Hercule Poirot's Christmas: A Hercule Poirot Mystery

  ‘Assuredly, there is one who does not mourn,’ Poirot murmured to himself.

  A soft sound behind him made him turn. Magdalene Lee was standing there. She, too, was looking at the retreating figures of the man and girl. She turned her head and smiled enchantingly at Poirot. She said:

  ‘It’s such a glorious sunny day! One can hardly believe in all the horrors of last night, can one, M. Poirot?’

  ‘It is difficult, truly, madame.’

  Magdalene sighed.

  ‘I’ve never been mixed up in tragedy before. I’ve—I’ve really only just grown up. I stayed a child too long, I think—That’s not a good thing to do.’

  Again she sighed. She said:

  ‘Pilar, now, seems so extraordinarily self-possessed—I suppose it’s the Spanish blood. It’s all very odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘What is odd, madame?’

  ‘The way she turned up here, out of the blue!’

  Poirot said:

  ‘I have learned that Mr Lee had been searching for her for some time. He had been in correspondence with the Consulate in Madrid and with the vice-consul at Aliquara, where her mother died.’

  ‘He was very secretive about it all,’ said Magdalene. ‘Alfred knew nothing about it. No more did Lydia.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Poirot.

  Magdalene came a little nearer to him. He could smell the delicate perfume she used.

  ‘You know, M. Poirot, there’s some story connected with Jennifer’s husband, Estravados. He died quite soon after the marriage, and there’s some mystery about it. Alfred and Lydia know. I believe it was something—rather disgraceful…’

  ‘That,’ said Poirot, ‘is indeed sad.’

  Magdalene said:

  ‘My husband feels—and I agree with him—that the family ought to have been told more about the girl’s antecedents. After all, if her father was a criminal—’

  She paused, but Hercule Poirot said nothing. He seemed to be admiring such beauties of nature as could be seen in the winter season in the grounds of Gorston Hall.

  Magdalene said:

  ‘I can’t help feeling that the manner of my father-in-law’s death was somehow significant. It—it was so very unEnglish.’

  Hercule Poirot turned slowly. His grave eyes met hers in innocent inquiry.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The Spanish touch, you think?’

  ‘Well, they are cruel, aren’t they?’ Magdalene spoke with an effect of childish appeal. ‘All those bull fights and things!’

  Hercule Poirot said pleasantly:

  ‘You are saying that in your opinion señorita Estravados cut her grandfather’s throat?’

  ‘Oh no, M. Poirot!’ Magdalene was vehement. She was shocked. ‘I never said anything of the kind! Indeed I didn’t!’

  ‘Well,’ said Poirot. ‘Perhaps you did not.’

  ‘But I do think that she is—well, a suspicious person. The furtive way she picked up something from the floor of that room last night, for instance.’

  A different note crept into Hercule Poirot’s voice. He said sharply:

  ‘She picked up something from the floor last night?’

  Magdalene nodded. Her childish mouth curved spitefully.

  ‘Yes, as soon as we got into the room. She gave a quick glance round to see if anyone was looking, and then pounced on it. But the superintendent man saw her, I’m glad to say, and made her give it up.’

  ‘What was it that she picked up, do you know, madame?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t near enough to see.’ Magdalene’s voice held regret. ‘It was something quite small.’

  Poirot frowned to himself.

  ‘It is interesting, that,’ he murmured to himself.

  Magdalene said quickly:

  ‘Yes, I thought you ought to know about it. After all, we don’t know anything about Pilar’s upbringing and what her life has been like. Alfred is always so suspicious and dear Lydia is so casual.’ Then she murmured: ‘Perhaps I’d better go and see if I can help Lydia in any way. There may be letters to write.’

  She left him with a smile of satisfied malice on her lips.

  Poirot remained lost in thought on the terrace.

  II

  To him there came Superintendent Sugden. The police superintendent looked gloomy. He said:

  ‘Good morning, Mr Poirot. Doesn’t seem quite the right thing to say Merry Christmas, does it?’

