Chapter Twenty-one
“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” said old Mr. Endicott to Hercule Poirot. He peered at the
other keenly. “It’s very nice of you to drop in.”
“Not really,” said Hercule Poirot. “I want something.”
“Well, as you know, I’m deeply in your debt. You cleared up that nasty Abernethy business for
me.”
“I am surprised really to find you here. I thought you had
retired1.”
The old lawyer smiled grimly. His firm was a most respectable and old-established one.
“I came in
specially2 today to see a very old client. I still attend to the affairs of one or two old
friends.”
“Sir Arthur Stanley was an old friend and client, was he not?”
“Yes. We’ve undertaken all his legal work since he was quite a young man. A very brilliant
man, Poirot—quite an exceptional brain.”
“His death was announced on the six o’clock news yesterday, I believe.”
“Yes. The funeral’s on Friday. He’s been
ailing3 some time. A
malignant4 growth, I understand.”
“Lady Stanley died some years ago?”
“Two and a half years ago, roughly.”
The keen eyes below the bushy brows looked sharply at Poirot.
“How did she die?”
“Overdose of sleeping stuff. Medinal as far as I remember.”
“There was an inquest?”
“Yes. The verdict was that she took it accidentally.”
“Did she?”
Mr. Endicott was silent for a moment.
“I won’t insult you,” he said. “I’ve no doubt you’ve got a good reason for asking. Medinal’s a
rather dangerous drug, I understand, because there’s not a big
margin6 between an effective dose
and a
lethal7 one. If the patient gets
drowsy8 and forgets she’s taken a dose and takes another—well,
it can have a fatal result.”
Poirot nodded.
“Is that what she did?”
“Presumably. There was no suggestion of suicide, or suicidal tendencies.”
“And no suggestion of—anything else?”
Again that keen glance was shot at him.
“Her husband gave evidence.”
“And what did he say?”
“He made it clear that she did sometimes get confused after taking her nightly dose and ask for
another.”
“Was he lying?”
“Really, Poirot, what an
outrageous9 question. Why should you suppose for a minute that I
should know?”
Poirot smiled. The attempt at
bluster10 did not deceive him.
“I suggest, my friend, that you know very well. But for the moment I will not embarrass you by
asking you what you know. Instead I will ask you for an opinion. The opinion of one man about
another. Was Arthur Stanley the kind of man who would do away with his wife if he wanted to
marry another woman?”
Mr. Endicott jumped as though he had been stung by a
wasp11.
“
Preposterous12,” he said angrily. “Quite preposterous. And there was no other woman. Stanley
“Yes,” said Poirot. “I thought so. And now—I will come to the purpose of my call upon you.
You are the
solicitors14 who drew up Arthur Stanley’s will. You are, perhaps, his executor.”
“That is so.”
“Arthur Stanley had a son. The son quarrelled with his father at the time of his mother’s death.
Quarrelled with him and left home. He even went so far as to change his name.”
“That I did not know. What’s he calling himself?”
“We shall come to that. Before we do I am going to make an assumption. If I am right, perhaps
you will admit the fact. I think that Arthur Stanley left a sealed letter with you, a letter to be
opened under certain circumstances or after his death.”
“Really, Poirot! In the Middle Ages you would certainly have been burnt at the stake. How you
can possibly know the things you do!”
“I am right then? I think there was an alternative in the letter. Its contents were either to be
destroyed—or you were to take a certain course of action.”
He paused.
“Bon dieu!” said Poirot with alarm. “You have not already destroyed—”
He broke off in relief as Mr. Endicott slowly shook his head in
negation15.
“We never act in haste,” he said reprovingly. “I have to make full
inquiries16—to satisfy myself
absolutely—”
shook his head.
“And if I show you good cause why you should speak.”
“That is up to you. I cannot conceive how you can possibly know anything at all that is relevant
to the matter we are discussing.”
“I do not know—so I have to guess. If I guess correctly—”
“Highly unlikely,” said Mr. Endicott, with a wave of his hand.
Poirot drew a deep breath.
“Very well then. It is in my mind that your instructions are as follows. In the event of Sir
Arthur’s death, you are to trace his son Nigel, to
ascertain19 where he is living and how he is living
and particularly whether he is or has been engaged in any criminal activity
whatsoever20.”
This time Mr. Endicott’s impregnable legal calm was really shattered. He uttered an
“Since you appear to be in full possession of the facts,” he said, “I’ll tell you anything you want
to know. I gather you’ve come across young Nigel in the course of your professional activities.
What’s the young devil been up to?”
