AgathaChristie-HerculePoirotsCasebook

by Hercule Poirot's Casebook (lit)

  'You're too sweet to admit it. Men are so wonderfully loyal - that's what I like about them. I do think men are so much more loyal than women - and they never say nasty things.

  Women, I always think, are rather petty.'

  Sarah Blake rolled over on her side towards Poirot.

  She murmured between her teeth.

  'Examples of pettiness, to suggest that dear Mrs Chantry is

  in any way not absolute perfection! What a complete idiot the

  woman is I I really do think Valentine Chantry is very nearly the

  most idiotic woman I ever met. She can't do anything but say,

  "Tony, darling," and roll her eyes. I should fancy she'd got

  cottonwool padding instead of brains.'

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  Poirot raised his expressive eyebrows.

  'Un peu sbore,t'

  'Oh, yes. Put it down as pure "Cat," if you like. She certainly

  has her methods! Can't she leave any man alone? Her

  husband's looking like thunder.'

  Looking out to sea, Poirot remarked:

  'Mrs Gold swims well.'

  'Yes, she isn't like us who f'md it a nuisance to get wet. I

  wonder if Mrs Chantry will ever go into the sea at all while she's

  out here.'

  'Not she,' said General Barnes huskily. 'She won't risk that

  make-up of hers coming off. Not that she isn't a f'me-looking

  woman although perhaps a bit long in the tooth.'

  'She's looking your way, General,' said Sarah wickedly.

  'And you're wrong about the make-up. We're all waterproof

  and kissproof nowadays.'

  'Mrs Gold's coming out,' announced Pamela.

  'Here we go gathering nuts and may,' hummed Sarah. 'Here

  comes his wife to fetch him away - fetch him away - fetch him

  away...'

  Mrs Gold came straight up the beach. She had quite a pretty

  figure but her plain, waterproof cap was rather too serviceable

  to be attractive.

  'Aren't you coming, Douglas?' she demanded impatiently.

  'The sea is lovely and warm.'

  'Rather.'

  Douglas Gold rose hastily to his feet. He paused a moment

  and as he did so Valentine Chantry looked up at him with a

  sweet smile.

  'Au revolt,' she said.

  Gold and his wife went down the beach.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Pamela said critically:

  'I don't think, you know, that that was wise. To snatch your

  husband away from another woman is always bad policy. It

  makes you seem so possessive. And husbands hate that.'

  'You seem to know a lot about husbands, Miss Pamela,' said

  General Barnes.

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  'Other people's - not my own!'

  'Ah! that's where the difference comes in.'

  'Yes, but General, I shall have learnt a lot of Do Nots.'

  'Well, darling,' said Sarah, 'I shouldn't wear a cap like that

  for one thing...'

  'Seems very sensible to me,' said the General. 'Seems a nice,

  sensible little woman altogether.'

  'You've hit it exactly, General,' said Sarah. 'But you know

  there's a limit to the sensibleness of sensible women. I have a

  feeling she won't be so sensible when it's a case of Valentine

  Chantry.'

  She turned her head and exclaimed in a low, excited

  whisper:

  'Look at him now. Just like thunder. That man looks as

  though he had got the most frightful temper...'

  Commander Chantry was indeed scowling after the retreating

  husband and wife in a singularly unpleasant fashion.

  Susan looked up at Poirot.

  'Well?' she said. 'What do you make of all this?'

  Hercule Poirot did not reply in words, but once again his

  forefinger traced a design in the sand. The same design - a triangle.

  'The eternal triangle,' mused Susan. 'Perhaps you're right.

  If so, we're in for an exciting time in the next few weeks.'

  CHAPTER2

  M. Hercule Poirot was disappointed with Rhodes. He had

  come to Rhodes for a rest and for a holiday. A holiday,

  especially, from crime. In late October, so he had been told,

  Rhodes would be nearly empty. A peaceful, secluded spot.

  That, in itself, was true enough. The Chantrys, the Golds,

  Pamela and Susan, the General and himself and two Italian

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  couples were the only guests. But within that restricted circle the intelligent brain of M. Poirot perceived the inevitable

  shaping of events to come.

  'It is that I am criminal-minded,' he told himself reproachfully.

  'I have the indigestion! I imagine things.'

  But still he worried.

  One morning he came down to fred Mrs Gold sitting on the

  terrace doing needlework.

  As he came up to her he had the impression that there was

  the flicker of a cambric handkerchief swiftly whisked out of

  sight.

  Mrs Gold's eyes were dry, but they were suspiciously bright.

  Her manner, too, struck him as being a shade too cheerful. The

  brightness of it was a shade overdone.

  She said:

  'Good morning, M. Poirot,' with such enthusiasm as to

  arouse his doubts.