  ‘Mon cher collègue, I certainly do not observe any traces of merriment on your countenance. If you had said Merry Christmas I should not have replied “Many of them!” ’

  ‘I don’t want another one like this one, and that’s a fact,’ said Sugden.

  ‘You have made the progress, yes?’

  ‘I’ve checked up on a good many points. Horbury’s alibi is holding water all right. The commissionaire at the cinema saw him go in with the girl, and saw him come out with her at the end of the performance, and seems pretty positive he didn’t leave, and couldn’t have left and returned during the performance. The girl swears quite definitely he was with her in the cinema all the time.’

  Poirot’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘I hardly see, then, what more there is to say.’

  The cynical Sugden said:

  ‘Well, one never knows with girls! Lie themselves black in the face for the sake of a man.’

  ‘That does credit to their hearts,’ said Hercule Poirot.

  Sugden growled.

  ‘That’s a foreign way of looking at it. It’s defeating the ends of justice.’

  Hercule Poirot said:

  ‘Justice is a very strange thing. Have you ever reflected on it?’

  Sugden stared at him. He said:

  ‘You’re a queer one, Mr Poirot.’

  ‘Not at all. I follow a logical train of thought. But we will not enter into a dispute on the question. It is your belief, then, that this demoiselle from the milk shop is not speaking the truth?’

  Sugden shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s not like that at all. As a matter of fact, I think she is telling the truth. She’s a simple kind of girl, and I think if she was telling me a pack of lies I’d spot it.’

  Poirot said:

  ‘You have the experience, yes?’

  ‘That’s just it, Mr Poirot. One does know, more or less, after a lifetime of taking down statements, when a person’s lying and when they’re not. No, I think the girl’s evidence is genuine, and if so, Horbury couldn’t have murdered old Mr Lee, and that brings us right back to the people in the house.’

  He drew a deep breath.

  ‘One of ’em did it, Mr Poirot. One of ’em did it. But which?’

  ‘You have no new data?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve had a certain amount of luck over the telephone calls. Mr George Lee put through a call to Westeringham at two minutes to nine. That call lasted under six minutes.’

  ‘Aha!’

  ‘As you say! Moreover, no other call was put through—to Westeringham or anywhere else.’

  ‘Very interesting,’ said Poirot, with approval. ‘M. George Lee says he has just finished telephoning when he hears the noise overhead—but actually he had finished telephoning nearly ten minutes before that. Where was he in those ten minutes? Mrs George Lee says that she was telephoning—but actually she never put through a call at all. Where was she?’

  Sugden said:

  ‘I saw you talking to her, M. Poirot?’

  His voice held a question, but Poirot replied:

  ‘You are in error!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I was not talking to her—she was talking to me!’

  ‘Oh—’ Sugden seemed to be about to brush the distinction aside impatiently; then, as its significance sank in, he said:

  ‘She was talking to you, you say?’

  ‘Most definitely. She came out here for that purpose.’

  ‘What did she have to say?’

  ‘She wished to stress certain points: the unEnglish character of the cri
me—the possibly undesirable antecedents of Miss Estravados on the paternal side—the fact that Miss Estravados had furtively picked up something from the floor last night.’

  ‘She told you that, did she?’ said Sugden with interest.

  ‘Yes. What was it that the señorita picked up?’

  Sugden sighed.

  ‘I could give you three hundred guesses! I’ll show it to you. It’s the sort of thing that solves the whole mystery in detective stories! If you can make anything out of it, I’ll retire from the police force!’

  ‘Show it me.’

  Sugden took an envelope from his pocket and tilted its contents on to the palm of his hand. A faint grin showed on his face.

  ‘There you are. What do you make of it?’

  On the superintendent’s broad palm lay a little triangular piece of pink rubber and a small wooden peg.

  His grin broadened as Poirot picked up the articles and frowned over them.

  ‘Make anything of them, Mr Poirot?’

  ‘This little piece of stuff might have been cut from a spongebag?’

