Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  ‘But the clocks must have meant something originally—in Gregson’s plot, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, yes. His clocks were set at one minute past five, four minutes past five and seven minutes past five. That was the combination number of a safe, 515457. The safe was concealed behind a reproduction of the Mona Lisa. Inside the safe,’ continued Poirot, with distaste, ‘were the Crown jewels of the Russian Royal Family. Un tas de bêtises, the whole thing! And of course there was a story of kinds—a persecuted girl. Oh, yes, it came in very handy for la Martindale. She just chose her local characters and adapted the story to fit in. All these flamboyant clues would lead—where? Exactly nowhere! Ah, yes, an efficient woman. One wonders—he left her a legacy—did he not? How and of what did he die, I wonder?’ Hardcastle refused to be interested in past history. He gathered up the exercise books and took the sheet of hotel paper from my hand. For the last two minutes I had been staring at it, fascinated. Hardcastle had scribbled down Enderby’s address without troubling to turn the sheet the right way up. The hotel address was upside down in the left-hand bottom corner. Staring at the sheet of paper, I knew what a fool I had been. ‘Well, thank you, M. Poirot,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You’ve certainly given us something to think about. Whether anything will come of it—’

  ‘I am most delighted if I have been of any assistance.’ Poirot was playing it modestly. ‘I’ll have to check various things—’

  ‘Naturally—naturally—’

  Goodbyes were said. Hardcastle took his departure. Poirot turned his attention to me. His eyebrows rose. ‘Eh bien—and what, may I ask, is biting you?—you look like a man who has seen an apparition.’

  ‘I’ve seen what a fool I’ve been.’

  ‘Aha. Well, that happens to many of us.’

  But presumably not to Hercules Poirot! I had to attack him. ‘Just tell me one thing, Poirot. If, as you said, you could do all this sitting in your chair in London and could have got me and Dick Hardcastle to come to you there, why—oh, why, did you come down here at all?’

  ‘I told you, they make the reparation in my apartment.’

  ‘They would have lent you another apartment. Or you could have gone to the Ritz, you would have been more comfortable there than in the Curlew Hotel.’

  ‘Indubitably,’ said Hercules Poirot. ‘The coffee here, mon dieu, the coffee!’

  ‘Well, then, why ?’ Hercules Poirot flew into a rage. ‘Eh bien, since you are too stupid to guess, I will tell you. I am human, am I not? I can be the machine if it is necessary. I can lie back and think. I can solve the problem so. But I am human, I tell you. And the problems concern human beings.’

  ‘And so the explanation is as simple as the murder was simple. I came out of human curiosity,’ said Hercules Poirot, with an attempt at dignity.

  Chapter 29

  Once more I was in Wilbraham Crescent, proceeding in a westerly direction. I stopped before the gate of No. 19. No one came screaming out of the house this time. It was neat and peaceful. I went up to the front door and rang the bell. Miss Millicent Pebmarsh opened it. ‘This is Colin Lamb,’ I said. ‘May I come in and speak to you?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  She preceded me into the sitting-room. ‘You seem to spend a lot of time down here, Mr Lamb. I understood that you were not connected with the local police—’

  ‘You understood rightly. I think, really, you have known exactly who I am from the first day you spoke to me.’

  ‘I’m not sure quite what you mean by that.’

  ‘I’ve been extremely stupid, Miss Pebmarsh. I came to this place to look for you. I found you the first day I was here—and I didn’t know I had found you!’

  ‘Possibly murder distracted you.’

  ‘As you say. I was also stupid enough to look at a piece of paper the wrong way up.’

  ‘And what is the point of all this?’

  ‘Just that the game is up, Miss Pebmarsh. I’ve found the headquarters where all the planning is done. Such records and memoranda as are necessary are kept by you on the micro dot system in Braille. The information Larkin got at Portlebury was passed to you. From here it went to its destination by means of Ramsay. He came across when necessary from his house to yours at night by way of the garden. He dropped a Czech coin in your garden one day—’

  ‘That was careless of him.’

