帷幕39

III

When it was apparent that there was going to be no answer we went andfound Colonel Luttrell. He listened to us with a vague alarm showing inhis faded blue eyes. He pulled uncertainly at his moustache.

Mrs Luttrell, always the one for prompt decisions, made no bones aboutit.

‘You’ll have to get that door open somehow. There’s nothing else for it.’

For the second time in my life, I saw a door broken open at Styles. Be-hind that door was what had been behind a locked door on the first occa-sion. Death by violence.

Norton was lying on his bed in his dressing-gown. The key of the doorwas in the pocket. In his hand was a small pistol, a mere toy, but capableof doing its work. There was a small hole in the exact centre of his fore-head.

For a moment or two I could not think of what I was reminded. Some-thing, surely very old …

I was too tired to remember.

As I came into Poirot’s room he saw my face.

He said quickly: ‘What has happened? Norton?’

‘Dead!’

‘How? When?’

Briefly I told him.

I ended wearily: ‘They say it’s suicide. What else can they say? The doorwas locked. The windows were shuttered. The key was in his pocket. Why!

I actually saw him go in and heard him lock the door.’

‘You saw him, Hastings?’

‘Yes, last night.’

I explained.

‘You’re sure it was Norton?’

‘Of course. I’d know that awful old dressing-gown anywhere.’

For a moment Poirot became his old self.

‘Ah, but it is a man you are identifying, not a dressing-gown. Ma foi! Any-one can wear a dressing-gown.’

‘It’s true,’ I said slowly, ‘that I didn’t see his face. But it was his hair allright, and that slight limp –’

‘Anyone could limp, mon Dieu!’

I looked at him, startled. ‘Do you mean to suggest, Poirot, that it wasn’tNorton that I saw?’

‘I am not suggesting anything of the kind. I am merely annoyed by theunscientific reasons you give for saying it was Norton. No, no, I do not forone minute suggest that it was not Norton. It would be difficult for it to beanyone else, for every man here is tall – very much taller than he was –and enfin

you cannot disguise height – that, no. Norton was only five foot five, Ishould say. Tout de même, it is like a conjuring trick, is it not? He goes intohis room, locks the door, puts the key in his pocket, and is found shot withthe pistol in his hand and the key still in his pocket.’

‘Then you don’t believe,’ I said, ‘that he shot himself ?’

Slowly Poirot shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Norton did not shoot him-self. He was deliberately killed.’

 

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