Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

  “Surely he is sleeping very heavily?” I whispered.

  Poirot nodded.

  “Drugged,” he murmured.

  “Why?”

  “So that he should not cry out at—”

  “At what?” I asked, as Poirot paused.

  “At the prick of the hypodermic needle, mon ami! Hush, let us speak no more—not that I expect anything to happen for some time.”

  VI

  But in this Poirot was wrong. Hardly ten minutes had elapsed before the door opened softly, and someone entered the room. I heard a sound of quick hurried breathing. Footsteps moved to the bed, and then there was a sudden click. The light of a little electric lantern fell on the sleeping child—the holder of it was still invisible in the shadow. The figure laid down the lantern. With the right hand it brought forth a syringe; with the left it touched the boy’s neck—

  Poirot and I sprang at the same minute. The lantern rolled to the floor, and we struggled with the intruder in the dark. His strength was extraordinary. At last we overcame him.

  “The light, Hastings, I must see his face—though I fear I know only too well whose face it will be.”

  So did I, I thought as I groped for the lantern. For a moment I had suspected the secretary, egged on by my secret dislike of the man, but I felt assured by now that the man who stood to gain by the death of his two childish cousins was the monster we were tracking.

  My foot struck against the lantern. I picked it up and switched on the light. It shone full on the face of—Hugo Lemesurier, the boy’s father!

  The lantern almost dropped from my hand.

  “Impossible,” I murmured hoarsely. “Impossible!”

  VII

  Lemesurier was unconscious. Poirot and I between us carried him to his room and laid him on the bed. Poirot bent and gently extricated something from his right hand. He showed it to me. It was a hypodermic syringe. I shuddered.

  “What is in it? Poison?”

  “Formic acid, I fancy.”

  “Formic acid?”

  “Yes. Probably obtained by distilling ants. He was a chemist, you remember. Death would have been attributed to the bee sting.”

  “My God,” I muttered. “His own son! And you expected this?”

  Poirot nodded gravely.

  “Yes. He is insane, of course. I imagine that the family history has become a mania with him. His intense longing to succeed to the estate led him to commit the long series of crimes. Possibly the idea occurred to him first when travelling north that night with Vincent. He couldn’t bear the prediction to be falsified. Ronald’s son was already dead, and Ronald himself was a dying man—they are a weakly lot. He arranged the accident to the gun, and—which I did not suspect until now—contrived the death of his brother John by this same method of injecting formic acid into the jugular vein. His ambition was realized then, and he became the master of the family acres. But his triumph was short-lived—he found that he was suffering from an incurable disease. And he had the madman’s fixed idea—the eldest son of a Lemesurier could not inherit. I suspect that the bathing accident was due to him—he encouraged the child to go out too far. That failing, he sawed through the ivy, and afterwards poisoned the child’s food.”

  “Diabolical!” I murmured with a shiver. “And so cleverly planned!”

  “Yes, mon ami, there is nothing more amazing than the extraordinary sanity of the insane! Unless it is the extraordinary eccentricity of the sane! I imagine that it is only lately that he has completely gone over the borderline, there was method in his madness to begin with.”

  “And to think that I suspected Roger—that splendid fellow.”

  “It was the natural assumption, mon ami. We knew that he also travelled north with Vincent that night. We knew, too, that he was the next heir after Hugo and Hugo’s children. But our assumption was not borne out by the facts. The ivy was sawn through when only little Ronald was at home—but it would be to Roger’s interest that both children should perish. In the same way, it was only Ronald’s food that was poisoned. And today when they came home and I found that there was only his father’s word for it that Ronald had been stung, I remembered the other death from a wasp sting—and I knew!”

  VIII

  Hugo Lemesurier died a few months later in the private asylum to which he was removed. His widow was remarried a year later to Mr. John Gardiner, the auburn-haired secretary. Ronald inherited the broad acres of his father, and continues to flourish.

  “Well, well,” I remarked to Poirot. “Another illusion gone. You have disposed very successfully of the curse of the Lemesuriers.”

