The party proceeded as such parties do. Everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. It was neither a wild party nor a drunken one. It broke up about 11:45. The four guests left together and shared a taxi. Commander McLaren was dropped first at his club and then the Spences dropped Margharita Clayton at Cardigan Gardens just off Sloane Street and went on themselves to their house in Chelsea.
The gruesome discovery was made on the following morning by Major Rich's manservant, William Burgess. The latter did not live in. He arrived early so as to clear up the sitting room before calling Major Rich with his early morning tea. It was whilst clearing up that Burgess was startled to find a big stain discoloring the light-colored rug on which stood the Spanish chest. It seemed to have seeped through from the chest, and the valet immediately lifted up the lid of the chest and looked inside. He was horrified to find there the body of Mr. Clayton, stabbed through the neck.
Obeying his first impulse, Burgess rushed out into the street and fetched the nearest policeman.
Such were the bald facts of the case. But there were further details. The police had immediately broken the news to Mrs. Clayton, who had been "completely prostrated." She had seen her husband for the last time at a little after six o'clock on the evening before. He had come home much annoyed, having been summoned to Scotland on urgent business in connection with some property that he owned. He had urged his wife to go to the party without him. Mr. Clayton had then called in at his and Commander McLaren's club, had had a drink with his friend, and had explained the position. He had then said, looking at his watch, that he had just time on his way to King's Cross, to call in on Major Rich and explain. He had already tried to telephone him, but the line had seemed to be out of order.
According to William Burgess, Mr. Clayton arrived at the flat at about 7:55. Major Rich was out but was due to return any moment, so Burgess suggested that Mr. Clayton should come in and wait. Clayton said he had no time but would come in and write a note. He explained that he was on his way to catch a train at King's Cross. The valet showed him into the sitting room and himself returned to the kitchen, where he was engaged in the preparation of canapés for the party. The valet did not hear his master return, but about ten minutes later, Major Rich looked into the kitchen and told Burgess to hurry out and get some Turkish cigarettes, which were Mrs. Spence's favorite smoking. The valet did so and brought them to his master in the sitting room. Mr. Clayton was not there, but the valet naturally thought he had already left to catch his train.
Major Rich's story was short and simple. Mr. Clayton was not in the flat when he himself came in and he had no idea that he had been there. No note had been left for him and the first he heard of Mr. Clayton's journey to Scotland was when Mrs. Clayton and the others arrived.
There were two additional items in the evening papers. Mrs. Clayton who was "prostrated with shock" had left her flat in Cardigan Gardens and was believed to be staying with friends.
The second item was in the stop press. Major Charles Rich had been charged with the murder of Arnold Clayton and had been taken into custody.
"So that is that," said Poirot, looking up at Miss Lemon. "The arrest of Major Rich was to be expected. But what a remarkable case. What a very remarkable case! Do you not think so?"
"I suppose such things do happen, M. Poirot," said Miss Lemon without interest.
"Oh certainly! They happen every day. Or nearly every day. But usually they are quite understandable - though distressing."
"It is certainly a very unpleasant business."
"To be stabbed to death and stowed away in a Spanish chest is certainly unpleasant for the victim - supremely so. But when I say this is a remarkable case, I refer to the remarkable behavior of Major Rich."
Miss Lemon said with faint distaste:
"There seems to be a suggestion that Major Rich and Mrs. Clayton were very close friends... It was a suggestion and not a proved fact, so I did not include it."
"That was very correct of you. But it is an inference that leaps to the eye. Is that all you have to say?"
Miss Lemon looked blank. Poirot sighed, and missed the rich colorful imagination of his friend Hastings. Discussing a case with Miss Lemon was uphill work.
"Consider for a moment this Major Rich. He is in love with Mrs. Clayton - granted... He wants to dispose of her husband - that, too, we grant, though if Mrs. Clayton is in love with him, and they are having the affair together, where is the urgency? It is, perhaps, that Mr. Clayton will not give his wife the divorce? But it is not of all this that I talk. Major Rich, he is a retired soldier, and it is said sometimes that soldiers are not brainy. But, tout de même, this Major Rich, is he, can he be, a complete imbecile?"
