西班牙箱子之谜10

Burgess added doubtfully:

"I suppose it leaves the way into the bedroom clearer - if the ladies wanted to leave their wraps.""Perhaps. But there might be another reason." Burgess looked inquiring. "The screen hides thechest now, and it hides the rug below the chest. If Major Rich stabbed Mr. Clayton, blood wouldpresently start dripping through the cracks at the base of the chest. Someone might notice - as younoticed the next morning. So - the screen was moved.""I never thought of that, sir.""What are the lights like here, strong or dim?""I'll show you, sir."Quickly, the valet drew the curtains and switched on a couple of lamps. They gave a soft mellowlight, hardly strong enough even to read by. Poirot glanced up at a ceiling light.

"That wasn't on, sir. It's very little used."Poirot looked round in the soft glow. The valet said:

"I don't believe you'd see any bloodstains, sir, it's too dim.""I think you are right. So, then, why was the screen moved?"Burgess shivered.

"It's awful to think of - a nice gentleman like Major Rich doing a thing like that.""You've no doubt that he did do it? Why did he do it, Burgess?""Well, he'd been through the war, of course. He might have had a head wound, mightn't he? Theydo say as sometimes it all flares¹ up years afterwards. They suddenly go all queer and don't knowwhat they're doing. And they say as often as not, it's their nearest and dearest as they goes for. Doyou think it could have been like that?"Poirot gazed at him. He sighed. He turned away. "No," he said, "it was not like that."With the air of a conjuror², a piece of crisp paper was insinuated³ into Burgess's hand.

"Oh thank you, sir, but really I don't -"

"You have helped me," said Poirot. "By showing me this room. By showing me what is in theroom. By showing me what took place that evening. The impossible is never impossible!

Remember that. I said that there were only two possibilities - I was wrong. There is a thirdpossibility." He looked round the room again and gave a little shiver. "Pull back the curtains. Letin the light and the air. This room needs it. It needs cleansing⁴. It will be a long time, I think, beforeit is purified from what afflicts⁵ it - the lingering memory of hate."Burgess, his mouth open, handed Poirot his hat and coat. He seemed bewildered. Poirot, whoenjoyed making incomprehensible statements, went down to the street with a brisk step.

When Poirot got home, he made a telephone call to Inspector⁶ Miller⁷.

"What happened to Clayton's bag? His wife said he had packed one.""It was at the club. He left it with the porter. Then he must have forgotten it and gone off withoutit.""What was in it?"

"What you'd expect. Pyjamas⁸, extra shirt, washing things.""Very thorough.""What did you expect would be in it?"

Poirot ignored that question. He said:

"About the stiletto. I suggest that you get hold of whatever cleaning woman attends Mrs. Spence'shouse. Find out if she ever saw anything like it lying about there.""Mrs. Spence?" Miller whistled. "Is that the way your mind is working? The Spences were shownthe stiletto. They didn't recognize it.""Ask them again."

"Do you mean -"

"And then let me know what they say."

"I can't imagine what you think you have got hold of.""Read Othello, Miller. Consider the characters in Othello. We've missed out one of them."He rang off. Next he dialed Lady Chatterton. The number was engaged.

He tried again a little later. Still no success. He called for George, his valet, and instructed him tocontinue ringing the number until he got a reply. Lady Chatterton, he knew, was an incorrigibletelephoner.

He sat down in a chair, carefully eased off his patent leather shoes, stretched his toes, and leanedback.

"I am old," said Hercule Poirot. "I tire easily..." He brightened. "But the cells - they still function.

Slowly - but they function. Othello, yes. Who was it said that to me? Ah yes, Mrs. Spence. Thebag... the screen... the body, lying there like a man asleep. A clever murder. Premeditated,planned... I think, enjoyed!.."George announced to him that Lady Chatterton was on the line.

"Hercule Poirot here, madame. May I speak to your guest?""Why, of course! Oh M. Poirot, have you done something wonderful?""Not yet," said Poirot. "But possibly, it marches."Presently Margharita's voice - quiet, gentle.

"Madame, when I asked you if you noticed anything out of place that evening at the party, youfrowned, as though you remembered something - and then it escaped you. Would it have been theposition of the screen that night?""The screen? Why, of course, yes. It was not quite in its usual place.""Did you dance that night?""Part of the time."

"Who did you dance with mostly?"

"Jeremy Spence. He's a wonderful dancer. Charles is good but not spectacular. He and Lindadanced, and now and then we changed. Jock McLaren doesn't dance. He got out the records andsorted them and arranged what we'd have.""You had serious music later?"

"Yes."

There was a pause. Then Margharita said:

"M. Poirot, what is - all this? Have you - is there - hope?""Do you ever know, madame, what the people around you are feeling?"Her voice, faintly surprised, said:

"I - suppose so."

"I suppose not. I think you have no idea. I think that is the tragedy of your life. But the tragedy isfor other people - not for you.

"Someone today mentioned to me Othello. I asked you if your husband was jealous, and you saidyou thought he must be. But you said it quite lightly. You said it as Desdemona might have said it,not realizing danger. She, too, recognized jealousy⁹, but she did not understand it, because sheherself never had, and never could, experience jealousy. She was, I think, quite unaware¹⁰ of theforce of acute physical passion. She loved her husband with the romantic fervor¹¹ of hero worship,she loved her friend Cassio, quite innocently, as a close companion. I think that because of herimmunity to passion, she herself drove men mad. Am I making sense to you, madame?"There was a pause - and then Margharita's voice answered. Cool, sweet, a little bewildered:

"I don't - I don't really understand what you are saying -"Poirot sighed.

He spoke¹² in matter-of-fact tones. "This evening," he said, "I pay you a visit."Inspector Miller was not an easy man to persuade. But equally Hercule Poirot was not an easy manto shake off until he had got his way. Inspector Miller grumbled¹³, but capitulated.

