帷幕3

Chapter 2

Nothing is so sad, in my opinion, as the devastation wrought by age.

My poor friend. I have described him many times. Now to convey to youthe difference. Crippled with arthritis, he propelled himself about in awheeled chair. His once plump frame had fallen in. He was a thin littleman now. His face was lined and wrinkled. His moustache and hair, it istrue, were still of a jet black colour, but candidly, though I would not forthe world have hurt his feelings by saying so to him, this was a mistake.

There comes a moment when hair dye is only too painfully obvious. Therehad been a time when I had been surprised to learn that the blackness ofPoirot’s hair came out of a bottle. But now the theatricality was apparentand merely created the impression that he wore a wig and had adornedhis upper lip to amuse the children!

Only his eyes were the same as ever, shrewd and twinkling, and now –yes, undoubtedly – softened with emotion.

‘Ah, mon ami Hastings – mon ami Hastings …’

I bent my head and, as was his custom, he embraced me warmly.

‘Mon ami Hastings!’

He leaned back, surveying me with his head a little to one side.

‘Yes, just the same – the straight back, the broad shoulders, the grey ofthe hair – très distingué. You know, my friend, you have worn well. Lesfemmes, they still take an interest in you? Yes?’

‘Really, Poirot,’ I protested. ‘Must you –’

‘But I assure you, my friend, it is a test – it is the test. When the veryyoung girls come and talk to you kindly, oh so kindly – it is the end! “Thepoor old man,” they say, “we must be nice to him. It must be so awful to belike that.” But you, Hastings – vous êtes encore jeune. For you there are stillpossibilities. That is right, twist your moustache, hunch your shoulders – Isee it is as I say – you would not look so self-conscious otherwise.’

I burst out laughing. ‘You really are the limit, Poirot. And how are youyourself ?’

‘Me,’ said Poirot with a grimace. ‘I am a wreck. I am a ruin. I cannotwalk. I am crippled and twisted. Mercifully I can still feed myself, but oth-erwise I have to be attended to like a baby. Put to bed, washed anddressed. Enfin, it is not amusing that. Mercifully, though the outside de-cays, the core is still sound.’

‘Yes, indeed. The best heart in the world.’

‘The heart? Perhaps. I was not referring to the heart. The brain, moncher, is what I mean by the core. My brain, it still functions magnificently.’

I could at least perceive clearly that no deterioration of the brain in thedirection of modesty had taken place.

‘And you like it here?’ I asked.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. ‘It suffices. It is not, you comprehend, theRitz. No, indeed. The room I was in when I first came here was both smalland inadequately furnished. I moved to this one with no increase of price.

Then, the cooking, it is English at its worst. Those Brussels sprouts soenormous, so hard, that the English like so much. The potatoes boiled andeither hard or falling to pieces. The vegetables that taste of water, water,and again water. The complete absence of the salt and pepper in any dish–’ he paused expressively.

‘It sounds terrible,’ I said.

‘I do not complain,’ said Poirot, and proceeded to do so. ‘And there isalso the modernization, so called. The bathrooms, the taps everywhereand what comes out of them? Lukewarm water, mon ami, at most hours ofthe day. And the towels, so thin, so meagre!’

‘There is something to be said for the old days,’ I said thoughtfully. I re-membered the clouds of steam which had gushed from the hot tap of theone bathroom Styles had originally possessed, one of those bathrooms inwhich an immense bath with mahogany sides had reposed proudly in themiddle of the bathroom floor. Remembered, too, the immense bath towels,and the frequent shining brass cans of boiling hot water that stood inone’s old-fashioned basin.

‘But one must not complain,’ said Poirot again. ‘I am content to suffer –for a good cause.’

A sudden thought struck me.

‘I say, Poirot, you’re not – er – hard up, are you? I know the war hit in-vestments very badly –’

Poirot reassured me quickly.

‘No, no, my friend. I am in most comfortable circumstances. Indeed, Iam rich. It is not the economy that brings me here.’

‘Then that’s all right,’ I said. I went on: ‘I think I can understand yourfeeling. As one gets on, one tends more and more to revert to the old days.

One tries to recapture old emotions. I find it painful to be here, in a way,and yet it brings back to me a hundred old thoughts and emotions that I’dquite forgotten I ever felt. I dare say you feel the same.’

‘Not in the least. I do not feel like that at all.’

‘They were good days,’ I said sadly.

‘You may speak for yourself, Hastings. For me, my arrival at Styles StMary was a sad and painful time. I was a refugee, wounded, exiled fromhome and country, existing by charity in a foreign land. No, it was not gay.

I did not know then that England would come to be my home and that Ishould find happiness here.’

‘I had forgotten that,’ I admitted.

‘Precisely. You attribute always to others the sentiments that you your-self experience. Hastings was happy – everybody was happy!’