Miss Lemon did not reply. She took this to be a purely rhetorical question.
"Well," demanded Poirot. "What do you think about it all?"
"What do I think?" Miss Lemon was startled.
"Mais oui - you!"
Miss Lemon adjusted her mind to the strain put upon it. She was not given to mental speculation of any kind unless asked for it. In such leisure moments as she had, her mind was filled with the details of a superlatively perfect filing system. It was her only mental recreation.
"Well -" she began, and paused.
"Tell me just what happened - what you think happened, on that evening. Mr. Clayton is in the sitting room writing a note, Major Rich comes back - what then?"
"He finds Mr. Clayton there. They - I suppose they have a quarrel. Major Rich stabs him. Then, when he sees what he has done, he - he puts the body in the chest. After all, the guests, I suppose, might be arriving any minute."
"Yes, yes. The guests arrive! The body is in the chest. The evening passes. The guests depart. And then -"
"Well, then, I suppose Major Rich goes to bed and - Oh!"
"Ah," said Poirot. "You see it now. You have murdered a man. You have concealed his body in a chest. And then - you go peacefully to bed, quite unperturbed by the fact that your valet will discover the crime in the morning."
"I suppose it's possible that the valet might never have looked inside the chest?"
"With an enormous pool of blood on the carpet underneath it?"
"Perhaps Major Rich didn't realize that the blood was there."
"Was it not somewhat careless of him not to look and see?"
"I dare say he was upset," said Miss Lemon. Poirot threw up his hands in despair.
Miss Lemon seized the opportunity to hurry from the room.
The mystery of the Spanish chest was, strictly speaking, no business of Poirot's. He was engaged at the moment in a delicate mission for one of the large oil companies where one of the high ups was possibly involved in some questionable transaction. It was hush-hush, important, and exceedingly lucrative. It was sufficiently involved to command Poirot's attention, and had the great advantage that it required very little physical activity. It was sophisticated and bloodless. Crime at the highest levels.
The mystery of the Spanish chest was dramatic and emotional, two qualities which Poirot had often declared to Hastings could be much overrated - and indeed frequently were so by the latter. He had been severe with ce cher Hastings on this point, and now here he was, behaving much as his friend might have done, obsessed with beautiful women, crimes of passion, jealousy, hatred, and all the other romantic causes of murder! He wanted to know about it all. He wanted to know what Major Rich was like, and what his manservant, Burgess, was like, and what Margharita Clayton was like (though that, he thought, he knew) and what the late Arnold Clayton had been like (since he held that the character of the victim was of the first importance in a murder case), and even what Commander McLaren, the faithful friend, and Mr. and Mrs. Spence, the recently acquired acquaintances, were like.
And he did not see exactly how he was going to gratify his curiosity!
He reflected on the matter later in the day.
Why did the whole business intrigue him so much? He decided, after reflection, that it was
because - as the facts were related - the whole thing was more or less impossible! Yes, there was a Euclidean flavor.
Starting from what one could accept, there had been a quarrel between two men. Cause, presumably, a woman. One man killed the other in the heat of rage. Yes, that happened - though it would be more acceptable if the husband had killed the lover. Still - the lover had killed the husband, stabbed him with a dagger(?), somehow a rather unlikely weapon. Perhaps Major Rich had had an Italian mother? Somewhere - surely - there should be something to explain the choice of a dagger as a weapon. Anyway, one must accept the dagger (some papers called it a stiletto!). It was to hand and was used. The body was concealed in the chest. That was common sense and inevitable. The crime had not been premeditated, and as the valet was returning at any moment, and four guests would be arriving before very long, it seemed the only course indicated.
The party is held, the guests depart, the manservant is already gone - and - Major Rich goes to bed!