"- though what Lady Chatterton's got to do with this -""Nothing, really. She has provided asylum¹⁴ for a friend, that is all.""About those Spences - how did you know?""That stiletto came from there? It was a mere¹⁵ guess. Something Jeremy Spence said gave me theidea. I suggested that the stiletto belonged to Margharita Clayton. He showed that he knewpositively that it did not." He paused. "What did they say?" he asked with some curiosity.

"Admitted that it was very like a toy dagger¹⁶ they'd once had. But it had been mislaid some weeksago, and they had really forgotten about it. I suppose Rich pinched it from there.""A man who likes to play safe, Mr. Jeremy Spence," said Hercule Poirot. He muttered to himself:

"Some weeks ago. Oh yes, the planning began a long time ago.""Eh, what's that?""We arrive," said Poirot. The taxi drew up at Lady Chatterton's house in Cheriton Street. Poirotpaid the fare.

Margharita Clayton was waiting for them in the room upstairs. Her face hardened when she sawMiller.

"I didn't know -"

"You did not know who the friend was I proposed to bring?""Inspector Miller is not a friend of mine.""That rather depends on whether you want to see justice done or not, Mrs. Clayton. Your husbandwas murdered -""And now we have to talk of who killed him," said Poirot quickly. "May we sit down, madame?"Slowly Margharita sat down in a high-backed chair facing the two men.

"I ask," said Poirot, addressing both his hearers, "to listen to me patiently. I think I now know whathappened on that fatal evening at Major Rich's flat. We started, all of us, by an assumption thatwas not true - the assumption that there were only two persons who had the opportunity of puttingthe body in the chest - that is to say, Major Rich or William Burgess. But we were wrong - therewas a third person at the flat that evening who had an equally good opportunity to do so.""And who was that?" demanded Miller sceptically. "The lift boy?""No. Arnold Clayton.""What? Concealed¹⁷ his own dead body? You're crazy.""Naturally not a dead body - a live one. In simple terms, he hid himself in the chest. A thing thathas often been done throughout the course of history. The dead bride in the Mistletoe Bough,Iachimo with designs on the virtue¹⁸ of Imogen, and so on. I thought of it as soon as I saw that therehad been holes bored in the chest quite recently. Why? They were made so that there might be asufficiency of air in the chest. Why was the screen moved from its usual position that evening? Soas to hide the chest from the people in the room. So that the hidden man could lift the lid fromtime to time and relieve his cramp¹⁹, and hear better what went on.""But why," demanded Margharita wide-eyed with astonishment²⁰. "Why should Arnold want to hidein the chest?""Is it you who ask that, madame? Your husband was a jealous man. He was also an inarticulateman. 'Bottled up,' as your friend Mrs. Spence put it. His jealousy mounted. It tortured him! Wereyou or were you not Rich's mistress? He did not know! He had to know! So - a 'telegram fromScotland,' the telegram that was never sent and that no one ever saw! The overnight bag is packedand conveniently forgotten at the club. He goes to the flat at a time when he has probablyascertained Rich will be out. He tells the valet he will write a note. As soon as he is left alone, hebores the holes in the chest, moves the screen, and climbs inside the chest. Tonight he will knowthe truth. Perhaps his wife will stay behind the others, perhaps she will go but come back again.

That night the desperate, jealousy racked man will know…""You're not saying he stabbed himself?" Miller's voice was incredulous. "Nonsense!""Oh no, someone else stabbed him. Somebody who knew he was there. It was murder all right.

Carefully planned, long premeditated murder. Think of the other characters in Othello. It is Iagowe should have remembered. Subtle poisoning of Arnold Clayton's mind; hints, suspicions.

Honest Iago, the faithful friend, the man you always believe! Arnold Clayton believed him.

Arnold Clayton let his jealousy be played upon, be roused to fever pitch. Was the plan of hiding inthe chest Arnold's own idea? He may have thought it was - probably he did think so! And so thescene is set. The stiletto, quietly abstracted some weeks earlier, is ready. The evening comes. Thelights are low, the gramophone is playing, two couples dance, the odd man out is busy at therecord cabinet, close to the Spanish chest and its masking screen. To slip behind the screen, lift thelid and strike - Audacious, but quiet easy!""Clayton would have cried out!"

"Not if he were drugged," said Poirot. "According to the valet, the body was 'lying like a manasleep.' Clayton was asleep, drugged by the only man who could have drugged him, the man hehad had a drink with at the club.""Jock?" Margharita's voice rose high in childlike surprise. "Jock? Not dear old Jock. Why, I'veknown Jock all my life! Why on earth should Jock...?"Poirot turned on her.

"Why did two Italians fight a duel²¹? Why did a young man shoot himself? Jock McLaren is aninarticulate man. He has resigned himself, perhaps, to being the faithful friend to you and your husband, but then comes Major Rich as well. It is too much! In the darkness of hate and desire, heplans what is well nigh the perfect murder - a double murder, for he is almost certain to be found guilty of it. And with Rich and your husband both out of the way - he thinks that at last you may turn to him. And perhaps, madame, you would have done... Eh?"She was staring at him, wide-eyed, horror-struck. Almost unconsciously she breathed:

"Perhaps... I don't know..."

Inspector Miller spoke with sudden authority.

"This is all very well, Poirot. It's a theory, nothing more. There's not a shred²² of evidence, probably not a word of it is true.""It is all true."

"But there's no evidence. There's nothing we can act on.""You are wrong. I think that McLaren, if this is put to him, will admit it. That is, if it is made clearto him that Margharita Clayton knows..."Poirot paused and added:

"Because, once he knows that, he has lost. The perfect murder has been in vain."

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