Poirot's Early Cases - Christie Agatha - Страница 47

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Parker was committed for trial, reserving his defence. We had attended the police-court proceedings. As we left, Poirot nodded his head.

'It must be so,' he murmured to himself. 'Yes, it must be so. I will delay no longer.'

He went into the post office, and wrote off a note which he despatched by special messenger. I did not see to whom it was addressed. Then we returned to the inn where we had stayed on that memorable weekend.

Poirot was restless, going to and from the window.

'I await a visitor,' he explained. 'It cannot be - surely it cannot be that I am mistaken? No, here she is.' To my utter astonishment, in another minute Miss Clegg walked into the room. She was less calm than usual, and was breathing hard as though she had been running. I saw the fear in her eyes as she looked at Poirot.

'Sit down, mademoiselle,' he said kindly. 'I guessed rightly, did I not?' For answer she burst into tears.

'Why did you do it?' asked Poirot gently. 'Why?' 'I loved him so,' she answered. 'I was nursemaid to him when he was a little boy. Oh, be merciful to me!' 'I will do all I can. But you understand that I cannot permit an innocent man to hang - even though he is an unpleasing scoundrel.' She sat up and said in a low voice: 'Perhaps in the end I could not have, either. Do whatever must be done.' Then, rising, she hurried from the room.

'Did she shoot him?' I asked, utterly bewildered.

Poirot smiled and shook his head.

'He shot himself. Do you remember that he carried his handkerchief in his right sleeve? That showed me that he was left-handed.

Fearing exposure, after his stormy interview with Mr Parker, he shot himself. In the morning Miss Clegg came to call him as usual and found him lying dead. As she has just told us, she had known him from a little boy upward, and was filled with fury against the Parkers, who had driven him to this shameful death. She regarded them as murderers, and then suddenly she saw a chance of making them suffer for the deed they had inspired.

She alone knew that he was left-handed. She changed the pistol to his right hand, closed and bolted the window, dropped the bit of cuff-link she had picked up in one of the downstairs rooms, and went out, locking the door and removing the key.'

'Poirot,' I said, in a burst of enthusiasm, 'you are magnificent.

All that from the one little clue of the handkerchiefl'

'And the cigarette-smoke. If the window had been closed, and all those cigarettes smoked, the room ought to have been full of stale tobacco. Instead, it was perfectly fresh, so I deduced at once that the window must have been open all night, and only closed in the morning, and that gave me a very interesting line of specula-tion.

I could conceive of no circumstances under which a murderer could want to shut the window. It would be to his advantage to leave it open, and pretend that the murderer had escaped that way, if the theory of suicide did not go down. Of course, the tramp's evidence, when I heard it, confirmed my suspicions. He could never have overheard that conversation unless the window had been open.'

'Splendid? I said heartily. 'Now, what about some tea?'

'Spoken like a true Englishman,' said Poirot with a sigh. 'I suppose it is not likely that I could obtain here a glass of sirop?'

Out of the house came John Harrison and stood a moment on the terrace looking out over the garden. He was a big man with a lean, cadaverous face. His aspect was usually somewhat grim but when, as now, the rugged features softened into a smile, there was something very attractive about him.

John Harrison loved his garden, and it had never looked better than it did on this August evening, summery and languorous.

The rambler roses were still beautiful; sweet peas scented the air.

A well-known creaking sound made Harrison turn his head sharply. Who was coming in through the garden gate? In another minute, an expression of utter astonishment came over his face, for the dandified figure coming up the path was the last he expected to see in this part of the world.

'By all that's wonderful,' cried Harrison. 'Monsieur Poirott'

It was, indeed, the famous Hercule Poirot whose renown as a detective had spread over the whole world.

'Yes,' he said, 'it is I. You said to me once: "If you are ever in this part of the world, come and see me." I take you at your word.

I arrive.'

'And I'm delighted,' said Harrison heartily. 'Sit down and have a drink.'

With a hospitable hand, he indicated a table on the veranda bearing assorted bottles.

'I thank you,' said Poirot, sinking down into a basket chair.

'You have, I suppose, no drop? No, no, I thought not. A little plain soda water then - no whisky.' And he added in a feeling voice as the other placed the glass beside him: 'Alas, my moustache are limp. It is this heatl'

'And what brings you into this quiet spot?' asked Harrison as he dropped into another chair. 'Pleasure?'

'No, mon ami, business.'

'Business? In this out-of-the-way place?'

Poirot nodded gravely. 'But yes, my friend, all crimes are not committed in crowds, you know?'

The other laughed. 'I suppose that was rather an idiotic remark of mine. But what particular crime are you investigating down here, or is that a thing I mustn't ask?'

'You may ask,' said the detective. 'Indeed, I would prefer that you asked.'

Harrison looked at him curiously. He sensed something a little unusual in the other's manner. 'You are investigating a crime, you say?' he advanced rather hesitatingly. 'A serious crime?'

'A crime of the most serious there is.' 'You mean…' 'Murder.'

So gravely did Hercule Poirot say that word that Harrison was quite taken aback. The detective was looking straight at him and again there was something so unusual in his glance that Harrison hardly knew how to proceed. At last, he said: 'But I have heard of no murder.'

'No,' said Poirot, 'you would not have heard of it.'

'Who has been murdered?'

'As yet,' said Hercule Poirot, 'nobody.'

'What?'

'That is why I said you would not have heard of it. I am investigating a crime that has not yet taken place.'

'But look here, that is nonsense.'

'Not at all. If one can investigate a murder before it has hap-pened, surely that is very much better than afterwards. One might even - a little idea - prevent it.'

Harrison stared at him. 'You are not serious, Monsieur Poirot.' 'But yes, I am serious.'

'You really believe that a murder is going to be committed? oh, it's absurd!'

Hercule Poirot finished the first part of the sentence without taking any notice of the exclamation.

'Unless we can manage to prevent it. Yes, mon ami, that is what I mean.' 'We?' 'I said we. I shall need your cooperation.' 'Is that why you came down here?' Again Poirot looked at him, and again an indefinable something made Harrison uneasy.

'I came here, Monsieur ttarrison because I - well - like you.' And then he added in an entirely different voice: 'I see, Monsieur Harrison, that you have a wasps' nest there. You should destroy it.' The change of subject made Harrison frown in a puzzled way.

He followed Poirot's glance and said in rather a bewildered voice: 'As a matter of fact, I'm going to. Or rather, young Langton is.

You remember Claude Langton? He was at that same dinner where I met you. He's coming over this evening to take the nest.

Rather fancies himself at the job.' 'Ah!' said Poirot. 'And how is he going to do it?' 'Petrol and the garden syringe. He's bringing his own syringe over; it's a more convenient size than mine.' 'There is another way, is there not?' asked Poirot. 'With cyanide of potassium?' Harrison looked a little surprised. 'Yes, but that's rather dangerous stuff. Always a risk having it about the place.' Poirot nodded gravely. 'Yes, it is deadly poison.' He waited a minute and then repeated in a grave voice. 'Deadly poison.' 'Useful if you want to do away with your mother-in-law, eh?' aid Harrison with a laugh.

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