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Postscript

Note by Captain Arthur Hastings: The following manuscriptcame into my possession four months after the death of myfriend Hercule Poirot. I received a communication from afirm of lawyers asking me to call at their office. There ‘in ac-cordance with the instructions of their client, the late M.

Hercule Poirot’, they handed me a sealed packet. I repro-duce its contents here.

Manuscript written by Hercule Poirot:

‘Mon cher ami,

‘I shall have been dead four

months when you read these

words. I have debated long

whether or not to write down

what is written here, and I have

decided that it is necessary for

someone to know the truth about

the second “Affaire Styles”. Also I

hazard a conjecture that by the

time you read this you will have

evolved the most preposterous

theories – and possibly may be

giving pain to yourself.

‘But let me say this: You should,

mon ami, have easily been able to

arrive at the truth. I saw to it that

you had every indication. If you

have not, it is because, as always,

you have far too beautiful and

trusting a nature. A la fin

comme au commencement.

‘But you should know, at least,

who killed Norton – even if you

are still in the dark as to who

killed Barbara Franklin. The lat-

ter may be a shock to you.

‘To begin with, as you know, I

sent for you. I told you that I

needed you. That was true. I told

you that I wanted you to be my

ears and my eyes. That again was

true, very true – if not in the sense

that you understood it! You were

to see what I wanted you to see

and hear what I wanted you to

hear.

‘You complained, cher ami,

that I was “unfair” in my present-

ation of this case. I withheld from

you knowledge that I had myself.

That is to say, I refused to tell you

the identity of X. That is quite

true. I had to do so – though not

for the reasons that I advanced.

You will see the reason presently.

‘And now let us examine this

matter of X. I showed you the

résumé of the various cases. I

pointed out to you that in each

separate case it seemed quite

clear that the person accused, or

suspected, had actually commit-

ted the crimes in question, that

there was no alternate solution.

And I then proceeded to the

second important fact – that in

each case X had been either on the

scene or closely involved. You then

jumped to a deduction that was,

paradoxically, both true and

false. You said that X had com-

mitted all the murders.

‘But, my friend, the circum-

stances were such that in each

case (or very nearly) only the ac-

cused person could have done the

crime. On the other hand, if so,

how account for X? Apart from a

person connected with the police

force or with, say, a firm of crim-

inal lawyers, it is not reasonable

for any man or woman to be in-

volved in five murder cases. It

does not, you comprehend, hap-

pen! Never, never does it occur

that someone says confidentially:

“Well, as a matter of fact, I’ve ac-

tually known five murderers!” No,

no, mon ami, it is not possible,

that. So we get the curious result

that we have here a case of cata-

lysis – a reaction between two

substances that takes place only

in the presence of a third sub-

stance, that third substance ap-

parently taking no part in the re-

action and remaining un-

changed. That is the position. It

means that where X was present,

crimes took place – but X did not

actively take part in these crimes.

‘An extraordinary, an abnor-

mal situation! And I saw that I

had come across at last, at the

end of my career, the perfect crim-

inal, the criminal who had inven-

ted such a technique that he

could never be convicted of

crime.

‘It was amazing. But it was not

new. There were parallels. And

here comes in the first of the

“clues” I left you. The play of Oth-

ello. For there, magnificently de-

lineated, we have the original X.

Iago is the perfect murderer. The

deaths of Desdemona, of Cassio –

indeed of Othello himself – are all

Iago’s crimes, planned by him,

carried out by him. And he re-

mains outside the circle, un-

touched by suspicion – or could

have done so. For your great

Shakespeare, my friend, had to

deal with the dilemma that his

own art had brought about. To

unmask Iago he had to resort to

the clumsiest of devices – the

handkerchief – a piece of work not

at all in keeping with Iago’s gen-

eral technique and a blunder of

which one feels certain he would

not have been guilty.

‘Yes, there is there the perfec-

tion of the art of murder. Not even

a word of direct suggestion. He is

always holding back others from

violence, refuting with horror sus-

picions that have not been enter-

tained until he mentions them!

‘And the same technique is seen

in the brilliant third act of John

Fergueson, where the “half- wit-

ted” Clutie John induces others to

kill the man that he himself hates.

It is a wonderful piece of psycholo-

gical suggestion.

‘Now you must realize this,

Hastings. Everyone is a potential

murderer. In everyone there

arises from time to time the wish

to kill – though not the will to kill.