  “I wonder,” said Poirot very thoughtfully. “I wonder very much indeed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mon ami, I will answer you with one significant word—red!”

  “Blood?” I queried, dropping my voice to an awe-stricken whisper.

  “Always you have the imagination melodramatic, Hastings! I refer to something much more prosaic—the colour of little Ronald Lemesurier’s hair.”

  Twenty-six

  THE UNDER DOG

  “The Under Dog” was first published in the USA in Mystery Magazine, April 1, 1926, then in London Magazine, October 1926.

  Lily Margrave smoothed her gloves out on her knee with a nervous gesture, and darted a glance at the occupant of the big chair opposite her.

  She had heard of M. Hercule Poirot, the well-known investigator, but this was the first time she had seen him in the flesh.

  The comic, almost ridiculous, aspect that he presented disturbed her conception of him. Could this funny little man, with the egg-shaped head and the enormous moustaches, really do the wonderful things that were claimed for him? His occupation at the moment struck her as particularly childish. He was piling small blocks of coloured wood one upon the other, and seemed far more interested in the result than in the story she was telling.

  At her sudden silence, however, he looked sharply across at her.

  “Mademoiselle, continue, I pray of you. It is not that I do not attend; I attend very carefully, I assure you.”

  He began once more to pile the little blocks of wood one upon the other, while the girl’s voice took up the tale again. It was a gruesome tale, a tale of violence and tragedy, but the voice was so calm and unemotional, the recital was so concise that something of the savour of humanity seemed to have been left out of it.

  She stopped at last.

  “I hope,” she said anxiously, “that I have made everything clear.”

  Poirot nodded his head several times in emphatic assent. Then he swept his hand across the wooden blocks, scattering them over the table, and, leaning back in his chair, his fingertips pressed together and his eyes on the ceiling, he began to recapitulate.

  “Sir Reuben Astwell was murdered ten days ago. On Wednesday, the day before yesterday, his nephew, Charles Leverson, was arrested by the police. The facts against him as far as you know are:—you will correct me if I am wrong, Mademoiselle—Sir Reuben was sitting up late writing in his own special sanctum, the Tower room. Mr. Leverson came in late, letting himself in with a latchkey. He was overheard quarrelling with his uncle by the butler, whose room is directly below the Tower room. The quarrel ended with a sudden thud as of a chair being thrown over and a half-smothered cry.

  “The butler was alarmed, and thought of getting up to see what was the matter, but as a few seconds later he heard Mr. Leverson leave the room gaily whistling a tune, he thought nothing more of it. On the following morning, however, a housemaid discovered Sir Reuben dead by his desk. He had been struck down by some heavy instrument. The butler, I gather, did not at once tell his story to the police. That was natural, I think, eh, Mademoiselle?”

  The sudden question made Lily Margrave start.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said.

  “One looks for humanity in these matters, does one not?” said the little man. “As you recited the story to me—so admirably, so concisely—you made o
f the actors in the drama machines—puppets. But me, I look always for human nature. I say to myself, this butler, this—what did you say his name was?”

  “His name is Parsons.”

  “This Parsons, then, he will have the characteristics of his class, he will object very strongly to the police, he will tell them as little as possible. Above all, he will say nothing that might seem to incriminate a member of the household. A house-breaker, a burglar, he will cling to that idea with all the strength of extreme obstinacy. Yes, the loyalties of the servant class are an interesting study.”

  He leaned back beaming.

  “In the meantime,” he went on, “everyone in the household has told his or her tale, Mr. Leverson among the rest, and his tale was that he had come in late and gone up to bed without seeing his uncle.”

  “That is what he said.”

  “And no one saw reason to doubt that tale,” mused Poirot, “except, of course, Parsons. Then there comes down an inspector from Scotland Yard, Inspector Miller you said, did you not? I know him, I have come across him once or twice in the past. He is what they call the sharp man, the ferret, the weasel.