‘No, no,’ I protested, laughing.

‘And in any case it is not true,’ continued Poirot. ‘You look back, you say,the tears rising in your eyes, “Oh, the happy days. Then I was young.” Butindeed, my friend, you were not so happy as you think. You had recentlybeen severely wounded, you were fretting at being no longer fit for activeservice, you had just been depressed beyond words by your sojourn in adreary convalescent home and, as far as I remember, you proceeded tocomplicate matters by falling in love with two women at the same time.’

I laughed and flushed.

‘What a memory you have, Poirot.’

‘Ta ta ta – I remember now the melancholy sigh you heaved as you mur-mured fatuities about two lovely women.’

‘Do you remember what you said? You said, “And neither of them foryou! But courage, mon ami. We may hunt together again and then perhaps–”’

I stopped. For Poirot and I had gone hunting again to France and it wasthere that I had met the one woman …

Gently my friend patted my arm.

‘I know, Hastings, I know. The wound is still fresh. But do not dwell onit, do not look back. Instead look forward.’

I made a gesture of disgust.

‘Look forward? What is there to look forward to?’

‘Eh bien, my friend, there is work to be done.’

‘Work? Where?’

‘Here.’

I stared at him.

‘Just now,’ said Poirot, ‘you asked me why I had come here. You may nothave observed that I gave you no answer. I will give the answer now. I amhere to hunt down a murderer.’

I stared at him with even more astonishment. For a moment I thoughthe was rambling.

‘You really mean that?’

‘But certainly I mean it. For what other reason did I urge you to join me?

My limbs, they are no longer active, but my brain, as I told you, is unim-paired. My rule, remember, has been always the same – sit back andthink. That I still can do – in fact it is the only thing possible for me. Forthe more active side of the campaign I shall have with me my invaluableHastings.’

‘You really mean it?’ I gasped.

‘Of course I mean it. You and I, Hastings, are going hunting once again.’

It took some minutes to grasp that Poirot was really in earnest.

Fantastic though his statement sounded, I had no reason to doubt hisjudgement.

With a slight smile he said, ‘At last you are convinced. At first you ima-gined, did you not, that I had the softening of the brain?’

‘No, no,’ I said hastily. ‘Only this seems such an unlikely place.’

‘Ah, you think so?’

‘Of course I haven’t seen all the people yet –’

‘Whom have you seen?’

‘Just the Luttrells, and a man called Norton, seems an inoffensive chap,and Boyd Carrington – I must say I took the greatest fancy to him.’

Poirot nodded. ‘Well, Hastings, I will tell you this, when you have seenthe rest of the household, my statement will seem to you just as improb-able as it is now.’

‘Who else is there?’

‘The Franklins – Doctor and Mrs, the hospital nurse who attends to MrsFranklin, your daughter Judith. Then there is a man called Allerton, some-thing of a lady-killer, and a Miss Cole, a woman in her thirties. They areall, let me tell you, very nice people.’

‘And one of them is a murderer?’

‘And one of them is a murderer.’

‘But why – how – why should you think –?’

I found it hard to frame my questions, they tumbled over each other.

‘Calm yourself, Hastings. Let us begin from the beginning. Reach me, Ipray you, that small box from the bureau. Bien. And now the key – so –’

Unlocking the despatch case, he took from it a mass of typescript andnewspaper clippings.

‘You can study these at your leisure, Hastings. For the moment I shouldnot bother with the newspaper cuttings. They are merely the press ac-counts of various tragedies, occasionally inaccurate, sometimes suggest-ive. To give you an idea of the cases I suggest that you should read throughthe précis I have made.’

Deeply interested, I started reading.

CASE A. ETHERINGTON

Leonard Etherington. Unpleasant habits – took drugs and also drank. A pe-culiar and sadistic character. Wife young and attractive. Desperately un-happy with him. Etherington died, apparently of food poisoning. Doctor notsatisfied. As a result of autopsy, death discovered to be due to arsenical pois-oning. Supply of weed-killer in the house, but ordered a long time previously.

Mrs Etherington arrested and charged with murder. She had recently beenfriends with a man in Civil Service returning to India. No suggestion of actualinfidelity, but evidence of deep sympathy between them. Young man had sincebecome engaged to be married to girl he met on voyage out. Some doubt as towhether letter telling Mrs Etherington of this fact was received by her after orbefore her husband’s death. She herself says before. Evidence against hermainly circumstantial, absence of another likely suspect and accident highlyunlikely. Great sympathy felt with her at trial owing to husband’s characterand the bad treatment she had received from him. Judge’s summing up was inher favour stressing that verdict must be beyond any reasonable doubt.