  ‘It was. It comes from a spongebag in Mr Lee’s room. Somebody with sharp scissors just cut a small triangular piece out of it. Mr Lee may have done it himself, for all I know. But it beats me why he should do it. Horbury can’t throw any light on the matter. As for the peg, it’s about the size of a crib-bage peg, but they’re usually made of ivory. This is just rough wood—whittled out of a bit of deal, I should say.’

  ‘Most remarkable,’ murmured Poirot.

  ‘Keep ’em if you like,’ said Sugden kindly. ‘I don’t want them.’

  ‘Mon ami, I would not deprive you of them!’

  ‘They don’t mean anything at all to you?’

  ‘I must confess—nothing whatever!’

  ‘Splendid!’ said Sugden with heavy sarcasm, returning them to his pocket. ‘We are getting on!’

  Poirot said:

  ‘Mrs George Lee, she recounts that the young lady stooped and picked these bagatelles up in a furtive manner. Should you say that that was true?’

  Sugden considered the point.

  ‘N-o,’ he said hesitatingly. ‘I shouldn’t quite go as far as that. She didn’t look guilty—nothing of that kind—but she did set about it rather—well, quickly and quietly—if you know what I mean. And she didn’t know I’d seen her do it! That I’m sure of. She jumped when I rounded on her.’

  Poirot said thoughtfully:

  ‘Then there was a reason? But what conceivable reason could there have been? That little piece of rubber is quite fresh. It has not been used for anything. It can have no meaning whatsoever; and yet—’

  Sugden said impatiently:

  ‘Well, you can worry about it if you like, Mr Poirot. I’ve got other things to think about.’

  Poirot asked:

  ‘The case stands—where, in your opinion?’

  Sugden took out his note-book.

  ‘Let’s get down to facts. To begin with, there are the people who couldn’t have done it. Let’s get them out of the way first—’

  ‘They are—?’

  ‘Alfred and Harry Lee. They’ve got a definite alibi. Also Mrs Alfred Lee, since Tressilian saw her in the drawing-room only about a minute before the row started upstairs. Those three are clear. Now for the others. Here’s a list. I’ve put it this way for clearness.’

  He handed the book to Poirot.

  At the time of the crime

  George Lee ?

  Mrs George Lee ?

  David Lee playing piano in music-room

  (confirmed by his wife)

  Mrs David Lee in music-room (confirmed by husband)

  Miss Estravados in her bedroom (no confirmation)

  Stephen Farr in ballroom playing gramophone

  (confirmed by three of staff

  who could hear the music in

  servants’ hall).

  Poirot said, handing back the list:

  ‘And therefore?’

  ‘And therefore,’ said Sugden, ‘George Lee could have killed the old man. Mrs George Lee could have killed him. Pilar Estravados could have killed him; and either Mr or Mrs David Lee could have killed him, but not both.’

  ‘You do not, then, accept that alibi?’

  Superintendent Sugden shook his head emphatically.

  ‘Not on your life! Husband and wife—devoted to each other! They may be in it together, or if one of them did it, the other is ready to swear to an alibi. I look at it this way: Someone was in the music-room playing the piano. It may have been David Lee. It probably was, since he was an acknowledged musician, but there’s nothing to say his wife was there too except her word and his. In the same way, it may have been Hilda who was playing that piano while David Lee crept upstairs and killed his father! No, it’s an absolutely different case from the two brothers in the dining-room. Alfred Lee and Harry Lee don’t love each other. Neither of them would perjure himself for the other’s sake.’

  ‘What about Stephen Farr?’

  ‘He’s a possible suspect because that gramophone alibi is a bit thin. On the other hand, it’s the sort of alibi that’s really sounder than a good cast-iron dyed-in-the-wool alibi which, ten to one, has been faked up beforehand!’

  Poirot bowed his head thoughtfully.

  ‘I know what you mean. It is the alibi of a man who did not know that he would be called upon to provide such a thing.’

  ‘Exactly! And anyway, somehow, I don’t believe a stranger was mixed up in this thing.’

  Poirot said quickly:

  ‘I agree with you. It is here a family affair. It is a poison that works in the blood—it is intimate—it is deep-seated. There is here, I think, hate and knowledge…’

  He waved his hands.