To understand how that could happen, one must see Major Rich and find out what kind of a man acts in that way.
Could it be that, overcome with horror at what he had done and the long strain of an evening trying to appear his normal self, he had taken a sleeping pill of some kind or a tranquilizer which had put him into a heavy slumber which lasted long beyond his usual hour of waking? Possible. Or was it a case, rewarding to a psychologist, where Major Rich's feeling of subconscious guilt made him want the crime to be discovered?
To make up one's mind on that point one would have to see Major Rich. It all came back to -
The telephone rang. Poirot let it ring for some moments, until he realized that Miss Lemon after bringing him his letters to sign, had gone home some time ago, and that George had probably gone out.
He picked up the receiver.
"M. Poirot?"
"Speaking!"
"Oh how splendid." Poirot blinked slightly at the fervor of the charming female voice. "It's Abbie Chatterton."
"Ah, Lady Chatterton. How can I serve you?"
"By coming over as quickly as you can right away to a simply frightful cocktail party I an giving. Not just for the cocktail party - it's for something quite different really. I need you. It's absolutely vital. Please, please, please don't let me down! Don't say you can't manage it."
Poirot had not been going to say anything of the kind. Lord Chatterton, apart from being a peer of the realm and occasionally making a very dull speech in the House of Lords, was nobody in particular. But Lady Chatterton was one of the brightest jewels in what Poirot called le hauté monde. Everything she did or said was news. She had brains, beauty, originality, and enough vitality to activate a rocket to the moon.
She said again:
"I need you. Just give that wonderful moustache of yours a lovely twirl, and come!"
It was not quite so quick as that. Poirot had first to make a meticulous toilet. The twirl to the moustaches was added and he then set off.
The door of Lady Chatterton's delightful house in Cheriton Street was ajar and a noise as of animals mutinying at the zoo sounded from within. Lady Chatterton, who was holding two ambassadors, an international rugger player, and an American evangelist in play, neatly jettisoned them with the rapidity of sleight of hand and was at Poirot's side.
"M. Poirot, how wonderful to see you! No, don't have that nasty Martini. I've got something special for you - a kind of sirop that the sheikhs drink in Morocco. It's in my own little room upstairs."
She led the way upstairs and Poirot followed her. She paused to say over her shoulder:
"I didn't put these people off, because it's absolutely essential that no one should know there's anything special going on here, and I've promised the servants enormous bonuses if not a word leaks out. After all, one doesn't want one's house besieged by reporters. And, poor darling, she's been through so much already."
Lady Chatterton did not stop at the first-floor landing; instead she swept on up to the floor above.
Gasping for breath and somewhat bewildered, Hercule Poirot followed.
Lady Chatterton paused, gave a rapid glance downwards over the banisters, and then flung open a door, exclaiming as she did so:
"I've got him, Margharita! I've got him! Here he is!"
She stood aside in triumph to let Poirot enter, then performed a rapid introduction.
"This is Margharita Clayton. She's a very, very dear friend of mine. You'll help her, won't you? Margharita, this is that wonderful Hercule Poirot. He'll do just everything you want - you will, won't you, dear M. Poirot?"
And without waiting for the answer which she obviously took for granted (Lady Chatterton had not been a spoiled beauty all her life for nothing), she dashed out of the door and down the stairs, calling back rather indiscreetly, "I've got to go back to all these awful people."
The woman who had been sitting in a chair by the window rose and came towards him. He would have recognized her even if Lady Chatterton had not mentioned her name. Here was that wide, that very wide brow, the dark hair that sprang away from it like wings, the grey eyes set far apart. She wore a close-fitting high-necked gown of dull black that showed up the beauty of her body and the magnolia-whiteness of her skin. It was an unusual face rather than a beautiful one - one of those oddly proportioned faces that one sometimes sees in an Italian primitive. There was about her a kind of medieval simplicity - a strange innocence that could be, Poirot thought, more devastating than any voluptuous sophistication. When she spoke it was with a kind of childlike candor.