  “Yes, I know him! And the sharp Inspector Miller, he sees what the local inspector has not seen, that Parsons is ill at ease and uncomfortable, and knows something that he has not told. Eh bien, he makes short work of Parsons. By now it has been clearly proved that no one broke into the house that night, that the murderer must be looked for inside the house and not outside. And Parsons is unhappy and frightened, and feels very relieved to have his secret knowledge drawn out of him.

  “He has done his best to avoid scandal, but there are limits; and so Inspector Miller listens to Parsons’ story, and asks a question or two, and then makes some private investigations of his own. The case he builds up is very strong—very strong.

  “Blood-stained fingers rested on the corner of the chest in the Tower room, and the fingerprints were those of Charles Leverson. The housemaid told him she emptied a basin of bloodstained water in Mr. Leverson’s room the morning after the crime. He explained to her that he had cut his finger, and he had a little cut there, oh yes, but such a very little cut! The cuff of his evening shirt had been washed, but they found bloodstains in the sleeve of his coat. He was hard pressed for money, and he inherited money at Sir Reuben’s death. Oh, yes, a very strong case, Mademoiselle.” He paused.

  “And yet you come to me today.”

  Lily Margrave shrugged her slender shoulders.

  “As I told you, M. Poirot, Lady Astwell sent me.”

  “You would not have come of your own accord, eh?”

  The little man glanced at her shrewdly. The girl did not answer.

  “You do not reply to my question.”

  Lily Margrave began smoothing her gloves again.

  “It is rather difficult for me, M. Poirot. I have my loyalty to Lady Astwell to consider. Strictly speaking, I am only her paid companion, but she has treated me more as though I were a daughter or a niece. She has been extraordinarily kind and, whatever her faults, I should not like to appear to criticize her actions, or—well, to prejudice you against taking up the case.”

  “Impossible to prejudice Hercule Poirot, cela ne ce fait pas,” declared the little man cheerily. “I perceive that you think Lady Astwell has in her bonnet the buzzing bee. Come now, is it not so?”

  “If I must say—”

  “Speak, Mademoiselle.”

  “I think the whole thing is simply silly.”

  “It strikes you like that, eh?”

  “I don’t want to say anything against Lady Astwell—”

  “I comprehend,” murmured Poirot gently. “I comprehend perfectly.” His eyes invited her to go on.

  “She really is a very good sort, and frightfully kind, but she isn’t—how can I put it? She isn’t an educated woman. You know she was an actress when Sir Reuben married her, and she has all sorts of prejudices and superstitions. If she says a thing, it must be so, and she simply won’t listen to reason. The inspector was not very tactful with her, and it put her back up. She says it is nonsense to suspect Mr. Leverson and just the sort of stupid, pigheaded mistake the police would make, and that, of course, dear Charles did not do it.”

  “But she has no reasons, eh?”

  “None whatever.”

  “Ha! Is that so? Really, now.”

  “I told her,” said Lily, “that it would be no good coming to you with a mere statement like that and nothing to go on.”

  “You told her that,” said Poirot, “did you really? That is interesting.”

  His eyes swept over Lily Margrave in a quick comprehensive survey, taking in the details of her neat black suit, the touch of white at her throat and the smart little black hat. He saw the elegance of her, the pretty face with its slightly pointed chin, and the dark-blue, long-lashed eyes. Insensibly his attitude changed; he was interested now, not so much in the case as in the girl sitting opposite him.

  “Lady Astwell is, I should imagine, Mademoiselle, just a trifle inclined to be unbalanced and hysterical?”

  Lily Margrave nodded eagerly.

  “That describes her exactly. She is, as I told you, very kind, but it is impossible to argue with her or to make her see things logically.”

  “Possibly she suspects someone on her own account,” suggested Poirot, “someone quite absurd.”

  “That is exactly what she does do,” cried Lily. “She has taken a great dislike to Sir Reuben’s secretary, poor man. She says she knows he did it, and yet it has been proved quite conclusively that poor Owen Trefusis cannot possibly have done it.”

