“No, you do not understand! It is the other ladies who were wanted by the police—the resourceful Mrs. Rice and the lachrymose Mrs. Clayton! It is they who are well-known birds of prey. Those two, they make their living by blackmail, mon cher.”
Harold had a sensation of the world spinning round him. He said faintly:
“But the man—the man who was killed?”
“No one was killed. There was no man!”
“But I saw him!”
“Oh no. The tall deep-voiced Mrs. Rice is a very successful male impersonator. It was she who played the part of the husband—without her grey wig and suitably made up for the part.”
He leaned forward and tapped the other on the knee.
“You must not go through life being too credulous, my friend. The police of a country are not so easily bribed—they are probably not to be bribed at all—certainly not when it is a question of murder! These women trade on the average Englishman’s ignorance of foreign languages. Because she speaks French or German, it is always this Mrs. Rice who interviews the manager and takes charge of the affair. The police arrive and go to her room, yes! But what actually passes? You do not know. Perhaps she says she has lost a brooch—something of that kind. Any excuse to arrange for the police to come so that you shall see them. For the rest, what actually happens? You wire for money, a lot of money, and you hand it over to Mrs. Rice who is in charge of all the negotiations! And that is that! But they are greedy, these birds of prey. They have seen that you have taken an unreasonable aversion to these two unfortunate Polish ladies. The ladies in question come and hold a perfectly innocent conversation with Mrs. Rice and she cannot resist repeating the game. She knows you cannot understand what is being said.
“So you will have to send for more money which Mrs. Rice will pretend to distribute to a fresh set of people.”
Harold drew a deep breath. He said:
“And Elsie—Elsie?”
Hercule Poirot averted his eyes.
“She played her part very well. She always does. A most accomplished little actress. Everything is very pure—very innocent. She appeals, not to sex, but to chivalry.”
Hercule Poirot added dreamily:
“That is always successful with Englishmen.”
Harold Waring drew a deep breath. He said crisply:
“I’m going to set to work and learn every European language there is! Nobody’s going to make a fool of me a second time!”
Forty-five
THE CRETAN BULL
“The Cretan Bull” was first published in the USA as “Midnight Madness” in This Week, September 24, 1939, then in The Strand, May 1940.
Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at his visitor.
He saw a pale face with a determined looking chin, eyes that were more grey than blue, and hair that was of that real blue-black shade so seldom seen—the hyacinthine locks of ancient Greece.
He noted the well-cut, but also well-worn, country tweeds, the shabby handbag, and the unconscious arrogance of manner that lay behind the girl’s obvious nervousness. He thought to himself:
“Ah yes, she is ‘the County’—but no money! And it must be something quite out of the way that would bring her to me.”
Diana Maberly said, and her voice shook a little:
“I—I don’t know whether you can help me or not, M. Poirot. It’s—it’s a very extraordinary position.”
Poirot said:
“But yes? Tell me?”
Diana Maberly said:
“I’ve come to you because I don’t know what to do! I don’t even know if there is anything to do!”
“Will you let me be the judge of that?”
The colour surged suddenly into the girl’s face. She said rapidly and breathlessly:
“I’ve come to you because the man I’ve been engaged to for over a year has broken off our engagement.”
She stopped and eyed him defiantly.
“You must think,” she said, “that I’m completely mental.”
Slowly, Hercule Poirot shook his head.
“On the contrary, Mademoiselle, I have no doubt whatever but that you are extremely intelligent. It is certainly not my métier in life to patch up the lovers’ quarrels, and I know very well that you are quite aware of that. It is, therefore, that there is something unusual about the breaking of this engagement. That is so, is it not?”
The girl nodded. She said in a clear, precise voice:
“Hugh broke off our engagement because he thinks he is going mad. He thinks people who are mad should not marry.”
Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows rose a little.
“And do you not agree?”
“I don’t know . . . What is being mad, after all? Everyone is a little mad.”
“It has been said so,” Poirot agreed cautiously.
“It’s only when you begin thinking you’re a poached egg or something that they have to shut you up.”
“And your fiancé has not reached that stage?”
Diana Maberly said:
“I can’t see that there’s anything wrong with Hugh at all. He’s, oh, he’s the sanest person I know. Sound—dependable—”
“Then why does he think he is going mad?”
Poirot paused a moment before going on.
“Is there, perhaps, madness in his family?”
Reluctantly Diana jerked her head in assent. She said:
“His grandfather was mental, I believe—and some great-aunt or other. But what I say is, that every family has got someone queer in it. You know, a bit half-witted or extra clever or something!”
Her eyes were appealing.
Hercule Poirot shook his head sadly. He said:
“I am very sorry for you, Mademoiselle.”
Her chin shot out. She cried:
“I don’t want you to be sorry for me! I want you to do something!”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know—but there’s something wrong.”
“Will you tell me, Mademoiselle, all about your fiancé?”