"Abbie says you will help me -"
She looked at him gravely and inquiringly.
For a moment he stood quite still, scrutinizing her closely. There was nothing ill-bred in his manner of doing it. It was more the kind but searching look that a famous consultant gives a new patient.
"Are you sure, madame," he said at last, "that I can help you?"
A little flush rose to her cheeks.
"I don't know what you mean."
"What is it, madame, that you want me to do?"
"Oh," she seemed surprised. "I thought - you knew who I was?"
"I know who you are. Your husband was killed - stabbed, and a Major Rich has been arrested and charged with his murder."
The flush heightened.
"Major Rich did not kill my husband."
Quick as a flash Poirot said:
"Why not?"
She stared, puzzled. "I - I beg your pardon?"
"I have confused you - because I have not asked the question that everybody asks - the police - the lawyers 'Why should Major Rich kill Arnold Clay- ton?' But I ask the opposite. I ask you, madame, why you are sure that Major Rich did not kill him?"
"Because" - she paused a moment - "because I know Major Rich so well."
"You know Major Rich so well," repeated Poirot tonelessly. He paused and then said sharply:
"How well?"
Whether she understood his meaning, he could not guess. He thought to himself.' Here is either a woman of great simplicity or of great subtlety... Many people, he thought, must have wondered that about Margharita Clayton...
"How well?" She was looking at him doubtfully. "Five years - no, nearly six."
"That was not precisely what I meant You must understand, madame, that I shall have to ask you the impertinent questions. Perhaps you will speak the truth, perhaps you will lie. It is very necessary for a woman to lie sometimes. Women must defend themselves, and the lie, it can be a good weapon. But there are three people, madame, to whom a woman should speak the truth. To her Father confessor, to her hairdresser, and to her private detective - if she trusts him. Do you trust me, madame?"
Margharita Clayton drew a deep breath.
"Yes," she said. "I do." And added: "I must."
"Very well, then. What is it you want me to do - find out who killed your husband?"
"I suppose so - yes."
"But it is not essential? You want me, then, to clear Major Rich from suspicion?"
She nodded quickly - gratefully.
"That - and that only?"
It was, he saw, an unnecessary question. Margharita Clayton was a woman who saw only one thing at a time.
"And now," he said, "for the impertinence. You and Major Rich, you are lovers, yes?"
"Do you mean, were we having an affair together? No."
"But he was in love with you?"
"Yes."
"And you - were in love with him?"
"I think so."
"You do not seem quite sure?"
"I am sure - now."
"Ah! You did not, then, love your husband?"
"No."
"You reply with an admirable simplicity. Most women would wish to explain at great length just exactly what their feelings were. How long had you been married?"
"Eleven years."
"Can you tell me a little about your husband - what kind of a man he was?"
She frowned.
"It's difficult. I don't really know what kind of a man Arnold was. He was very quiet - very reserved. One didn't know what he was thinking. He was clever, of course - everyone said he was brilliant - in his work, I mean. He didn't - how can I put it - he never explained himself at all "
"Was he in love with you?"
"Oh, yes. He must have been. Or he wouldn't have minded so much -" she came to a sudden stop.
"About other men? That is what you were going to say? He was jealous?"
Again she said:
"He must have been." And then, as though she felt that the phrase needed explanation, she said,
"Sometimes, for days, he wouldn't speak..."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
"This violence - that has come into your life. Is it the first that you have known?"
"Violence?" She frowned, then flushed. "I - you mean - that poor boy who shot himself?"
"Yes," said Poirot. "I expect that is what I mean..."
"I'd no idea he felt like that... I was sorry for him - he seemed so shy - so lonely. He must have been very neurotic, I think. And there were two Italians and a duel - It was ridiculous! Anyway, nobody was killed, thank goodness. And honestly, I didn't care about either of them! I never even pretended to care."
The Harlequin Tea Set and Other Stories Page 12
