George would signify that there was something that might be elicited if the right question was asked. Poirot considered what the right question in this case might be.

  "She is good-looking, this young lady?" he enquired carefully.

  "In my view no, sir, but there is no accounting for tastes." Poirot considered this reply. He remembered the slight pause that George had made before the phrase - young lady.

  George was a delicate social recorder. He had been uncertain of the visitor's status but had given her the benefit of the doubt.

  "You are of the opinion that she is a young lady rather than, let us say, a young person?"

  "I think so, sir, though it is not always easy to tell nowadays." George spoke with genuine regret.

  "Did she give a reason for wishing to see me?"

  “She said" George pronounced the words with some reluctance, apologising for them in advance as it were, "that she wanted to consult you about a murder she might have committed."

  Hercule Poirot stared. His eyebrows rose. "Might have committed? Does she not know?"

  "That is what she said, sir."

  "Unsatisfactory, but possibly interesting," said Poirot.

  "It might--have been a joke, sir," said George, dubiously.

  "Anything is possible, I suppose," conceded Poirot, "But one would hardly think" He lifted his cup.

  "Show her in after five minutes."

  "Yes sir." George withdrew.

  Poirot finished the last sip of chocolate. He pushed aside his cup and rose to his feet. He walked to the fireplace and adjusted his moustaches carefully in the mirror over the chimney piece. Satisfied, he returned to his chair and awaited the arrival of his visitor. He did not know exactly what to expect.

  He had hoped perhaps for something nearer to his own estimate of female attraction. The outworn phrase "beauty in di
stress" had occurred to him. He was disappointed when George returned ushering in the visitor; inwardly he shook his head and sighed. Here was no beauty - and no noticeable distress either. Mild perplexity would seem nearer the mark. "Pah!" thought Poirot disgustedly.

  "These girls' Do they not even try to make something of themselves? Well made up, attractively dressed, hair that has been arranged by a good hairdresser, then perhaps she might pass. But now!"

  His visitor was a girl of perhaps twenty odd. Long straggly hair of indeterminate colour strayed over her shoulders. Her eyes, which were large, bore a vacant expression and were of a greenish blue.

  She wore what were presumably the chosen clothes of her generation. Black high leather boots, white openwork woollen stockings of doubtful cleanliness, a skimpy skirt, and a long and sloppy pullover of heavy wool. Anyone of Poirot's age and generation would have had only one desire. To drop the girl into a bath as soon as possible. He had often felt this same reaction walking along the streets.

  There were hundreds of girls looking exactly the same. They all looked dirty. And yet -- a contradiction in terms -- this one had the look of having been recently drowned and pulled out of a river. Such girls, he reflected, were not perhaps really dirty. They merely took enormous care and pains to look so. He rose with his usual politeness, shook hands, drew out a chair. "You demanded to see me, mademoiselle? Sit down, I pray of you."

  "Oh," said the girl, in a slightly breathless voice. She stared at him.

  "Eh bien?" said Poirot.

  She hesitated. "I think I'd—rather stand." The large eyes continued to stare doubtfully.

  "As you please." Poirot resumed his seat and looked at her. He waited. The girl shuffled her feet. She looked down on them then up again at Poirot. "You — you are Hercule Poirot?"

  "Assuredly. In what way can I be of use to you?"