  ‘We’re all careless at some time or another. Your cover is very good. You’re blind, you work at an institute for disabled children, you keep children’s books in Braille in your house as is only natural—you are a woman of unusual intelligence and personality. I don’t know what is the driving power that animates you—’

  ‘Say if you like that I am dedicated.’

  ‘Yes. I thought it might be like that.’

  ‘And why are you telling me all this? It seems unusual.’ I looked at my watch.

  ‘You have two hours, Miss Pebmarsh. In two hours’ time members of the special branch will come here and take charge—’

  ‘I don’t understand you. Why do you come here ahead of your people, to give me what seems to be a warning—’

  ‘It is a warning. I have come here myself, and shall remain here until my people arrive, to see that nothing leaves this house—with one exception. That exception is you yourself. You have two hours’ start if you choose to go.’

  ‘But why? Why? ’

  I said slowly: ‘Because I think there is an off-chance that you might shortly become my mother-in-law…I may be quite wrong.’

  There was a silence. Millicent Pebmarsh got up and went to the window. I didn’t take my eyes off her. I had no illusions about Millicent Pebmarsh. I didn’t trust her an inch. She was blind but even a blind woman can catch you if you are off guard. Her blindness wouldn’t handicap her if she once got her chance to jam an automatic against my spine. She said quietly: ‘I shall not tell you if you’re right or wrong. What makes you think that—that it might be so?’

  ‘Eyes.’

  ‘But we are not alike in character.’

  ‘No.’

  She spoke almost defiantly.

  ‘I did the best I could for her.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion. With you a cause came first.’

  ‘As it should do.’

  ‘I don’t agree.’

  There was silence again. Then I asked, ‘Did you know who she was—that day?’

  ‘Not until I heard the name…I had kept myself informed about her—always.’

  ‘You were never as inhuman as you would have liked to be.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’

  I looked at my watch again.

  ‘Time is going on,’ I said.

  She came back from the window and across to the desk.

  ‘I have a photograph of her here—as a child…’

  I was behind her as she pulled the drawer open. It wasn’t an automatic. It was a small very deadly knife…My hand closed over hers and took it away. ‘I may be soft, but I’m not a fool,’ I said.

  She felt for a chair and sat down. She displayed no emotion whatever. ‘I am not taking advantage of your offer. What would be the use? I shall stay here until—they come. There are always opportunities—even in prison.’

  ‘Of indoctrination, you mean?’

  ‘If you like to put it that way.’

  We sat there, hostile to each other, but with understanding.

  ‘I’ve resigned from the Service,’ I told her. ‘I’m going back to my old job—marine biology. There’s a post going at a university in Australia.’

  ‘I think you are wise. You haven’t got what it takes for this job. You are like Rosemary’s father. He couldn’t understand Lenin’s dictum: “Away with softness”.’

  I thought of Hercules Poirot’s words. ‘I’m content,’ I said, ‘to be human…’

  We sat there in silence, each of us convinced that the other’s point of view was wrong. Letter from Detective Inspector Hardcastle to M. Hercules Poirot

  Dea
r M. Poirot,

  We are now in possession of certain facts, and I feel you may be interested to hear about them. A Mr Quentin Duguesclin of Quebec left Canada for Europe approximately four weeks ago. He has no near relatives and his plans for return were indefinite. His passport was found by the proprietor of a small restaurant in Boulogne, who handed it in to the police. It has not so far been claimed. Mr Duguesclin was a lifelong friend of the Montresor family of Quebec. The head of that family, Mr Henry Montresor, died eighteen months ago, leaving his very considerable fortune to his only surviving relative, his great-niece Valerie, described as the wife of Josaiah Bland of Portlebury, England. A very reputable firm of London solicitors acted for the Canadian executors. All communications between Mrs Bland and her family in Canada ceased from the time of her marriage of which her family did not approve. Mr Duguesclin mentioned to one of his friends that he intended to look up the Blands while he was in England, since he had always been very fond of Valerie. The body hitherto identified as that of Henry Castleton has been positively identified as Quentin Duguesclin. Certain boards have been found stowed away in a corner of Bland’s building yard. Though hastily painted out, the words SNOWFLAKE LAUNDRY are plainly perceptible after treatment by experts.