  He felt that she could not possibly be quite as pleased to see

  him as she appeared to be. For she did not, after all, know him

  very well. And though Hercule Poirot was a conceited little

  man where his profession was concerned, he was quite modest

  in his estimate of his personal attractions.

  'Good morning, madame,' he responded. 'Another beautiful

  day.'

  'Yes, isn't it fortunate? But Douglas and I are always lucky

  in our weather.'

  'Indeed?'

  'Yes. We're really very lucky altogether. You know, M.

  Poirot, when one sees so much trouble and unhappiness, and so

  many couples divorcing each other and all that sort of thing,

  well, one does feel very grateful for one's own happiness.'

  'It is pleasant to hear you say so, madame.'

  'Yes. Douglas and I are so wonderfully happy together.

  We've been married five years, you know, and after all, five

  years is quite a long time nowadays '

  'I have no doubt that in some cases it can seem an eternity,

  madame,' said Poirot dryly.

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  '- but I really believe that we're happier now than when we

  were first married. You see, we're so absolutely suited to each

  other.'

  'That, of course, is everything.'

  'That's why I feel so sorry for people who aren't happy.'

  'You mean '

  'Oh! I was speaking generally, M. Poirot.'

  'I see. I see.'

  Mrs Gold picked up a strand of silk, held it to the light,

  approved of it, and were on:

  'Mrs Chantry, for instance '

  'Yes, Mrs Chantry?'

  'I don't think she's at all a nice woman.'

  'No. No, perhaps not.'

  'In fact, I'm quite sure she's not a nice woman. But in a way

  one feels sorry for her. Because in spite of her money and her

  good looks and all that' - Mrs Gold's fingers were trembling

  and she was quite unable to thread her needle - 'she's not the

  sort of woman men really stick to. She's the sort of woman, I

  think, that men would get tired of very easily. Don't you think

  so?'

  'I myself sh
ould certainlyget tired of her conversation

  before any great space of time had passed,' said Poirot

  cautiously.

  'Yes, that's what I mean. She has, of course, a kind of appeal

  ...' Mrs Gold hesitated, her lips trembled, she stabbed

  uncertainly at her work. A less acute observer than Hercule

  Poirot could not have failed to notice her distress. She went on

  inconsequently:

  Then are just like children! They believe anything...'

  She bent over her work. The tiny wisp of cambric came out

  again unobtrusively.

  Perhaps Hercule Poirot thought it well to change the

  subject.

  He said:

  'You do not bathe this morning? And monsieur your

  husband, is he down on the beach?'

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  Mrs Gold looked up, blinked, resumed her almost defiantly

  bright manner and replied:

  'No, not this morning. We arranged to go round the walls of

  the old city. But somehow or other we - we missed each other.

  They started without me.'

  The pronoun was revealing, but before Poirot could say

  anything, General Barnes came up from the beach below and

  dropped into a chair beside them.

  'Good morning, Mrs Gold. Good morning, Poirot. Both

  deserters this morning? A lot of absentees. You two, and your

  husband, Mrs Gold - and Mrs Chantry.'

  'And Commander Chantry?' inquired Poirot casually.

  'Oh, no, he's down there. Miss Pamela's got him in hand.'

  The General chuckled. 'She's finding him a little bit difficult!

  One of the strong, silent men you hear about in books.'

  Marjorie Gold said with a little shiver:

  'He frightens me a little, that man. He - he looks so black

  sometimes. As though he might do - anything!'

  She shivered.

  'Just indigestion, I expect,' said the General cheerfully.

  'Dyspepsia is responsible for many a reputation for romantic

  melancholy or ungovernable rages.'

  Marjorie Gold smiled a polite little smile.

  'And where's your good man?' inquired the General.

  Her reply came without hesitation - in a natural, cheerful

  voice.

  'Douglas? Oh, he and Mrs Chantry have gone into the town.

  I believe they've gone to have a look at the walls of the old city.'

  'Ha, yes - very interesting. Time of the lmights and all that.

  You ought to have gone too, little lady.'

  Mrs Gold said:

  'I'm afraid I came down rather late.'

  She got up suddenly with a murmured excuse and went into

  the hotel. '

  General Barnes looked after her with a concerned expression,

  shaking his head gently.

  'Nice little woman, that. Worth a dozen painted trollops like

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  someone whose name we won't mention! Ha! Husband's a

  fool! Doesn't know when he's well off.'

  He shook his head again. Then, rising, he went indoors.

  Sarah Blake had just come up from the beach and had heard

  the General's last speech.

  Making a face at the departing warrior's back, she remarked

  as she flung herself into a chair:

  'Nice little woman - nice little woman! Men always approve

  of dowdy women - but when it comes to brass tacks the dress-up

  trollops win hands down! Sad, but there it is.'