How often have you not felt or

heard others say: “She made me

so furious I felt I could have killed

her!” “I could have killed B. for

saying so and so!” “I was so angry

I could have murdered him!” And

all those statements are literally

true. Your mind at such moments

is quite clear. You would like to

kill so and so. But you do not do

it. Your will has to assent to your

desire. In young children, the

brake is as yet acting imperfectly.

I have known a child, annoyed by

its kitten, say “Keep still or I’ll hit

you on the head and kill you” and

actually do so – to be stunned and

horrified a moment later when it

realizes that the kitten’s life will

not return – because, you see,

really the child loves that kitten

dearly. So then, we are all poten-

tial murderers. And the art of X

was this, not to suggest the de-

sire, but to break down the nor-

mal decent resistance. It was an

art perfected by long practice. X

knew the exact word, the exact

phrase, the intonation even to

suggest and to bring cumulative

pressure on a weak spot! It could

be done. It was done without the

victim ever suspecting. It was not

hypnotism – hypnotism would not

have been successful. It was some-

thing more insidious, more

deadly. It was a marshalling of

the forces of a human being to

widen a breach instead of repair-

ing it. It called on the best in a

man and set it in alliance with the

worst.

‘You should know, Hastings –

for it happened to you …

‘So now, perhaps, you begin to

see what some of my remarks,

that annoyed and confused you,

really meant. When I spoke of a

crime to be committed, I was not

always referring to the same

crime. I told you that I was at

Styles for a purpose. I was there, I

said, because a crime was going to

be committed. You were surprised

at my certainty on that point. But

I was able to be certain – for the

crime, you see, was to be commit-

ted by myself …

‘Yes, my friend – it is odd – and

laughable – and terrible! I, who

do not approve of murder – I, who

value human life – have ended my

career by committing murder.

Perhaps it is because I have been

too self-righteous, too conscious of

rectitude, that this terrible di-

lemma had to come to me. For you

see, Hastings, there are two sides

to it. It is my work in life to save

the innocent – to prevent murder

– and this – this is the only way I

can do it! Make no mistake, X

could not be touched by the law.

He was safe. By no ingenuity that

I could think of could he be de-

feated any other way.

‘And yet, my friend, I was re-

luctant. I saw what had to be

done – but I could not bring my-

self to do it. I was like Hamlet –

eternally putting off the evil day

… And then the next attempt

happened – the attempt on Mrs

Luttrell.

‘I had been curious, Hastings,

to see if your well-known flair for

the obvious would work. It did.

Your very first reaction was a

mild suspicion of Norton. And you

were quite right. Norton was the

man. You had no reason for your

belief – except the perfectly sound

if slightly half-hearted suggestion

that he was insignificant. There, I

think, you came very close to the

truth.

‘I have considered his life his-

tory with some care. He was the

only son of a masterful and bossy

woman. He seems to have had at

no time any gift for asserting him-

self or for impressing his person-

ality on other people. He has al-

ways been slightly lame and was

unable to take part in games at

school.

‘One of the most significant

things you told me was a remark

about him having been laughed

at at school for nearly being sick

when seeing a dead rabbit. There,

I think, was an incident that may

have left a deep impression on

him. He disliked blood and viol-

ence and his prestige suffered in

consequence. Subconsciously, I

should say, he has waited to re-

deem himself by being bold and

ruthless.

‘I should imagine that he began

to discover quite young his own

power for influencing people. He

was a good listener, he had a

quiet sympathetic personality.

People liked him without, at the

same time, noticing him very

much. He resented this – and

then made use of it. He discovered

how ridiculously easy it was, by

using the correct words and sup-

plying the correct stimuli, to in-

fluence his fellow creatures. The

only thing necessary was to un-

derstand them – to penetrate

their thoughts, their secret reac-

tions and wishes.

‘Can you realize, Hastings, that

such a discovery might feed a

sense of power? Here was he,

Stephen Norton whom everyone

liked and despised, and he would

make people do things they didn’t

want to do – or (mark this)

thought they did not want to do.

‘I can visualize him, developing

this hobby of his … And little by

little developing a morbid taste

for violence at second-hand. The

violence for which he lacked phys-

ical stamina and for the lack of

which he had been derided.

‘Yes, his hobby grows and grows

until it comes to be a passion, a

necessity! It was a drug, Hastings

– a drug that induced craving as

surely as opium or cocaine might

have done.

‘Norton, the gentle- hearted,

loving man, was a secret sadist.

He was an addict of pain, of men-

tal torture. There has been an epi-

demic of that in the world of late

years – L’appétit vient en man-

geant.

‘It fed two lusts, the lust of the

sadist and the lust of power. He,

Norton, had the keys of life and of

death.

