VII

Colonel Johnson stared at Sugden for some minutes before he spluttered:

“Do you mean to tell me, Superintendent¹, that this is one of those damned cases you get indetective stories where a man is killed in a locked room by some apparently² supernatural agency?”

A very faint smile agitated³ the superintendent’s moustache as he replied gravely:

“I do not think it’s quite as bad as that, sir.”

Colonel Johnson said:

“Suicide. It must be suicide!”

“Where’s the weapon, if so? No, sir, suicide won’t do.”

“Then how did the murderer escape? By the window?” Sugden shook his head.

“I’ll take my oath he didn’t do that.”

“But the door was locked, you say, on the inside.”

The superintendent nodded. He drew a key from his pocket and laid it on the table.

“No fingerprints,” he announced. “But just look at that key, sir. Take a look at it with thatmagnifying glass there.”

Poirot bent⁴ forward. He and Johnson examined the key together. The chief constable⁵ utteredan exclamation⁶.

“By Jove, I get you. Those faint scratches on the end of the barrel. You see ’em, Poirot?”

“But yes, I see. That means, does it not, that the key was turned from outside the door—turned by means of a special implement⁷ that went through the keyhole and gripped the barrel—possibily an ordinary pair of pliers would do it.”

The superintendent nodded.

“It can be done all right.”

Poirot said: “The idea being, then, that the death would be thought to be suicide, since thedoor was locked and no one was in the room?”

“That was the idea, M. Poirot, not a doubt of it, I should say.”

Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

“But the disorder⁸ in the room! As you say, that by itself wiped out the idea of suicide. Surelythe murderer would first of all have set the room to rights.”

Superintendent Sugden said: “But he hadn’t time, Mr. Poirot. That’s the whole point. Hehadn’t time. Let’s say he counted on catching⁹ the old gentleman unawares. Well, that didn’t comeoff. There was a struggle—a struggle heard plainly in the room underneath¹⁰; and, what’s more, theold gentleman called out for help. Everyone came rushing up. The murderer’s only got time to nipout of the room and turn the key from the outside.”

“That is true,” Poirot admitted. “Your murderer, he may have made the bungle¹¹. But why, ohwhy, did he not at least leave the weapon? For naturally, if there is no weapon, it cannot besuicide! That was an error most grave.”

Superintendent Sugden said stolidly¹²:

“Criminals usually make mistakes. That’s our experience.”

Poirot gave a light sigh. He murmured:

“But all the same, in spite of his mistakes, he has escaped this criminal.”

“I don’t think he has exactly escaped.”

“You mean he is in the house still?”

“I don’t see where else he can be. It was an inside job.”

“But, tout¹³ de même,” Poirot pointed¹⁴ out gently, “he has escaped to this extent: You do notknow who he is.”

Superintendent Sugden said gently but firmly:

“I rather fancy that we soon shall. We haven’t done any questioning of the household yet.”

Colonel Johnson cut in:

“Look here, Sugden, one thing strikes me. Whoever turned that key from the outside musthave had some knowledge of the job. That’s to say, he probably has had criminal experience.

These sort of tools aren’t easy to manage.”

“You mean it was a professional job, sir?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“It does seem like it,” the other admitted. “Following that up, it looks as though there were aprofessional thief among the servants. That would explain the diamonds being taken and themurder would follow on logically from that.”

“Well, anything wrong with that theory?”

“It’s what I thought myself to begin with. But it’s difficult. There are eight servants in thehouse; six of them are women, and of those six, five have been here for four years and more. Thenthere’s the butler and the footman. The butler has been here for close on forty years—bit of arecord that, I should say. The footman’s local, son of the gardener, and brought up here. Don’t seevery well how he can be a professional. The only other person is Mr. Lee’s valet attendant. He’scomparatively new, but he was out of the house—still is—went out just before eight o’clock.”

Colonel Johnson said:

“Have you got a list of just who exactly was in the house?”

“Yes, sir. I got it from the butler.” He took out his notebook. “Shall I read it to you?”

“Please, Sugden.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Lee. Mr. George Lee, M.P., and his wife, Mr. Henry Lee, Mr. and Mrs.

David Lee. Miss”—the superintendent paused a little, taking the words carefully—“Pilar”—hepronounced it like a piece of architecture—“Estravados. Mr. Stephen Farr. Then for the servants:

Edward Tressilian, butler. Walter Champion, footman. Emily Reeves, cook. Queenie Jones,kitchenmaid. Gladys Spent, head housemaid. Grace Best, second housemaid. Beatrice Moscombe,third housemaid. Joan Kench, betweenmaid. Sydney Horbury, valet attendant.”

“That’s the lot, eh?”

“That’s the lot, sir.”

“Any idea where everybody was at the time of the murder?”

