“As you think, sir,” said George.
“It is your business to notice such things,” said Poirot encouragingly as he clapped the other on the shoulder. “It reflects credit upon you.”
The valet did not reply, and when, later in the day, the proceeding was repeated in the room of Victor Astwell, he made no comment on the fact that Mr. Astwell’s underclothing was not returned to its drawers strictly according to plan. Yet, in the second case at least, events proved the valet to be right and Poirot wrong. Victor Astwell came storming into the drawing room that evening.
“Now, look here, you blasted little Belgian jackanapes, what do you mean by searching my room? What the devil do you think you are going to find there? I won’t have it, do you hear? That’s what comes of having a ferreting little spy in the house.”
Poirot’s hands spread themselves out eloquently as his words tumbled one over the other. He offered a hundred apologies, a thousand, a million. He had been maladroit, officious, he was confused. He had taken an unwarranted liberty. In the end the infuriated gentleman was forced to subside, still growling.
And again that evening, sipping his tisane, Poirot murmured to George:
“It marches, my good George, yes—it marches.”
“Friday,” observed Hercule Poirot thoughtfully, “is my lucky day.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“You are not superstitious, perhaps, my good George?”
“I prefer not to sit down thirteen at table, sir, and I am adverse to passing under ladders. I have no superstitions about a Friday, sir.”
“That is well,” said Poirot, “for, see you, today we make our Waterloo.”
“Really, sir.”
“You have such enthusiasm, my good George, you do not even ask what I propose to do.”
“And what is that, sir?”
“Today, George, I make a final thorough search of the Tower room.”
True enough, after breakfast, Poirot, with the permission of Lady Astwell, went to the scene of the crime. There, at various times of the morning, members of the household saw him crawling about on all fours, examining minutely the black velvet curtains and standing on high chairs to examine the picture frames on the wall. Lady Astwell for the first time displayed uneasiness.
“I have to admit it,” she said. “He is getting on my nerves at last. He has something up his sleeve, and I don’t know what it is. And the way he is crawling about on the floor up there like a dog makes me downright shivery. What is he looking for, I’d like to know? Lily, my dear, I wish you would go up and see what he is up to now. No, on the whole, I’d rather you stayed with me.”
“Shall I go, Lady Astwell?” asked the secretary, rising from the desk.
“If you would, Mr. Trefusis.”
Owen Trefusis left the room and mounted the stairs to the Tower room. At first glance, he thought the room was empty, there was certainly no sign of Hercule Poirot there. He was just returning to go down again when a sound caught his ears; he then saw the little man halfway down the spiral staircase that led to the bedroom above.
He was on his hands and knees; in his left hand was a little pocket lens, and through this he was examining minutely something on the woodwork beside the stair carpet.
As the secretary watched him, he uttered a sudden grunt, and slipped the lens into his pocket. He then rose to his feet, holding something between his finger and thumb. At that moment he became aware of the secretary’s presence.
“Ah, hah! M. Trefusis, I didn’t hear you enter.”
He was in that moment a different man. Triumph and exultation beamed all over his face. Trefusis stared at him in surprise.
“What is the matter, M. Poirot? You look very pleased.”
The little man puffed out his chest.
“Yes, indeed. See you I have at last found that which I have been looking for from the beginning. I have here between my finger and thumb the one thing necessary to convict the criminal.”
“Then,” the secretary raised his eyebrows, “it was not Charles Leverson?”
“It was not Charles Leverson,” said Poirot. “Until this moment, though I know the criminal, I am not sure of his name, but at last all is clear.”
He stepped down the stairs and tapped the secretary on the shoulder.
“I am obliged to go to London immediately. Speak to Lady Astwell for me. Will you request of her that everyone should be assembled in the Tower room this evening at nine o’clock? I shall be there then, and I shall reveal the truth. Ah, me, but I am well content.”
And breaking into a fantastic little dance, he skipped from the Tower room. Trefusis was left staring after him.
A few minutes later Poirot appeared in the library, demanding if anyone could supply him with a little cardboard box.
“Unfortunately, I have not such a thing with me,” he explained, “and there is something of great value that it is necessary for me to put inside.”
From one of the drawers in the desk Trefusis produced a small box, and Poirot professed himself highly delighted with it.
He hurried upstairs with his treasure trove; meeting George on the landing, he handed the box to him.
“There is something of great importance inside,” he explained. “Place it, my good George, in the second drawer of my dressing table, beside the jewel case that contains my pearl studs.”
“Very good, sir,” said George.
“Do not break it,” said Poirot. “Be very careful. Inside that box is something that will hang a criminal.”
“You don’t say, sir,” said George.
Poirot hurried down the stairs again and, seizing his hat, departed from the house at a brisk run.
His return was more unostentatious. The faithful George, according to orders, admitted him by the side door.
“They are all in the Tower room?” inquired Poirot.
“Yes, sir.”
There was a murmured interchange of a few words, and then Poirot mounted with the triumphant step of the victor to that room where the murder had taken place less than a month ago. His eyes swept around the room. They were all there, Lady Astwell, Victor Astwell, Lily Margrave, the secretary, and Parsons, the butler. The latter was hovering by the door uncertainly.