‘Like any other drug slave, he

had to have his supply of the

drug. He found victim after vic-

tim. I have no doubt there have

been more cases than the five I ac-

tually tracked down. In each of

those he played the same part. He

knew Etherington, he stayed one

summer in the village where Riggs

lived and drank with Riggs in the

local pub. On a cruise he met the

girl Freda Clay and encouraged

and played upon her half-formed

conviction that if her old aunt

died it would be really a good

thing – a release for Auntie and a

life of financial ease and pleasure

for herself. He was a friend of the

Litchfields, and when talking to

him, Margaret Litchfield saw her-

self in the light of a heroine deliv-

ering her sisters from their life

sentence of imprisonment. But I

do not believe, Hastings, that any

of these people would have

done what they did – but for

Norton’s influence.

‘And now we come to the events

at Styles. I had been on Norton’s

tracks for some time. He became

acquainted with the Franklins

and at once I scented danger. You

must understand that even

Norton has to have a nucleus on

which to work. You can only deve-

lop a thing of which the seed is

already present. In Othello, for

instance, I have always been of

the belief that already present in

Othello’s mind was the conviction

(possibly correct) that Desde-

mona’s love for him was the pas-

sionate unbalanced hero-worship

of a young girl for a famous war-

rior and not the balanced love of a

woman for Othello the man. He

may have realized that Cassio

was her true mate and that in

time she would come to realize the

fact.

‘The Franklins presented a

most agreeable prospect to our

Norton. All kinds of possibilities!

You have doubtless realized by

now, Hastings, (what anyone of

sense could have seen perfectly

plainly all along) that Franklin

was in love with Judith and she

with him. His brusqueness, his

habit of never looking at her, of

forsaking any attempt at cour-

tesy, ought to have told you that

the man was head over ears in

love with her. But Franklin is a

man of great strength of charac-

ter and also of great rectitude. His

speech is brutally unsentimental,

but he is a man of very definite

standards. In his code a man

sticks to the wife he has chosen.

‘Judith, as I should have

thought even you could have seen,

was deeply and unhappily in love

with him. She thought you had

grasped the fact that day you

found her in the rose garden.

Hence her furious outburst. Char-

acters like hers cannot stand any

expression of pity or sympathy. It

was like touching a raw wound.

‘Then she discovered that you

thought it was Allerton she cared

for. She let you think so, thereby

shielding herself from clumsy

sympathy and from a further

probing of the wound. She flirted

with Allerton as a kind of desper-

ate solace. She knew exactly the

type of man he was. He amused

her and distracted her, but she

never had the least feeling for

him.

‘Norton, of course, knew exactly

how the wind lay. He saw possib-

ilities in the Franklin trio. I may

say that he started first on Frank-

lin, but drew a complete blank.

Franklin is the one type of man

who is quite immune from

Norton’s type of insidious sugges-

tion. Franklin has a clear- cut,

black and white mind, with an

exact knowledge of his own feeling

– and a complete disregard for

outside pressure. Moreover the

great passion of his life is his

work. His absorption in it makes

him far less vulnerable.

‘With Judith, Norton was far

more successful. He played very

cleverly on the theme of useless

lives. It was an article of faith

with Judith – and the fact that

her secret desires were in accord-

ance with it was a fact that she ig-

nored stridently whilst Norton

knew it to be an ally. He was very

clever about it – taking himself

the opposite point of view, gently

ridiculing the idea that she would

ever have the nerve to do such a

decisive action. “It is the kind of

thing that all young people say –

but never do!” Such an old cheap

jibe – and how often it works,

Hastings! So vulnerable they are,

these children! So ready, though

they do not recognize it that way,

to take a dare!

‘And with the useless Barbara

out of the way, then the road is

clear for Franklin and Judith.

That was never said – that was

never allowed to come into the

open. It was stressed that the per-

sonal angle had nothing to do

with it – nothing at all. For if Ju-

dith once recognized that it had,

she would have reacted violently.

But with a murder addict so far

advanced as Norton, one iron in

the fire is not enough. He sees op-

portunities for pleasure every-

where. He found one in the Lut-

trells.

‘Cast your mind back, Hast-

ings. Remember the very first

evening you played bridge.

Norton’s remarks to you after-

wards, uttered so loud that you

were afraid Colonel Luttrell

would hear. Of course! Norton

meant him to hear! He never lost

an opportunity of underlining it,

rubbing it in – And finally his ef-

forts culminated in success. It

happened under your nose, Hast-

ings, and you never saw how it

was done. The foundations were

already laid – the increasing

sense of a burden borne, of shame

at the figure he cut in front of

other men, in a deep growing re-

sentment against his wife.