Diana spoke rapidly:
“His name is Hugh Chandler. He’s twenty-four. His father is Admiral Chandler. They live at Lyde Manor. It’s been in the Chandler family since the time of Elizabeth. Hugh’s the only son. He went into the Navy—all the Chandlers are sailors—it’s a sort of tradition—ever since Sir Gilbert Chandler sailed with Sir Walter Raleigh in fifteen-something-or-other. Hugh went into the Navy as a matter of course. His father wouldn’t have heard of anything else. And yet—and yet, it was his father who insisted on getting him out of it!”
“When was that?”
“Nearly a year ago. Quite suddenly.”
“Was Hugh Chandler happy in his profession?”
“Absolutely.”
“There was no scandal of any kind?”
“About Hugh? Absolutely nothing. He was getting on splendidly. He—he couldn’t understand his father.”
“What reason did Admiral Chandler himself give?”
Diana said slowly:
“He never really gave a reason. Oh! he said it was necessary Hugh should learn to manage the estate—but—but that was only a pretext. Even George Frobisher realized that.”
“Who is George Frobisher?”
“Colonel Frobisher. He’s Admiral Chandler’s oldest friend and Hugh’s godfather. He spends most of his time down at the Manor.”
“And what did Colonel Frobisher think of Admiral Chandler’s determination that his son should leave the Navy?”
“He was dumbfounded. He couldn’t understand it at all. Nobody could.”
“Not even Hugh Chandler himself?”
Diana did not answer at once. Poirot waited a minute, then he went on:
“At the time, perhaps, he, too, was astonished. But now? Has he said nothing—nothing at all?”
Diana murmured reluctantly:
“He said—about a week ago—that—that his father was right—that it was the only thing to be d
one.”
“Did you ask him why?”
“Of course. But he wouldn’t tell me.”
Hercule Poirot reflected for a minute or two. Then he said:
“Have there been any unusual occurrences in your part of the world? Starting, perhaps, about a year ago? Something that has given rise to a lot of local talk and surmise?”
She flashed out: “I don’t know what you mean!”
Poirot said quietly, but with authority in his voice:
“You had better tell me.”
“There wasn’t anything—nothing of the kind you mean.”
“Of what kind then?”
“I think you’re simply odious! Queer things often happen on farms. It’s revenge—or the village idiot or somebody.”
“What happened?”
She said reluctantly:
“There was a fuss about some sheep . . . Their throats were cut. Oh! it was horrid! But they all belonged to one farmer and he’s a very hard man. The police thought it was some kind of spite against him.”
“But they didn’t catch the person who had done it?”
“No.”
She added fiercely. “But if you think—”
Poirot held up his hand. He said:
“You do not know in the least what I think. Tell me this, has your fiancé consulted a doctor?”
“No, I’m sure he hasn’t.”
“Wouldn’t that be the simplest thing for him to do?”
Diana said slowly:
“He won’t. He—he hates doctors.”
“And his father?”
“I don’t think the Admiral believes much in doctors either. Says they’re a lot of humbug merchants.”
“How does the Admiral seem himself? Is he well? Happy?”
Diana said in a low voice:
“He’s aged terribly in—in—”
“In the last year?”
“Yes. He’s a wreck—a sort of shadow of what he used to be.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Then he said:
“Did he approve of his son’s engagement?”
“Oh yes. You see, my people’s land adjoins his. We’ve been there for generations. He was frightfully pleased when Hugh and I fixed it up.”
“And now? What does he say to your engagement being broken off?”
The girl’s voice shook a little. She said:
“I met him yesterday morning. He was looking ghastly. He took my hand in both of his. He said: ‘It’s hard on you, my girl. But the boy’s doing the right thing—the only thing he can do.’ ”
“And so,” said Hercule Poirot, “you came to me?”
She nodded. She asked: “Can you do anything?”
Hercule Poirot replied:
“I do not know. But I can at least come down and see for myself.”
II
It was Hugh Chandler’s magnificent physique that impressed Hercule Poirot more than anything else. Tall, magnificently proportioned, with a terrific chest and shoulders, and a tawny head of hair. There was a tremendous air of strength and virility about him.
On their arrival at Diana’s house, she had at once rung up Admiral Chandler, and they had forthwith gone over to Lyde Manor where they had found tea waiting on the long terrace. And with the tea, three men. There was Admiral Chandler, white haired, looking older than his years, his shoulders bowed as though by an overheavy burden, and his eyes dark and brooding. A contrast to him was his friend Colonel Frobisher, a dried-up, tough, little man with reddish hair turning grey at the temples. A restless, irascible, snappy, little man, rather like a terrier—but the possessor of a pair of extremely shrewd eyes. He had a habit of drawing down his brows over his eyes and lowering his head, thrusting it forward, whilst those same shrewd little eyes studied you piercingly. The third man was Hugh.
“Fine specimen, eh?” said Colonel Frobisher.
He spoke in a low voice, having noted Poirot’s close scrutiny of the young man.
Hercule Poirot nodded his head. He and Frobisher were sitting close together. The other three had their chairs on the far side of the tea table and were chatting together in an animated but slightly artificial manner.
Poirot murmured: “Yes, he is magnificent—magnificent. He is the young Bull—yes, one might say the Bull dedicated to Poseidon . . . A perfect specimen of healthy manhood.”