  I will not trouble you with lesser details, but the public prosecutor considers that a warrant can be granted for the arrest of Josaiah Bland. Miss Martindale and Mrs Bland are, as you conjectured, sisters, but though I agree with your views on her participation in these crimes, satisfactory evidence will be hard to obtain. She is undoubtedly a very clever woman. I have hopes, though, of Mrs Bland. She is the type of woman who rats. The death of the first Mrs Bland through enemy action in France, and his second marriage to Hilda Martindale (who was in the N.A.A.F.I.) also in France can be, I think, clearly established, though many records were, of course, destroyed at that time. It was a great pleasure meeting you that day, and I must thank you for the very useful suggestions you made on that occasion. I hope the alterations and redecorations of your London flat have been satisfactory.

  Yours sincerely,

  Richard Hardcastle

  Further communication from R.H. to H.P.

  Good news! The Bland woman cracked! Admitted the whole thing! Puts the blame entirely on her sister and her husband. She ‘never understood until too late what they meant to do’! Thought they were only ‘going to dope him so that he wouldn’t recognize she was the wrong woman’! A likely story! But I’d say it’s true enough that she wasn’t the prime mover. The Portobello Market people have identified Miss Martindale as the ‘American’ lady who bought two of the clocks. Mrs McNaughton now says she saw Duguesclin in Bland’s van being driven into Bland’s garage. Did she really? Our friend Colin has married that girl. If you ask me, he’s mad. All the best.

  Yours,

  Richard Hardcastle

  Five Little Pigs

  BY

  AGATHA CHRISTIE

  Chapter 1

  Hercule Poirot looked with interest and appreciation at the young woman who was being ushered into the room. There had been nothing distinctive in the letter she had written. It had been a mere request for an appointment, with no hint of what lay behind that request. It had been brief and business like. Only the firmness of the handwriting had indicated that Carla Lemarchant was a young woman. And now here she was in the flesh - a tall, slender young woman in the early twenties.

  The kind of young woman that one definitely looked at twice. Her clothes were good: an expensive, well-cut coat and skirt and luxurious furs. Her head was well poised on her shoulders, she had a square brow, a sensitively cut nose, and a determined chin. She looked very much alive. It was her aliveness more than her beauty that struck the predominant note. Before her entrance, Hercule Poirot had been feeling old - now he felt rejuvenated, alive - keen! As he came forward to greet her, he was aware of her dark-grey eyes studying him attentively. She was very earnest in that scrutiny. She sat down and accepted the cigarette that he offered her. After it was lit she sat for a minute or two smoking, still looking at him with that earnest, thoughtful scrutiny. Poirot said gently, “Yes, it has to be decided, does it not?”

  She started. “I beg your pardon?” Her voice was attractive, with a faint, agreeable huskiness in it. “You are making up your mind - are you not? - whether I am a mere mountebank or the man you need.”

  She smiled. She said, “Well, yes - something of that kind. You see, M. Poirot, you - you don’t look exactly the way I pictured you.”

  “And I am old, am I not? Older than you imagined?”

  “Yes, that, too.” She hesitated. “I’m being frank, you see. I want - I’ve got to have - the best.”

  “Rest assured,” said Hercule Poirot, “I am the best!”

  Carla said, “You’re not modest… All the same, I’m inclined to take you at your word.”

  Poirot said placidly, “One does not, you know, employ merely the muscles. I do not need to bend and measure the footprints and pick up the cigarette ends and examine the bent blades of grass. It is enough for me to sit back in my chair and think. It is this -” he tapped his egg-shaped head - “this, that functions!”

  “I know,” said Carla Lemarchant. “That’s why I’ve come to you. I want you, you see, to do something fantastic!”

  “That,” said Hercule Poirot “promises well!”

  He looked at her in encouragement. Carla Lemarchant drew a deep breath. “My name,” she said, “isn’t Carla. It’s Caroline. The same as my mother’s. I was called after her.” She paused. “And though I’ve always gone by the name of Lemarchant - ever since I can remember almost - that isn’t my real name. My real name is Crale.”