‘Remember exactly what

happened. Norton says he is

thirsty. (Did he know Mrs Luttrell

is in the house and will come upon

the scene?) The Colonel reacts im-

mediately as the open- handed

host which he is by nature. He of-

fers drinks. He goes to get them.

You are all sitting outside the

window. His wife arrives – there is

the inevitable scene, which he

knows is being overheard. He

comes out. It might have been

glossed over by a good pretence –

Boyd Carrington could have done

it well. (He has a certain amount

of worldly wisdom and a tactful

manner, though otherwise he is

one of the most pompous and bor-

ing individuals that I have ever

come across! Just the sort of man

you would admire!) You yourself

could have acquitted yourself not

too badly. But Norton rushes into

speech, heavily, fatuously, under-

lining tact until it screams to

Heaven and makes things much

worse. He babbles of bridge (more

recalled humiliations), talks aim-

lessly of shooting incidents. And

prompt on his cue, just as Norton

intended, that old woolly-headed

ass Boyd Carrington comes out

with his story of an Irish batman

who shot his brother – a story,

Hastings, that Norton told to

Boyd Carrington, knowing quite

well that the old fool would bring

it out as his own whenever suit-

ably prompted. You see, the su-

preme suggestion will not come

from Norton. Mon Dieu, non!

‘It is all set, then. The cumulat-

ive effect. The breaking point. Af-

fronted in his instincts as a host,

shamed before his fellow men,

writhing under the knowledge

that they are quite convinced he

has not got the guts to do any-

thing but submit meekly to bully-

ing – and then the key words of es-

cape. The rook rifle, accidents –

man who shot his brother – and

suddenly, bobbing up, his wife’s

head … “quite safe – an accident

… I’ll show them … I’ll show her

… damn her! I wish she was dead

… she shall be dead!”

‘He did not kill her, Hastings.

Myself, I think that, even as he

fired, instinctively he missed be-

cause he wanted to miss. And af-

terwards – afterwards the evil

spell was broken. She was his

wife, the woman he loved in spite

of everything.

‘One of Norton’s crimes that did

not quite come off.

‘Ah, but his next attempt! Do

you realize, Hastings, that it was

you who came next? Throw your

mind back – recall everything.

You, my honest, kindly Hastings!

He found every weak spot in your

mind – yes, and every decent and

conscientious one, too.

‘Allerton is the type of man you

instinctively dislike and fear. He

is the type of man that you think

ought to be abolished. And

everything you heard about him

and thought about him was true.

Norton tells you a certain story

about him – an entirely true story

as far as the facts go. (Though ac-

tually the girl concerned was a

neurotic type and came of poor

stock.)

‘It appeals to your conventional

and somewhat old- fashioned in-

stincts. This man is the villain,

the seducer, the man who ruins

girls and drives them to suicide!

Norton induces Boyd Carrington

to tackle you also. You are im-

pelled to “speak to Judith”. Ju-

dith, as could be predicted, imme-

diately responds by saying she

will do as she chooses with her life.

That makes you believe the worst.

‘See now the different stops on

which Norton plays. Your love for

your child. The intense old-fash-

ioned sense of responsibility that

a man like you feels for his chil-

dren. The slight self- importance

of your nature: “I must do some-

thing. It all depends on me.” Your

feeling of helplessness owing to the

lack of your wife’s wise judge-

ment. Your loyalty – I must not

fail her. And, on the baser side,

your vanity – through association

with me you have learned all the

tricks of the trade! And lastly,

that inner feeling which most men

have about their daughters – the

unreasoning jealousy and dislike

for the man who takes her away

from him. Norton played, Hast-

ings, like a virtuoso on all these

themes. And you responded.

‘You accept things too easily at

their face value. You always have

done. You accepted quite easily

the fact that it was Judith to

whom Allerton was talking in the

summer- house. Yet you did not

see her, you did not even hear her

speak. And incredibly, even the

next morning, you still thought it

was Judith. You rejoiced because

she had “changed her mind”.

‘But if you had taken the

trouble to examine the facts you

would have discovered at once

that there had never been any

question of Judith going up to

London that day! And you failed

to make another most obvious in-

ference. There was someone who

was going off for the day – and

who was furious at not being able

to do so. Nurse Craven. Allerton is

not a man who confines himself to

the pursuit of one woman! His af-

fair with Nurse Craven had pro-

gressed much farther than the

mere flirtation he was having

with Judith.

