Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

‘Yes, but she refuses to see anyone. She is still quite prostrated.’

‘I think she will see me. Will you tell her that I am here at the express request of Prince Paul of Maurania?’

I fancied that the mention of a royal prince rather shook Miss Oglander’s imperturbable calm. But she left the room on her errand without any further remark, and returned almost immediately to say that Mademoiselle Saintclair would see us in her room.

We followed her upstairs, and into a fair-sized light bedroom. On a couch by the window a woman was lying who turned her head as we entered. The contrast between the two women struck me at once, the more so as in actual features and colouring they were not unalike – but oh, the difference! Not a look, not a gesture of Valerie Saintclair’s but expressed drama. She seemed to exhale an atmosphere of romance. A scarlet flannel dressing-gown covered her feet – a homely garment in all conscience; but the charm of her personality invested it with an exotic flavour, and it seemed an Eastern robe of glowing colour.

Her large dark eyes fastened themselves on Poirot. ‘You come from Paul?’ Her voice matched her appearance – it was full and languid.

‘Yes, mademoiselle. I am here to serve him – and you.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything that happened last night. But everything!’

She smiled rather wearily.

‘Do you think I should lie? I am not stupid. I see well enough that there can be no concealment. He held a secret of mine, that man who is dead. He threatened me with it. For Paul’s sake, I endeavoured to make terms with him. I could not risk losing Paul … Now that he is dead, I am safe. But for all that, I did not kill him.’

Poirot shook his head with a smile. ‘It is not necessary to tell me that, mademoiselle. Now recount to me what happened last night.’

‘I offered him money. He appeared to be willing to treat with me. He appointed last night at nine o’clock. I was to go to Mon Désir. I knew the place; I had been there before. I was to go round to the side door into the library, so that the servants should not see me.’

‘Excuse me, mademoiselle, but were you not afraid to trust yourself alone there at night?’

Was it my fancy, or was there a momentary pause before she answered?

‘Perhaps I was. But you see, there was no one I could ask to go with me. And I was desperate. Reedburn admitted me to the library. Oh, that man! I am glad he is dead! He played with me, as a cat does with a mouse. He taunted me. I begged and implored him on my knees. I offered him every jewel I have. All in vain! Then he named his own terms. Perhaps you can guess what they were. I refused. I told him what I thought of him. I raved at him. He remained calmly smiling. And then, as I fell to silence at last, there was a sound – from behind the curtain in the window … He heard it too. He strode to the curtains and flung them wide apart. There was a man there, hiding – a dreadful-looking man, a sort of tramp. He struck at Mr Reedburn – then he struck again, and he went down. The tramp clutched at me with his bloodstained hand. I tore myself free, slipped through the window, and ran for my life. Then I perceived the lights in this house, and made for them. The blinds were up, and I saw some people playing bridge. I almost fell into the room. I just managed to gasp out “Murder!” and then everything went black –’

‘Thank you, mademoiselle. It must have been a great shock to your nervous system. As to this tramp, could you describe him? Do you remember what he was wearing?’

‘No – it was all so quick. But I should know the man anywhere. His face is burnt in on my brain.’

‘Just one more question, mademoiselle. The curtains of the other window, the one giving on the drive, were they drawn?’

For the first time a puzzled expression crept over the dancer’s face. She seemed to be trying to remember.

‘Eh bien, mademoiselle?’

‘I think – I am almost sure – yes, quite sure! They were not drawn.’

‘That is curious, since the other ones were. No matter. It is, I dare say, of no great importance. You are remaining here long, mademoiselle?’

‘The doctor thinks I shall be fit to return to town tomorrow.’ She looked round the room. Miss Oglander had gone out. ‘These people, they are very kind – but they are not of my world. I shock them! And to me – well, I am not fond of the bourgeoisie!’

A faint note of bitterness underlay her words.

Poirot nodded. ‘I understand. I hope I have not fatigued you unduly with my questions?’

‘Not at all, monsieur. I am only too anxious Paul should know all as soon as possible.’

‘Then I will wish you good day, mademoiselle.’

As Poirot was leaving the room, he paused, and pounced on a pair of patent-leather slippers. ‘Yours, mademoiselle?’

‘Yes, monsieur. They have just been cleaned and brought up.’

‘Ah!’ said Poirot, as we descended the stairs. ‘It seems that the domestics are not too excited to clean shoes, though they forget a grate. Well, mon ami, at first there appeared to be one or two points of interest, but I fear, I very much fear, that we must regard the case as finished. It all seems straightforward enough.’

‘And the murderer?’

‘Hercule Poirot does not hunt down tramps,’ replied my friend grandiloquently.

Miss Oglander met us in the hall. ‘If you will wait in the drawing-room a minute, Mamma would like to speak to you.’

The room was still untouched, and Poirot idly gathered up the cards, shuffling them with his tiny, fastidiously groomed hands.

‘Do you know what I think, my friend?’

‘No?’ I said eagerly.

‘I think that Miss Oglander made a mistake in going one no trump. She should have gone three spades.’

‘Poirot! You are the limit.’

‘Mon Dieu, I cannot always be talking blood and thunder!’

Suddenly he stiffened: ‘Hastings – Hastings. See! The king of clubs is missing from the pack!’

‘Zara!’ I cried.

‘Eh?’ He did not seem to understand my allusion. Mechanically he stacked the cards and put them away in their cases. His face was very grave.

‘Hastings,’ he said at last, ‘I, Hercule Poirot, have come near to making a big mistake – a very big mistake.’

I gazed at him, impressed, but utterly uncomprehending.

‘We must begin again, Hastings. Yes, we must begin again. But this time we shall not err.’

He was interrupted by the entrance of a handsome middle-aged lady. She carried some household books in her hand. Poirot bowed to her.

‘Do I understand, sir, that you are a friend of – er – Miss Saintclair’s?’

‘I come from a friend of hers, madame.’

‘Oh, I see. I thought perhaps –’

Poirot suddenly waved brusquely at the window.