“George, sir, said I should be needed here,” said Parsons as Poirot made his appearance. “I don’t know if that is right, sir?”
“Quite right,” said Poirot. “Remain, I pray of you.”
He advanced to the middle of the room.
“This has been a case of great interest,” he said in a slow, reflective voice. “It is interesting because anyone might have murdered Sir Reuben Astwell. Who inherits his money? Charles Leverson and Lady Astwell. Who was with him last that night? Lady Astwell. Who quarrelled with him violently? Again Lady Astwell.”
“What are you talking about?” cried Lady Astwell. “I don’t understand, I—”
“But someone else quarrelled with Sir Reuben,” continued Poirot in a pensive voice. “Someone else left him that night white with rage. Supposing Lady Astwell left her husband alive at a quarter to twelve that night, there would be ten minutes before Mr. Charles Leverson returned, ten minutes in which it would be possible for someone from the second floor to steal down and do the deed, and then return to his room again.”
Victor Astwell sprang up with a cry.
“What the hell—?” He stopped, choking with rage.
“In a rage, Mr. Astwell, you once killed a man in West Africa.”
“I don’t believe it,” cried Lily Margrave.
She came forward, her hands clenched, two bright spots of colour in her cheeks.
“I don’t believe it,” repeated the girl. She came close to Victor Astwell’s side.
“It’s true, Lily,” said Astwell, “but there are things this man doesn’t know. The fellow I killed was a witchdoctor who had just massacred fifteen children. I consider that I was justified.”
Lily came up to Poirot.
“M. Poirot,” she said earnestly, “you are wrong. Because a man has a sharp temper, because he breaks out and says all kinds of things, that is not any reason why he should do a murder. I know—I know, I tell you—that Mr. Astwell is incapable of such a thing.”
Poirot looked at her, a very curious smile on his face. Then he took her hand in his and patted it gently.
“You see, Mademoiselle,” he said gently, “you also have your intuitions. So you believe in Mr. Astwell, do you?”
Lily spoke quietly.
“Mr. Astwell is a good man,” she said, “and he is honest. He had nothing to do with the inside work of the Mpala Gold Fields. He is good through and through, and—I have promised to marry him.”
Victor Astwell came to her side and took her other hand.
“Before God, M. Poirot,” he said, “I didn’t kill my brother.”
“I know you did not,” said Poirot.
His eyes swept around the room.
“Listen, my friends. In a hypnotic trance, Lady Astwell mentioned having seen a bulge in the curtain that night.”
Everyone’s eyes swept to the window.
“You mean there was a burglar concealed there?” exclaimed Victor Astwell. “What a splendid solution!”
“Ah,” said Poirot gently. “But it was not that curtain.”
He wheeled around and pointed to the curtain that masked the little staircase.
“Sir Reuben used the bedroom the night prior to the crime. He breakfasted in bed, and he had Mr. Trefusis up there to give him instructions. I don’t know what it was that Mr. Trefusis left in that bedroom, but there was something. When he said good night to Sir Reuben and Lady Astwell, he remembered this thing and ran up the stairs to fetch it. I don’t think either the husband or wife noticed him, for they had already begun a violent discussion. They were in the middle of this quarrel when Mr. Trefusis came down the stairs again.
“The things they were saying to each other were of so intimate and personal a nature that Mr. Trefusis was placed in a very awkward position. It was clear to him that they imagined he had left the room some time ago. Fearing to arouse Sir Reuben’s anger against himself, he decided to remain where he was and slip out later. He stayed there behind the curtain, and as Lady Astwell left the room she subconsciously noticed the outline of his form there.
“When Lady Astwell had left the room, Trefusis tried to steal out unobserved, but Sir Reuben happened to turn his head, and became aware of the secretary’s presence. Already in a bad temper, Sir Reuben hurled abuse at his secretary, and accused him of deliberately eavesdropping and spying.
“Messieurs and Mesdames, I am a student of psychology. All through this case I have looked, not for the bad-tempered man or woman, for bad temper is its own safety valve. He who can bark does not bite. No, I have looked for the good-tempered man, for the man who is patient and self-controlled, for the man who for nine years has played the part of the under dog. There is no strain so great as that which has endured for years, there is no resentment like that which accumulates slowly.
“For nine years Sir Reuben has bullied and browbeaten his secretary, and for nine years that man has endured in silence. But there comes a day when at last the strain reaches its breaking point. Something snaps! It was so that night. Sir Reuben sat down at his desk again, but the secretary, instead of turning humbly and meekly to the door, picks up the heavy wooden club, and strikes down the man who had bullied him once too often.”
He turned to Trefusis, who was staring at him as though turned to stone.
“It was so simple, your alibi. Mr. Astwell thought you were in your room, but no one saw you go there. You were just stealing out after striking down Sir Reuben when you heard a sound, and you hastened back to cover, behind the curtain. You were behind there when Charles Leverson entered the room, you were there when Lily Margrave came. It was not till long after that that you crept up through a silent house to your bedroom. Do you deny it?”
Trefusis began to stammer.