‘No, stage- management again

by Norton. ‘You saw Allerton and

Judith kiss. Then Norton shoves

you back round the corner. He

doubtless knows quite well that

Allerton is going to meet Nurse

Craven in the summer- house.

After a little argument he lets you

go but still accompanies you. The

sentence you overhear Allerton

speaking is magnifi- cent for his

purpose and he swiftly drags you

away before you have a chance to

discover that the woman is not

Judith!

‘Yes, the virtuoso! And your re-

action is immediate, complete on

all those themes! You responded.

You made up your mind to do

murder.

‘But fortunately, Hastings, you

had a friend whose brain still

functioned. And not only his

brain!

‘I said at the beginning of this

that if you have not arrived at the

truth it is because you have too

trusting a nature. You believe

what is said to you. You believed

what I said to you …

‘Yet it was all very easy for you

to discover the truth. I had sent

George away – why? I had re-

placed him with a less experien-

ced and clearly much less intelli-

gent man – why? I was not being

attended by a doctor – I who have

always been careful about my

health – I would not hear of seeing

one – why?

‘Do you see now why you were

necessary to me at Styles? I had to

have someone who accepted what

I said without question. You ac-

cepted my statement that I came

back from Egypt much worse than

when I went. I did not. I came

back very much better! You could

have found out the fact if you had

taken the trouble. But no, you be-

lieved. I sent away George be-

cause I could not have succeeded

in making him think that I had

suddenly lost all power in my

limbs. George is extremely intelli-

gent about what he sees. He would

have known that I was sham-

ming.

‘Do you understand, Hastings?

All the time that I was pretending

to be helpless, and deceiving Cur-

tiss, I was not helpless at all. I

could walk – with a limp.

‘I heard you come up that even-

ing. I heard you hesitate and then

go into Allerton’s room. And at

once I was on the alert. I was

already much exercised about

your state of mind.

‘I did not delay. I was alone.

Curtiss had gone down to supper.

I slipped out of my room and

across the passage. I heard you in

Allerton’s bathroom. And

promptly, my friend, in the man-

ner you so much deplore, I

dropped to my knees and looked

through the keyhole of the bath-

room door. One could see through

it, fortunately, as there is a bolt

and not a key on the inside.

‘I perceived your manipula-

tions with the sleeping tablets. I

realized what your idea was.

‘And so, my friend, I acted. I

went back to my room. I made my

preparations. When Curtiss came

up I sent him to fetch you. You

came, yawning and explaining

that you had a headache. I made

at once the big fuss – urged rem-

edies on you. For the sake of peace

you consented to drink a cup of

chocolate. You gulped it down

quickly so as to get away quicker.

But I, too, my friend, have some

sleeping tablets.

‘And so, you slept – slept until

morning when you awoke your

own sane self and were horrified

at what you had so nearly done.

‘You were safe now – one does

not attempt these things twice –

not when one has relapsed into

sanity.

‘But it decided me, Hastings!

For whatever I might not know

about other people did not apply

to you. You are not a murderer,

Hastings! But you might have

been hanged for one – for a

murder committed by another

man who in the eyes of the law

would be guiltless.

‘You, my good, my honest, my

oh so honourable Hastings – so

kindly, so conscientious – so inno-

cent!

‘Yes, I must act. I knew that my

time was short – and for that I

was glad. For the worst part of

murder, Hastings, is its effect on

the murderer. I, Hercule Poirot,

might come to believe myself di-

vinely appointed to deal out

death to all and sundry … But

mercifully there would not be

time for that to happen. The end

would come soon. And I was

afraid that Norton might succeed

with someone who was unutter-

ably dear to both of us. I am talk-

ing of your daughter …

‘And now we come to the death

of Barbara Franklin. Whatever

your ideas may be on the subject,

Hastings, I do not think you have

once suspected the truth.

‘For you see, Hastings, you

killed Barbara Franklin.

‘Mais oui, you did!

‘There was, you see, yet another

angle to the triangle. One that I

did not fully take into account. As

it happened, Norton’s tactics

there were unseen and unheard

by either of us. But I have no

doubt that he employed them …

‘Did it ever enter your mind to

wonder, Hastings, why Mrs

Franklin was willing to come to

Styles? It is not, when you think of

it, at all her line of country. She

likes comfort, good food and

above all social contacts. Styles is

not gay; it is not well run; it is in

the dead country. And yet it was

Mrs Franklin who insisted on

spending the summer there.

‘Yes, there was a third angle.