Mrs Etherington was acquitted. General opinion, however, was that shewas guilty. Her life afterwards very difficult owing to friends, etc., cold shoul-dering her. She died as a result of taking an overdose of sleeping draught twoyears after the trial. Verdict of accidental death returned at inquest.

CASE B. MISS SHARPLES

Elderly spinster. An invalid. Difficult, suffering much pain.

She was looked after by her niece, Freda Clay. Miss Sharples died as a resultof an overdose of morphia. Freda Clay admitted an error, saying that heraunt’s sufferings were so bad that she could not stand it and gave her moremorphia to ease the pain. Opinion of police that act was deliberate, not a mis-take, but they considered evidence insufficient on which to prosecute.

CASE C. EDWARD RIGGS

Agricultural labourer. Suspected his wife of infidelity with their lodger, BenCraig. Craig and Mrs Riggs found shot. Shots proved to be from Riggs’s gun.

Riggs gave himself up to the police, said he supposed he must have done it, butcouldn’t remember. His mind went blank, he said. Riggs sentenced to death,sentence afterwards commuted to penal servitude for life.

CASE D. DEREK BRADLEY

Was carrying on an intrigue with a girl. His wife discovered this, shethreatened to kill him. Bradley died of potassium cyanide administered in hisbeer. Mrs Bradley arrested and tried for murder. Broke down under cross ex-amination. Convicted and hanged.

CASE E. MATTHEW LITCHFIELD

Elderly tyrant. Four daughters at home, not allowed any pleasures or moneyto spend. One evening on returning home, he was attacked outside his sidedoor and killed by a blow on the head. Later, after police investigation, hiseldest daughter, Margaret, walked into the police station and gave herself upfor her father’s murder. She did it, she said, in order that her younger sistersmight be able to have a life of their own before it was too late. Litchfield left alarge fortune. Margaret Litchfield was adjudged insane and committed toBroadmoor, but died shortly afterwards.

I read carefully, but with a growing bewilderment. Finally I put the paperdown and looked enquiringly at Poirot.

‘Well, mon ami?’

‘I remember the Bradley case,’ I said slowly, ‘I read about it at the time.

She was a very good-looking woman.’

Poirot nodded.

‘But you must enlighten me. What is all this about?’

‘Tell me first what it amounts to in your eyes.’

I was rather puzzled.

‘What you gave me was an account of five different murders. They alloccurred in different places and amongst different classes of people.

Moreover there seems no superficial resemblance between them. That isto say, one was a case of jealousy, one was an unhappy wife seeking to getrid of her husband, another had money for a motive, another was, youmight say, unselfish in aim since the murderer did not try to escape pun-ishment, and the fifth was frankly brutal, probably committed under theinfluence of drink.’ I paused and said doubtfully: ‘Is there something incommon between them all that I have missed?’

‘No, no, you have been very accurate in your summing up. The onlypoint that you might have mentioned, but did not, was the fact that innone of those cases did any real doubt exist.’

‘I don’t think I understand.’

‘Mrs Etherington, for instance, was acquitted. But everybody, neverthe-less, was quite certain that she did it. Freda Clay was not openly accused,but no one thought of any alternative solution to the crime. Riggs statedthat he did not remember killing his wife and her lover, but there wasnever any question of anybody else having done so. Margaret Litchfieldconfessed. In each case, you see, Hastings, there was one clear suspect andno other.’

I wrinkled my brow. ‘Yes, that is true – but I don’t see what particularinferences you draw from that.’

‘Ah, but you see, I am coming to a fact that you do not know as yet. Sup-posing, Hastings, that in each of these cases that I have outlined, there wasone alien note common to them all?’

‘What do you mean?’

Poirot said slowly: ‘I intend, Hastings, to be very careful in what I say.

Let me put it this way. There is a certain person – X. In none of these casesdid X (apparently) have any motive in doing away with the victim. In onecase, as far as I have been able to find out, X was actually two hundredmiles away when the crime was committed. Nevertheless I will tell youthis. X was on intimate terms with Etherington, X lived for a time in thesame village as Riggs, X was acquainted with Mrs Bradley. I have a snap ofX and Freda Clay walking together in the street, and X was near the housewhen old Matthew Litchfield died. What do you say to that?’

I stared at him. I said slowly: ‘Yes, it’s a bit too much. Coincidence mightaccount for two cases, or even three, but five is a bit too thick. There must,unlikely as it seems, be some connection between these differentmurders.’

‘You assume, then, what I have assumed?’

‘That X is the murderer? Yes.’

‘In that case, Hastings, you will be willing to go with me one step farther.

Let me tell you this. X is in this house.’

‘Here? At Styles?’

‘At Styles. What is the logical inference to be drawn from that?’

I knew what was coming as I said: ‘Go on – say it.’

Hercule Poirot said gravely: ‘A murder will shortly be committed here –here.’

 

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