  'Mademoiselle,' said Poirot, and his voice was abrupt. 'I do

  not like all this!'

  'Don't you? Nor do I. No, let's be honest, I suppose I do.like it really. There is a horrid side of one that enjoys accidents and

  public calamities and unpleasant things that happen to one's

  friends.'

  Poirot asked:

  'Where is Commander Chantry?'

  'On the beach being dissected by Pamela (she's enjoying

  herself if you like!) and not being improved in temper by the

  proceeding. He was looking like a thunder cloud when I came

  up. There are squalls ahead, believe me.'

  Poirot murmured:

  'There is something I do not understand '

  'It's not easy to understand,' said Sarah. 'But what's going to happen that's the question.'

  Poirot shook his head and murmured:

  'As you say, mademoiselle - it is the future that causes one

  inquietude.'

  'What a nice way of putting it,' said Sarah and went into the

  hotel.

  In the doorway she almost collided with Douglas Gold. The

  young man came out looking rather pleased with himself but at

  the same time slightly guilty. He said:

  'Hallo, M. Poirot,' and added rather self-consciously, 'Been

  showing Mrs Chantry the Crusaders' walls. Marjorie didn't

  feel up to going.'

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  Poirot's eyebrows rose slightly, but even had he wished he

  would have had no time to make a comment for Valentine

  Chantry came sweeping out, crying in her high voice:

  'Douglas - a pink gin - positively I must have a pink gin.'

  Douglas Gold went off to order the drink. Valentine sank

  into a chair by Poirot. She was looking radiant this morning.

  She saw her husband and Pamela coming up towards them

  and waved a hand, crying out:

  'Have a nice bathe, Tony darling? Isn't it a divine morning?'

  Commander Chantry did not answer. He swung up the

  steps, passed her without a word or a look and vanished into the

  bar.

  His hands were clenched by his sides and that faint likeness

  to a gorilla was accentuated.

  Valentine Chantry's perfect but rather foolish mouth fell

  open.

  She said, 'Oh,' rather blankly.

  Pamela Lyall's face expressed keen enjoyment of the

  situation. Masking it as far as was possible to one of her

  ingenuous disposition she sat down by Valentine Chantry and

  inquired:

  'Have you had a nice morning?'

  As Valentine began, 'Simply marvellous. We -' Poirot got

  up and in his turn strolled gently towards the bar. He found

  young Gold waiting for the pink gin with a flushed face. He

  looked disturbed and angry.

  He said to Poirot, 'That man's a brute!' And he nodded his

  head in the direction of the retreating figure of Commander

  Chantry.

  'It is possible,' said Poirot. 'Yes, it is quite possible. But les

  femmes, they like brutes, remember that!'

  Douglas muttered:

  'I shouldn't be surprised if he ill-treats her?

  'She probably likes that too.'

  Douglas Gold looked at him in a puzzled way, took up the

  pink gin and went out with it.

  Hercule Poirot sat on a stool and ordered a drop de ca. sds.

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  Whilst he was sipping it with long sighs of enjoyment, Chantry

  came in and drank several pink gins in rapid succession.

  He said suddenly and violently to the world at large rather

  than to Poirot:

  'If Valentine thinks she can get rid of me like she's got rid of

  a lot of other damned fools, she's mistaken! I've got her and I

  mean to keep her. No other fellow's going to get her except over

  my dead body.'

  He flung down some money, turned on his heel and went

  out.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was three days later that Hercule Poirot went to the Mount

>   of the Prophet. It was a cool, agreeable drive through the

  golden green fir trees, winding higher and higher, far above the

  petty wrangling and squabbling of human beings. The car

  stopped at the restaurant. Poirot got out and wandered into the

  woods. He came out at last on a spot that seemed truly on top

  of the world. Far below, deeply and dazzlingly blue, was the

  sea.

  Here at last he was at peace - removed from cares - above the

  world. Carefully placing his folded overcoat on a tree stump,

  Hercule Poirot sat down.

  'Doubtless le bon Dieu knows what he does. But it is odd that

  he should have permitted himself to fashion certain human

  beings. Eh tnb, n, here for awhile at least I am away from these

  vexing problems.' Thus he mused.

  He looked up with a start. A little wotmm in a brown coat and

  skirt was hurrying towards him. It was Marjorie Gold and this

  time she had abandoned all pretence. Her face was wet with

  tears.

  Poirot could not escape. She was upon him.

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  'M. Poirot. You've got to help me. I'm so miserable I don't

  know what to do! Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?'

  She looked up at him with a distracted face. Her fingers

  fastened on his coat sleeve.. Then, as something she saw in his

  face alarmed her, she drew back a little.

  'What - what is it?' she faltered.

  'You want my advice, madame? It is that you ask?'

  She stammered, 'Yes ... Yes ...'