Boyd Carrington. Mrs Franklin

was a disappointed woman. That

was at the root of her neurotic ill-

ness. She was ambitious both so-

cially and financially. She mar-

ried Franklin because she expec-

ted him to have a brilliant career.

‘He was brilliant but not in her

way. His brilliance would never

bring him newspaper notoriety,

or a Harley Street reputation. He

would be known to half a dozen

men of his own profession and

would publish articles in learned

journals. The outside world would

not hear of him – and he would

certainly not make money.

‘And here is Boyd Carrington –

home from the East – just come

into a baronetcy and money, and

Boyd Carrington has always felt

tenderly sentimental towards the

pretty seventeen-year-old girl he

nearly asked to marry him. He is

going to Styles, he suggests the

Franklins come too – and Bar-

bara comes.

‘How maddening it is for her!

Obviously she has lost none of her

old charm for this rich attractive

man, but he is old-fashioned – not

the type of man to suggest divorce.

And John Franklin, too, has no

use for divorce. If John Franklin

were to die, then she could be

Lady Boyd Carrington – and oh

what a wonderful life that would

be!

‘Norton, I think, found her only

too ready a tool.

‘It was all too obvious, Hast-

ings, when you come to think of it.

Those first few tentative attempts

at establishing how fond she was

of her husband. She overdid it a

little – murmuring about “ending

it all” because she was a drag on

him.

‘And then an entirely new line.

Her fears that Franklin might ex-

periment upon himself.

‘It ought to have been so obvi-

ous to us, Hastings! She was pre-

paring us for John Franklin to die

of physostigmine poisoning. No

question, you see, of anyone try-

ing to poison him – oh no – just

pure scientific research. He takes

the harmless alkaloid, and it

turns out to be harmful after all.

‘The only thing was it was a

little too swift. You told me that

she was not pleased to find Boyd

Carrington having his fortune

told by Nurse Craven. Nurse

Craven was an attractive young

woman with a keen eye for men.

She had had a try at Dr Franklin

and had not met with success.

(Hence her dislike for Judith.) She

is carrying on with Allerton, but

she knows quite well he is not seri-

ous. Inevitable that she should

cast her eye on the rich and still

attractive Sir William – and Sir

William was, perhaps, only too

ready to be attracted. He had

already noticed Nurse Craven as

a healthy, good-looking girl.

‘Barbara Franklin has a fright

and decides to act quickly. The

sooner she is a pathetic, charming

and not inconsolable widow the

better.

‘And so, after a morning of

nerves, she sets the scene.

‘Do you know, mon ami, I have

some respect for the Calabar

bean. This time, you see, it

worked. It spared the innocent

and slew the guilty.

‘Mrs Franklin asks you all up to

her room. She makes coffee with

much fuss and display. As you tell

me, her own coffee is beside her,

her husband’s on the other side of

the bookcase-table.

‘And then there are the shoot-

ing stars and everyone goes out

and only you, my friend, are left,

you and your crossword puzzle

and your memories – and to hide

emotion you swing round the

bookcase to find a quotation in

Shakespeare.

‘And so they come back and Mrs

Franklin drinks the coffee full of

the Calabar bean alkaloids that

were meant for dear scientific

John, and John Franklin drinks

the nice plain cup of coffee that

was meant for clever Mrs Frank-

lin.

‘But you will see, Hastings, if

you think a minute, that al-

though I realized what had

happened, I saw that there was

only one thing to be done. I could

not prove what had happened.

And if Mrs Franklin’s death was

thought to be anything but sui-

cide suspicion would inevitably

fall on either Franklin or Judith.

On two people who were utterly

and completely innocent. So I did

what I had a perfect right to do,

laid stress on and put conviction

into, my repetition of Mrs Frank-

lin’s extremely unconvincing re-

marks on the subject of putting an

end to herself.

‘I could do it – and I was prob-

ably the only person who could.

For you see my statement carried

weight. I am a man experienced

in the matter of committing

murder – if I am convinced it is

suicide, well, then, it will be ac-

cepted as suicide.

‘It puzzled you, I could see, and

you were not pleased. But merci-

fully you did not suspect the true

danger.

‘But will you think of it after I

am gone? Will it come into your

mind, lying there like some dark

serpent that now and then raises

its head and says: “Suppose Ju-

dith … ?”

‘It may do. And therefore I am

writing this. You must know the

truth.

‘There was one person whom

the verdict of suicide did not sat-

isfy. Norton. He was balked, you

see, of his pound of flesh. As I say,

he is a sadist. He wants the whole

gamut of emotion, suspicion, fear,

the coils of the law. He was de-

prived of all that. The murder he

had arranged had gone awry.