  ‘I do not know—it is difficult!’

  Superintendent Sugden had waited respectfully, but without being much impressed. He said:

  ‘Quite so, Mr Poirot. But we’ll get at it, never fear, with elimination and logic. We’ve got the possibilities now—the people with opportunity. George Lee, Magdalene Lee, David Lee, Hilda Lee, Pilar Estravados, and I’ll add, Stephen Farr. Now we come to motive. Who had a motive for putting old Mr Lee out of the way? There again we can wash out certain people. Miss Estravados, for one. I gather that as the will stands now, she doesn’t get anything at all. If Simeon Lee had died before her mother, her mother’s share would have come down to her (unless her mother willed it otherwise), but as Jennifer Estravados predeceased Simeon Lee, that particular legacy reverts to the other members of the family. So it was definitely to Miss Estravados’ interests to keep the old man alive. He’d taken a fancy to her; it’s pretty certain he’d have left her a good slice of money when he made a new will. She had everything to lose and nothing to gain by his murder. You agree to that?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘There remains, of course, the possibility that she cut his throat in the heat of a quarrel, but that seems extremely unlikely to me. To begin with, they were on the best of terms, and she hadn’t been here long enough to bear him a grudge about anything. It therefore seems highly unlikely that Miss Estravados has anything to do with the crime—except that you might argue that to cut a man’s throat is an unEnglish sort of thing to do, as your friend Mrs George put it?’

  ‘Do not call her my friend,’ said Poirot hastily. ‘Or I shall speak of your friend Miss Estravados, who finds you such a handsome man!’

  He had the pleasure of seeing the superintendent’s official poise upset again. The police officer turned crimson. Poirot looked at him with malicious amusement.

  He said, and there was a wistful note in his voice:

  ‘It is true that your moustache is superb…Tell me, do you use for it a special pomade?’

  ‘Pomade? Good lord, no!’

  ‘What do you use?’

  ‘Use? Nothing at all. It—it just grows.’

  Poirot sighed.

  ‘You are favoured by nature.’ He caressed his own
luxuriant black moustache, then sighed. ‘However expensive the preparation,’ he murmured, ‘to restore the natural colour does somewhat impoverish the quality of the hair.’

  Superintendent Sugden, uninterested in hair-dressing problems, was continuing in a stolid manner:

  ‘Considering the motive for the crime, I should say that we can probably wash out Mr Stephen Farr. It’s just possible that there was some hanky-panky between his father and Mr Lee and the former suffered, but I doubt it. Farr’s manner was too easy and assured when he mentioned that subject. He was quite confident—and I don’t think he was acting. No, I don’t think we’ll find anything there.’

  ‘I do not think you will,’ said Poirot.

  ‘And there’s one other person with a motive for keeping old Mr Lee alive—his son Harry. It’s true that he benefits under the will, but I don’t believe he was aware of the fact. Certainly couldn’t have been sure of it! The general impression seemed to be that Harry had been definitely cut out of his share of the inheritance at the time he cut loose. But now he was on the point of coming back into favour! It was all to his advantage that his father should make a new will. He wouldn’t be such a fool as to kill him now. Actually, as we know, he couldn’t have done it. You see, we’re getting on; we’re clearing quite a lot of people out of the way.’

  ‘How true. Very soon there will be nobody left!’

  Sugden grinned.

  ‘We’re not going as fast as that! We’ve got George Lee and his wife, and David Lee and Mrs David. They all benefit by the death, and George Lee, from all I can make out, is grasping about money. Moreover, his father was threatening to cut down supplies. So we’ve got George Lee with motive and opportunity!’

  ‘Continue,’ said Poirot.

  ‘And we’ve got Mrs George! As fond of money as a cat is fond of cream; and I’d be prepared to bet she’s heavily in debt at the minute! She was jealous of the Spanish girl. She was quick to spot that the other was gaining an ascendancy over the old man. She’d heard him say that he was sending for the lawyer. So she struck quickly. You could make out a case.’