“I think the story goes as follows. After he had left home he changed his name, telling anyone
who was interested that he had to do so as a condition of a
legacy22. He then fell in with some
people who were running a
smuggling23 racket—drugs and jewels. I think it was due to him that the
racket assumed its final form—an exceedingly clever one involving the using of innocent bona
fide students. The whole thing was operated by two people, Nigel Chapman, as he now called
himself, and a young woman called Valerie Hobhouse who, I think, originally introduced him to
the smuggling trade. It was a small private concern and they worked it on a commission basis—
but it was immensely profitable. The goods had to be of small bulk, but thousands of pounds worth
of
gems24 and
narcotics26 occupy a very small space. Everything went well until one of those
unforeseen chances occurred. A police officer came one day to a students’
hostel27 to make inquiries
in connection with a murder near Cambridge. I think you know the reason why that particular
piece of information should cause Nigel to panic. He thought the police were after him. He
removed certain electric lightbulbs so that the light should be dim and he also, in a panic, took a
certain rucksack out into the back yard,
hacked28 it to pieces and threw it behind the
boiler29 since he
feared traces of
narcotic25 might be found in its false bottom.
“His panic was quite unfounded—the police had merely come to ask questions about a certain
Eurasian student—but one of the girls living in the hostel had happened to look out of her window
and had seen him destroying the rucksack. That did not immediately sign her death warrant.
Instead, a clever scheme was thought up by which she herself was induced to commit certain
foolish actions which would place her in a very invidious position. But they carried that scheme
too far. I was called in. I advised going to the police. The girl lost her head and confessed. She
confessed, that is, to the things that she had done. But she went, I think, to Nigel, and urged him to
confess also to the rucksack business and to spilling ink over a fellow student’s work. Neither
Nigel nor his
accomplice30 could consider attention being called to the rucksack—their whole plan
of campaign would be ruined. Moreover Celia, the girl in question, had another dangerous piece of
knowledge which she revealed, as it happened, the night I dined there. She knew who Nigel really
was.”
“But surely—” Mr. Endicott frowned.
“Nigel had moved from one world to another. Any former friends he met might know that he
now called himself Chapman, but they knew nothing of what he was doing. In the hostel nobody
knew that his real name was Stanley—but Celia suddenly revealed that she knew him in both
capacities. She also knew that Valerie Hobhouse, on one occasion at least, had travelled abroad on
a false passport. She knew too much. The next evening she went out to meet him by appointment
somewhere. He gave her a drink of coffee and in it was morphia. She died in her sleep with
everything arranged to look like suicide.”
Mr. Endicott stirred. An expression of deep
distress31 crossed his face. He murmured something
under his breath.
“But that was not the end,” said Poirot. “The woman who owned the chain of
hostels32 and
students’ clubs died soon after in suspicious circumstances and then, finally, there came the last
most cruel and heartless crime. Patricia Lane, a girl who was devoted to Nigel and of whom he
himself was really fond,
meddled33 unwittingly in his affairs, and moreover insisted that he should
be reconciled to his father before the latter died. He told her a string of lies, but he realised that her
obstinacy34 might urge her actually to write a second letter after the first was destroyed. I think, my
friend, that you can tell me why, from his point of view, that would have been such a fatal thing to
happen.”
Mr. Endicott rose. He went across the room to a safe, unlocked it, and came back with a long
envelope in his hand. It had a broken red seal on the back of it. He drew out two enclosures and
laid them before Poirot.
Dear Endicott,
You will open this after I am dead. I wish you to trace my son Nigel and find out if he has been
guilty of any criminal actions whatsoever.
The facts I am about to tell you are known to me only. Nigel has always been profoundly
unsatisfactory in his character. He has twice been guilty of forging my name to a cheque. On each
occasion I acknowledged the signature as mine, but warned him that I would not do so again. On
the third occasion it was his mother’s name he forged. She charged him with it. He begged her to
keep silent. She refused. She and I had discussed him, and she made it clear she was going to tell
me. It was then, in handing her her evening sleeping mixture, he administered an overdose. Before
it took effect, however, she had come to my room and told me all about matters. When, the next
morning, she was found dead, I knew who had done it.
I accused Nigel and told him that I intended to make a clean breast of all the facts to the police.
He pleaded
desperately35 with me. What would you have done, Endicott? I have no illusions about
my son, I know him for what he is, one of those dangerous misfits who have neither conscience nor
pity. I had no cause to save him. But it was the thought of my beloved wife that swayed me. Would
she wish me to execute justice? I thought that I knew the answer—she would have wanted her son
saved from the scaffold. She would have shrunk, as I shrank, from the dragging down of our name.
But there was another consideration. I firmly believe that once a
killer36, always a killer. There
might be, in the future, other victims. I made a bargain with my son, and whether I did right or
wrong, I do not know. He was to write out a
confession37 of his crime which I should keep. He was
to leave my house and never return, but make a new life for himself. I would give him a second
chance. Money belonging to his mother would come to him automatically. He had had a good
education. He had every chance of making good.
But—if he were convicted of any criminal activity whatsoever the confession he had left with me
should go to the police. I safeguarded myself by explaining that my own death would not solve the
problem.
You are my oldest friend. I am placing a burden on your shoulders, but I ask it in the name of a
dead woman who was also your friend. Find Nigel. If his record is clean, destroy this letter and
the enclosed confession. If not—then justice must be done.
Your affectionate friend,
Arthur Stanley
“Ah!” Poirot breathed a long sigh.
He unfolded the enclosure.
I hereby confess that I murdered my mother by giving her an overdose of medinal on November
18, 195—
Nigel Stanley
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