‘But presently he saw what one

may call a way of recouping him-

self. He began to throw out hints.

Earlier on he had pretended to see

something through his glasses.

Actually he intended to convey

the exact impression that he did

convey – namely that he saw Al-

lerton and Judith in some com-

promising attitude. But not hav-

ing said anything definite, he

could use that incident in a differ-

ent way.

‘Supposing, for instance, that

he says he saw Franklin and Ju-

dith. That will open up an inter-

esting new angle of the suicide

case! It may, perhaps, throw

doubts on whether it was suicide

…

‘So, mon ami, I decided that

what had to be done must be done

at once. I arranged that you

should bring him to my room that

night …

‘I will tell you exactly what

happened. Norton, no doubt,

would have been delighted to tell

me his arranged story. I gave him

no time. I told him, clearly and

definitely, all that I knew about

him.

‘He did not deny it. No, mon

ami, he sat back in his chair and

smirked. Mais oui, there is no

other word for it, he smirked. He

asked me what I thought I was go-

ing to do about this amusing idea

of mine. I told him that I proposed

to execute him.

‘“Ah,” he said, “I see. The dag-

ger or the cup of poison?”

‘We were about to have chocol-

ate together at the time. He has a

sweet tooth, M. Norton.

‘“The simplest,” I said, “would

be the cup of poison.”

‘And I handed him the cup of

chocolate I had just poured out.

‘“In that case,” he said, “would

you mind my drinking from your

cup instead of from mine?”

‘I said, “Not at all.” In effect, it

was quite immaterial. As I have

said, I, too, take the sleeping tab-

lets. The only thing is that since I

have been taking them every

night for a considerable period, I

have acquired a certain toler-

ance, and a dose that would send

M. Norton to sleep would have

very little effect upon me. The

dose was in the chocolate itself.

We both had the same. His por-

tion took effect in due course,

mine had little effect upon me, es-

pecially when counteracted with

a dose of my strychnine tonic.

‘And so to the last chapter.

When Norton was asleep I got him

into my wheeled chair – fairly

easy, it has many types of mech-

anism – and wheeled him back in

it to its usual place in the window

embrasure behind the curtains.

‘Curtiss then “put me to bed”.

When everything was quiet I

wheeled Norton to his room. It re-

mained, then, to avail myself of

the eyes and ears of my excellent

friend Hastings.

‘You may not have realized it,

but I wear a wig, Hastings. You

will realize even less that I wear a

false moustache. (Even George

does not know that!) I pretended

to burn it by accident soon after

Curtiss came, and at once had my

hairdresser make me a replica.

‘I put on Norton’s dressing-

gown, ruffled up my grey hair on

end, and came down the passage

and rapped on your door.

Presently you came and looked

with sleepy eyes into the passage.

You saw Norton leave the bath-

room and limp across the passage

into his own room. You heard him

turn the key in the lock on the in-

side.

‘I then replaced the dressing-

gown on Norton, laid him on his

bed, and shot him with a small

pistol that I acquired abroad and

which I have kept carefully locked

up except for two occasions when

(nobody being about) I have put it

ostentatiously on Norton’s dress-

ing- table, he himself being well

away somewhere that morning.

‘Then I left the room after put-

ting the key in Norton’s pocket. I

myself locked the door from the

outside with the duplicate key

which I have possessed for some

time. I wheeled the chair back to

my room.

‘Since then I have been writing

this explanation.

‘I am very tired – and the exer-

tions I have been through have

strained me a good deal. It will

not, I think, be long before …

‘There are one or two things I

would like to stress.

‘Norton’s were the perfect

crimes.

‘Mine was not. It was not inten-

ded to be.

‘The easiest way and the best

way for me to have killed him was

to have done so quite openly – to

have had, shall we say, an acci-

dent with my little pistol. I should

have professed dismay, regret – a

most unfortunate accident. They

would have said, “Old ga ga,

didn’t realize it was loaded – ce

pauvre vieux.”

‘I did not choose to do that.

‘I will tell you why.

‘It is because, Hastings, I chose

to be “sporting”.

‘Mais oui, sporting! I am doing

all the things that so often you

have reproached me with not do-

ing. I am playing fair with you. I

am giving you a run for your

money. I am playing the game.

You have every chance to discover

the truth.

‘In case you disbelieve me let me

enumerate all the clues.

‘The keys.

‘You know, for I have told you

so, that Norton arrived here after

I did. You know, for you have

been told, that I changed my

room after I got here. You know,

for again it has been told to you,

that since I have been at Styles the

key of my room disappeared and I

had another made.