  “And she has no reasons?”

  “Of course not; it is all intuition with her.”

  Lily Margrave’s voice was very scornful.

  “I perceive, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, smiling, “that you do not believe in intuition?”

  “I think it is nonsense,” replied Lily.

  Poirot leaned back in his chair.

  “Les femmes,” he murmured, “they like to think that it is a special weapon that the good God has given them, and for every once that it shows them the truth, at least nine times it leads them astray.”

  “I know,” said Lily, “but I have told you what Lady Astwell is like. You simply cannot argue with her.”

  “So you, Mademoiselle, being wise and discreet, came along to me as you were bidden, and have managed to put me au courant of the situation.”

  Something in the tone of his voice made the girl look up sharply.

  “Of course, I know,” said Lily apologetically, “how very valuable your time is.”

  “You are too flattering, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, “but indeed—yes, it is true, at this present time I have many cases of moment on hand.”

  “I was afraid that might be so,” said Lily, rising. “I will tell Lady Astwell—”

  But Poirot did not rise also. Instead he lay back in his chair and looked steadily up at the girl.

  “You are in haste to be gone, Mademoiselle? Sit down one more little moment, I pray of you.”

  He saw the colour flood into her face and ebb out again. She sat down once more slowly and unwillingly.

  “Mademoiselle is quick and decisive,” said Poirot. “She must make allowances for an old man like myself, who comes to his decisions slowly. You mistook me, Mademoiselle. I did not say that I would not go down to Lady Astwell.”

  “You will come, then?”

  The girl’s tone was flat. She did not look at Poirot, but down at the ground, and so was unaware of the keen scrutiny with which he regarded her.

  “Tell Lady Astwell, Mademoiselle, that I am entirely at her service. I will be at—Mon Repos, is it not?—this afternoon.”

  He rose. The girl followed suit.

  “I—I will tell her. It is very good of you to come, M. Poirot. I am afraid, though, you will find you have been brought on a wild goose chase.”

  “Very likely, but—who knows?”

 
He saw her out with punctilious courtesy to the door. Then he returned to the sitting room, frowning, deep in thought. Once or twice he nodded his head, then he opened the door and called to his valet.

  “My good George, prepare me, I pray of you, a little valise. I go down to the country this afternoon.”

  “Very good, sir,” said George.

  He was an extremely English-looking person. Tall, cadaverous and unemotional.

  “A young girl is a very interesting phenomenon, George,” said Poirot, as he dropped once more into his armchair and lighted a tiny cigarette. “Especially, you understand, when she has brains. To ask someone to do a thing and at the same time to put them against doing it, that is a delicate operation. It requires finesse. She was very adroit—oh, very adroit—but Hercule Poirot, my good George, is of a cleverness quite exceptional.”

  “I have heard you say so, sir.”

  “It is not the secretary she has in mind,” mused Poirot. “Lady Astwell’s accusation of him she treats with contempt. Just the same she is anxious that no one should disturb the sleeping dogs. I, my good George, I go to disturb them, I go to make the dog fight! There is a drama there, at Mon Repos. A human drama, and it excites me. She was adroit, the little one, but not adroit enough. I wonder—I wonder what I shall find there?”

  Into the dramatic pause which succeeded these words George’s voice broke apologetically:

  “Shall I pack dress clothes, sir?”

  Poirot looked at him sadly.

  “Always the concentration, the attention to your own job. You are very good for me, George.”

  When the 4:55 drew up at Abbots Cross station, there descended from it M. Hercule Poirot, very neatly and foppishly attired, his moustaches waxed to a stiff point. He gave up his ticket, passed through the barrier, and was accosted by a tall chauffeur.

  “M. Poirot?”

  The little man beamed upon him.

  “That is my name.”

  “This way, sir, if you please.”

  He held open the door of the big Rolls-Royce.

  The house was a bare three minutes from the station. The chauffeur descended once more and opened the door of the car, and Poirot stepped out. The butler was already holding the front door open.