“I—I never—”
“Ah! Let us finish this. For two weeks now I have played the comedy. I have showed you the net closing slowly around you. The fingerprints, footprints, the search of your room with the things artistically replaced. I have struck terror into you with all of this; you have lain awake at night fearing and wondering; did you leave a fingerprint in the room or a footprint somewhere?
“Again and again you have gone over the events of that night wondering what you have done or left undone, and so I brought you to the state where you made a slip. I saw the fear leap into your eyes today when I picked up something from the stairs where you had stood hidden that night. Then I made a great parade, the little box, the entrusting of it to George, and I go out.”
Poirot turned towards the door.
“George?”
“I am here, sir.”
The valet came forward.
“Will you tell these ladies and gentlemen what my instructions were?”
“I was to remain concealed in the wardrobe in your room, sir, having placed the cardboard box where you told me to. At half past three this afternoon, sir, Mr. Trefusis entered the room; he went to the drawer and took out the box in question.”
“And in that box,” continued Poirot, “was a common pin. Me, I speak always the truth. I did pick up something on the stairs this morning. That is your English saying, is it not? ‘See a pin and pick it up, all the day you’ll have good luck.’ Me, I have had good luck, I have found the murderer.”
He turned to the secretary.
“You see?” he said gently. “You betrayed yourself.”
Suddenly Trefusis broke down. He sank into a chair sobbing, his face buried in his hands.
“I was mad,” he groaned. “I was mad. But, oh, my God, he badgered and bullied me beyond bearing. For years I had hated and loathed him.”
“I knew!” cried Lady Astwell.
She sprang forward, her face irradiated with savage triumph.
“I knew that man had done it.”
She stood there, savage and triumphant.
“And you were right,” said Poirot. “One may call things by different names, but the fact remains. Your ‘intuition,’ Lady Astwell, proved correct. I felicitate you.”
Twenty-seven
DOUBLE SIN
“Double Sin” was first published as “By Road or Rail” in the Sunday Dispatch, September 23, 1928.
I had called in at my friend Poirot’s rooms to find him sadly overworked. So much had he become the rage that every rich woman who had mislaid a bracelet or lost a pet kitten rushed to secure the services of the great Hercule Poirot. My little friend was a strange mixture of Flemish thrift and artistic fervour. He accepted many cases in which he had little interest owing to the first instinct being predominant.
He also undertook cases in which there was a little or no monetary reward sheerly because the problem involved interested him. The result was that, as I say, he was overworking himself. He admitted as much himself, and I found little difficulty in persuading him to accompany me for a week’s holiday to that well-known South Coast resort, Ebermouth.
We had spent four very agreeable days when Poirot came to me, an open letter in his hand.
“Mon ami, you remember my friend Joseph Aarons, the theatrical agent?”
I assented after a moment’s thought. Poirot’s friends are so many and so varied, and range from dustmen to dukes.
“Eh bien, Hastings, Joseph Aarons finds himself at Charlock Bay. He is far from well, and there is a little affair that it seems is worrying him. He begs me to go over and see him. I think, mon ami, that I must accede to his request. He is a faithful friend, the good Joseph Aarons, and has done much to assist me in the past.”
“Certainly, if you think so,” I said. “I believe Charlock Bay is a beautiful spot, and as it happens I’ve never been there.”
“Then we combine business with pleasure,” said Poirot. “You will inquire the trains, yes??
??
“It will probably mean a change or two,” I said with a grimace. “You know what these cross-country lines are. To go from the South Devon coast to the North Devon coast is sometimes a day’s journey.”
However, on inquiry, I found that the journey could be accomplished by only one change at Exeter and that the trains were good. I was hastening back to Poirot with the information when I happened to pass the offices of the Speedy cars and saw written up:
Tomorrow. All-day excursion to Charlock Bay. Starting 8:30 through some of the most beautiful scenery in Devon.
I inquired a few particulars and returned to the hotel full of enthusiasm. Unfortunately, I found it hard to make Poirot share my feelings.
“My friend, why this passion for the motor coach? The train, see you, it is true? The tyres, they do not burst; the accidents, they do not happen. One is not incommoded by too much air. The windows can be shut and no draughts admitted.”
I hinted delicately that the advantage of fresh air was what attracted me most to the motor-coach scheme.
“And if it rains? Your English climate is so uncertain.”
“There’s a hood and all that. Besides, if it rains badly, the excursion doesn’t take place.”
“Ah!” said Poirot. “Then let us hope that it rains.”
“Of course, if you feel like that and. . . .”
“No, no, mon ami. I see that you have set your heart on the trip. Fortunately, I have my greatcoat with me and two mufflers.” He sighed. “But shall we have sufficient time at Charlock Bay?”
“Well, I’m afraid it means staying the night there. You see, the tour goes round by Dartmoor. We have lunch at Monkhampton. We arrive at Charlock Bay about four o’clock, and the coach starts back at five, arriving here at ten o’clock.”
“So!” said Poirot. “And there are people who do this for pleasure! We shall, of course, get a reduction of the fare since we do not make the return journey?”
“I hardly think that’s likely.”
“You must insist.”
“Come now, Poirot, don’t be mean. You know you’re coining money.”