‘Therefore when you ask your-

self who could have killed Norton?

Who could have shot and still

have left the room (apparently)

locked on the inside since the key

is in Norton’s pocket? –

‘The answer is “Hercule Poirot,

who since he has been here has

possessed duplicate keys of one of

the rooms.”

‘The man you saw in the pas-

sage.

‘I myself asked you if you were

sure the man you saw in the pas-

sage was Norton. You were

startled. You asked me if I inten-

ded to suggest it was not Norton. I

replied, truthfully, that I did not

at all intend to suggest it was not

Norton. (Naturally, since I had

taken a good deal of trouble to

suggest it was Norton.) I then

brought up the question of height.

All the men, I said, were much

taller than Norton. But there was

a man who was shorter than

Norton – Hercule Poirot. And it is

comparatively easy with raised

heels or elevators in the shoes to

add to one’s height.

‘You were under the impression

that I was a helpless invalid. But

why? Only because I said so. And

I had sent away George. That was

my last indication to you, “Go

and talk to George.”

‘Othello and Clutie John show

you that X was Norton.

‘Then who could have killed

Norton?

‘Only Hercule Poirot.

‘And once you suspected that,

everything would have fallen into

place, the things I had said and

done, my inexplicable reticence.

Evidence from the doctors in

Egypt, from my own doctor in

London, that I was not incapable

of walking about. The evidence of

George as to my wearing a wig.

The fact which I was unable to

disguise, and which you ought to

have noticed, that I limp much

more than Norton does.

‘And last of all, the pistol shot.

My one weakness. I should, I am

aware, have shot him through the

temple. I could not bring myself to

produce an effect so lopsided, so

haphazard. No, I shot him sym-

metrically, in the exact centre of

the forehead …

‘Oh, Hastings, Hastings, that

should have told you the truth.

‘But perhaps, after all, you

have suspected the truth? Per-

haps when you read this, you

already know.

‘But somehow I do not think so

…

‘No, you are too trusting …

‘You have too beautiful a

nature …

‘What shall I say more to you?

Both Franklin and Judith, I think

you will find, knew the truth al-

though they will not have told it to

you. They will be happy together,

those two. They will be poor and

innumerable tropical insects will

bite them and strange fevers will

attack them – but we all have our

own ideas of the perfect life, have

we not?

‘And you, my poor lonely Hast-

ings? Ah, my heart bleeds for you,

dear friend. Will you, for the last

time, take the advice of your old

Poirot?

‘After you have read this, take a

train or a car or a series of buses

and go to find Elizabeth Cole who

is also Elizabeth Litchfield. Let

her read this, or tell her what is in

it. Tell her that you, too, might

have done what her sister Mar-

garet did – only for Margaret

Litchfield there was no watchful

Poirot at hand. Take the night-

mare away from her, show her

that her father was killed, not by

his daughter, but by that kind

sympathetic family friend, that

“honest Iago” Stephen Norton.

‘For it is not right, my friend,

that a woman like that, still

young, still attractive, should re-

fuse life because she believes her-

self to be tainted. No, it is not

right. Tell her so, you, my friend,

who are yourself still not unat-

tractive to women …

‘Eh bien, I have no more now to

say. I do not know, Hastings, if

what I have done is justified or not

justified. No – I do not know. I do

not believe that a man should

take the law into his own hands …

‘But on the other hand, I am

the law! As a young man in the

Belgian police force I shot down a

desperate criminal who sat on a

roof and fired at people below. In

a state of emergency martial law

is proclaimed.

‘By taking Norton’s life, I have

saved other lives – innocent lives.

But still I do not know … It is per-

haps right that I should not know.

I have always been so sure – too

sure …

‘But now I am very humble and

I say like a little child “I do not

know …”

‘Goodbye, cher ami. I have

moved the amyl nitrate ampoules

away from beside my bed. I prefer

to leave myself in the hands of the

bon Dieu. May his punishment,

or his mercy, be swift!

‘We shall not hunt together

again, my friend. Our first hunt

was here – and our last …

‘They were good days.

‘Yes, they have been good days

…’

(End of Hercule Poirot’s manuscript.)

Final note by Captain Arthur

Hastings: I have finished read-

ing … I cannot believe it all yet

… But he is right. I should have

known. I should have known

when I saw the bullet hole so

symmetrically in the middle of

the forehead.

Queer – it’s just come to me –

the thought in the back of my

mind that morning.

The mark on Norton’s fore-

head – it was like the brand of

Cain …

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