  Hercule Poirot’s forehead creased a moment perplexedly. He murmured, “Crale - I seem to remember…”

  She said, “My father was a painter - rather a well-known painter. Some people say he was a great painter. I think he was.”

  “Amyas Crale?”

  “Yes.” She paused, then she went on. “And my mother, Caroline Crale, was tried for murdering him!”

  “Aha,” said Poirot. “I remember now - but only vaguely. I was abroad at the time. It was a long time ago.”

  “Sixteen years,” said the girl. Her face was very white now and her eyes were two burning lights. “Do you understand? She was tried and convicted… She wasn’t hanged because they felt that there were extenuating circumstances, so the sentence was commuted to penal servitude for life. But she died only a year after the trial. You see? It’s all over - done - finished with.”

  Poirot said quietly, “And so?”

  The girl called Carla Lemarchant pressed her hands together. She spoke slowly and haltingly but with an odd, pointed emphasis. “You’ve got to understand - exactly - where I come in. I was five years old at the time it - happened. Too young to know anything about it. I remember my mother and my father, of course, and I remember leaving home suddenly - being taken to the country. I remember the pigs and a nice fat farmer’s wife - and everybody being very kind - and I remember, quite clearly, the funny way they used to look at me - everybody - a sort of furtive look. I knew, of course, children do, that there was something wrong - but I didn’t know what.

  “And then I went on a ship - it was exciting - it went on for days and then I was in Canada and Uncle Simon met me, and I lived in Montreal with him and with Aunt Louise, and when I asked about Mummy and Daddy they said they’d be coming soon. And then - and then I think I forgot - only I sort of knew that they were dead without remembering anyone actually telling me so. Because by that time, you see, I didn’t think about them anymore. I was very happy, you know. Uncle Simon and Aunt Louise were sweet to me, and I went to school and had a lot of friends, and I’d quite forgotten that I’d ever had another name, not Lemarchant. Aunt Louise, you see, told me that that was my name in Canada and that seemed quite sensible to me at the time - it was just my Canadian name - but as I say I forgot in the end that I’d ever had any other.”

&nbs
p; She flung up her defiant chin. She said, “Look at me. You’d say - wouldn’t you? - if you met me: ‘There goes a girl who’s got nothing to worry about!’ I’m well off, I’ve got splendid health, I’m sufficiently good to look at, and I can enjoy life. At twenty, there wasn’t a girl anywhere I’d have changed places with.

  “But already, you know, I’d begun to ask questions. About my own mother and father. Who they were and what they did. I’d have been bound to find out in the end.

  “As it was, they told me the truth. When I was twenty-one. They had to then, because for one thing I came into my own money. And then, you see, there was the letter. The letter my mother left for me when she died.” Her expression changed, dimmed. Her eyes were no longer two burning points - they were dark, dim pools. She said, “That’s when I learned the truth. That my mother had been convicted of murder. It was - rather horrible.” She paused.

  “There’s something else I must tell you. I was engaged to be married. They said we must wait - that we couldn’t be married until I was twenty-one. When I knew, I understood why.”

  Poirot stirred and spoke for the first time. He said, “And what was your fiancé‘s reaction?”

  “John? John didn’t care. He said it made no difference to him. He and I were John and Carla - and the past didn’t matter.”

  She leaned forward. “We’re still engaged. But all the same, you know, it does matter. It matters to me. And it matters to John, too… It isn’t the past that matters to us - it’s the future.” She clenched her hands. “We want children, you see. We both want children. And we don’t want to watch our children growing up and be afraid.”

  “Do you not realize,” Poirot said, “that among everyone’s ancestors there has been violence and evil?”

  “You don’t understand. That’s so, of course. But, then, one doesn’t usually know about it. We do. It’s very near to us. And - sometimes - I’ve seen John just - look at me. Such a quick glance - just a flash. Supposing we were married and we’d quarrelled - and I saw him look at me and - and wonder?”