“Looks fit enough, doesn’t he?”
Frobisher sighed. His shrewd little eyes stole sideways, considering Hercule Poirot. Presently he said:
“I know who you are, you know.”
“Ah that, it is no secret!”
Poirot waved a royal hand. He was not incognito, the gesture seemed to say. He was travelling as Himself.
After a minute or two Frobisher asked: “Did the girl get you down—over this business?”
“The business—?”
“The business of young Hugh . . . Yes, I see you know all about it. But I can’t quite see why she went to you . . . Shouldn’t have thought this sort of thing was in your line—meantersay it’s more a medical show.”
“All kinds of things are in my line . . . You would be surprised.”
“I mean I can’t see quite what she expected you could do.”
“Miss Maberly,” said Poirot, “is a fighter.”
Colonel Frobisher nodded a warm assent.
“Yes, she’s a fighter all right. She’s a fine kid. She won’t give up. All the same, you know, there are some things that you can’t fight. . . .”
His face looked suddenly old and tired.
Poirot dropped his voice still lower. He murmured discreetly:
“There is—insanity, I understand, in the family?”
Frobisher nodded.
“Only crops up now and again,” he murmured. “Skips a generation or two. Hugh’s grandfather was the last.”
Poirot threw a quick glance in the direction of the other three. Diana was holding the conversation well, laughing and bantering Hugh. You would have said that the three of them had not a care in the world.
“What form did the madness take?” Poirot asked softly.
“The old boy became pretty violent in the end. He was perfectly all right up to thirty—normal as could be. Then he began to go a bit queer. It was some time before people noticed it. Then a lot of rumours began going around. People started talking properly. Things happened that were hushed up. But—well,” he raised his shoulders, “ended up as mad as a hatter, poor devil! Homicidal! Had to be certified.”
He paused for a moment and then added:
“He lived to be quite an old man, I believe . . . That’s what Hugh is afraid of, of course. That’s why he doesn’t want to see a doctor. He’s afraid of being shut up and living shut up for years. Can’t say I blame him. I’d feel the same.”
“And Admiral Chandler, how does he feel?”
“It’s broken him up completely,” Frobisher spoke shortly.
“He is very fond of his son?”
“Wrapped up in the boy. You see, his wife was drowned in a boating accident when the boy was only ten years old. Since then he’s lived for nothing but the child.”
“Was he very devoted to his wife?”
“Worshipped her. Everybody worshipped her. She was—she was one of the loveliest women I’ve ever known.” He paused a moment and then said jerkily, “Care to see her portrait?”
“I should like to see it very much.”
Frobisher pushed back his chair and rose. Aloud he said:
“Going to show M. Poirot one or two things, Charles. He’s a bit of a connoisseur.”
The Admiral raised a vague hand. Frobisher tramped along the terrace and Poirot followed him. For a moment Diana’s face dropped its mask of gaiety and looked an agonized question. Hugh, too, raised his head, and looked steadily at the small man with the big black moustache.
Poirot followed Frobisher into the house. It was so dim at first coming in out of the sunlight that he could hardly distinguish one article from anothe
r. But he realized that the house was full of old and beautiful things.
Colonel Frobisher led the way to the Picture Gallery. On the panelled walls hung portraits of dead and gone Chandlers. Faces stern and gay, men in court dress or in Naval uniform. Women in satin and pearls.
Finally Frobisher stopped under a portrait at the end of the gallery.
“Painted by Orpen,” he said gruffly.
They stood looking up at a tall woman, her hand on a greyhound’s collar. A woman with auburn hair and an expression of radiant vitality.
“Boy’s the spitting image of her,” said Frobisher. “Don’t you think so?”
“In some things, yes.”
“He hasn’t got her delicacy—her femininity, of course. He’s a masculine edition—but in all the essential things—” He broke off. “Pity he inherited from the Chandlers the one thing he could well have done without. . . .”
They were silent. There was melancholy in the air all around them—as though dead and gone Chandlers sighed for the taint that lay in their blood and which, remorselessly, from time to time, they passed on. . . .
Hercule Poirot turned his head to look at his companion. George Frobisher was still gazing up at the beautiful woman on the wall above him. And Poirot said softly:
“You knew her well. . . .”
Frobisher spoke jerkily.
“We were boy and girl together. I went off as a subaltern to India when she was sixteen . . . When I got back—she was married to Charles Chandler.”
“You knew him well also?”
“Charles is one of my oldest friends. He’s my best friend—always has been.”
“Did you see much of them—after the marriage?”
“Used to spend most of my leaves here. Like a second home to me, this place. Charles and Caroline always kept my room here—ready and waiting . . .” He squared his shoulders, suddenly thrust his head forward pugnaciously. “That’s why I’m here now—to stand by in case I’m wanted. If Charles needs me—I’m here.”
Again the shadow of tragedy crept over them.
“And what do you think—about all this?” Poirot asked.
Frobisher stood stiffly. His brows came down over his eyes.
“What I think is, the least said the better. And to be frank, I don’t see what you’re doing in this business, M. Poirot. I don’t see why Diana roped you in and got you down here.”