“Only roughly. As I told you, I haven’t questioned anybody yet. According to Tressilian, thegentlemen were in the dining room still. The ladies had gone to the drawing room. Tressilian hadserved coffee. According to his statement, he had just got back to his pantry when he heard a noiseupstairs. It was followed by a scream. He ran out into the hall and upstairs in the wake of theothers.”

Colonel Johnson said:

“How many of the family live in the house, and who are just staying here?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Lee live here. The others are just visiting.”

Johnson nodded.

“Where are they all?”

“I asked them to stay in the drawing-room until I was ready to take their statements.”

“I see. Well, we’d better go upstairs and take a look at the doings.”

The superintendent led the way up the broad stairs and along the passage.

As he entered the room where the crime had taken place, Johnson drew a deep breath.

“Pretty horrible,” he commented.

He stood for a minute studying the overturned chairs, the smashed china, and the blood-bespattered débris.

A thin elderly man stood up from where he had been kneeling by the body and gave a nod.

“Evening, Johnson,” he said. “Bit of a shambles¹⁵, eh?”

“I should say it was. Got anything for us, doctor?”

The doctor shrugged¹⁶ his shoulders. He grinned.

“I’ll let you have the scientific language at the inquest! Nothing complicated about it. Throatcut like a pig. He bled to death in less than a minute. No sign of the weapon.”

Poirot went across the room to the windows. As the superintendent had said, one was shutand bolted. The other was open about four inches at the bottom. A thick patent screw of the kindknown many years ago as an anti-burglar screw secured it in that position.

Sugden said: “According to the butler, that window was never shut wet or fine. There’s alinoleum mat underneath it in case rain beat in, but it didn’t much, as the overhanging roofprotects it.”

Poirot nodded.

He came back to the body and stared down at the old man.

The lips were drawn¹⁷ back from the bloodless gums in something that looked like a snarl¹⁸. Thefingers were curved like claws.

Poirot said:

“He does not seem a strong man, no.”

The doctor said:

“He was pretty tough, I believe. He’d survived several pretty bad illnesses that would havekilled most men.”

Poirot said: “I do not mean that. I mean, he was not big, not strong physically¹⁹.”

“No, he’s frail²⁰ enough.”

Poirot turned from the dead man. He bent to examine an overturned chair, a big chair ofmahogany. Beside it was a round mahogany table and the fragments of a big china lamp. Twoother smaller chairs lay nearby, also the smashed fragments of a decanter and two glasses, a heavyglass paperweight was unbroken, some miscellaneous books, a big Japanese vase smashed inpieces, and a bronze statuette of a naked girl completed the débris.

Poirot bent over all these exhibits, studying them gravely, but without touching²¹ them. Hefrowned to himself as though perplexed²².

The chief constable said:

“Anything strike you, Poirot?”

Hercule Poirot sighed. He murmured:

“Such a frail shrunken old man—and yet—all this.”

Johnson looked puzzled. He turned away and said to the sergeant²³, who was busy at his work:

“What about prints?”

“Plenty of them, sir, all over the room.”

“What about the safe?”

“No good. Only prints on that are those of the old gentleman himself.”

Johnson turned to the doctor.

“What about bloodstains?” he asked. “Surely whoever killed him must have got blood onhim.”

The doctor said doubtfully:

“Not necessarily. Bleeding was almost entirely²⁴ from the jugular²⁵ vein²⁶. That wouldn’t spoutlike an artery²⁷.”

“No, no. Still, there seems a lot of blood about.”

Poirot said:

“Yes, there is a lot of blood—it strikes one, that. A lot of blood.”

Superintendent Sugden said respectfully:

“Do you—er—does that suggest anything to you, Mr. Poirot?”

Poirot looked about him. He shook his head perplexedly.

He said:

“There is something here—some violence .?.?.” He stopped a minute, then went on: “Yes, thatis it—violence .?.?. And blood—an insistence²⁸ on blood .?.?. There is—how shall I put it?—there istoo much blood. Blood on the chairs, on the tables, on the carpet .?.?. The blood ritual? Sacrificialblood? Is that it? Perhaps. Such a frail old man, so thin, so shrivelled, so dried up—and yet—in hisdeath—so much blood .?.?.”

His voice died away. Superintendent Sugden, staring at him with round, startled eyes, said inan awed²⁹ voice:

“Funny—that’s what she said—the lady. .?.?.”

Poirot said sharply:

“What lady? What was it she said?”

Sugden answered: “Mrs. Lee—Mrs. Alfred. Stood over there by the door and half whisperedit. It didn’t make sense to me.”

“What did she say?”

“Something about who would have thought the old gentleman had so much blood in him.

.?.?.”

Poirot said softly:

“‘Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?’ The words ofLady Macbeth. She said that .?.?. Ah, that is interesting. .?.?.”

 

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