Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

I wired the latest development to Poirot and suggested returning to London and making inquiries at Selbourne’s Agency.

Poirot’s reply was prompt:

‘Useless to inquire at agency they will never have heard of her. Find out what vehicle took her up to Hunter’s Lodge when she first arrived there.’

Though mystified, I was obedient. The means of transport in Elmer’s Dale were limited. The local garage had two battered Ford cars, and there were two station flies. None of these had been requisitioned on the date in question. Questioned, Mrs Havering explained that she had given the woman the money for her fare down to Derbyshire and sufficient to hire a car or fly to take her up to Hunter’s Lodge. There was usually one of the Fords at the station on the chance of its being required. Taking into consideration the further fact that nobody at the station had noticed the arrival of a stranger, black-bearded or otherwise, on the fatal evening, everything seemed to point to the conclusion that the murderer had come to the spot in a car, which had been waiting near at hand to aid his escape, and that the same car had brought the mysterious housekeeper to her new post. I may mention that inquiries at the Agency in London bore out Poirot’s prognostication. No such woman as ‘Mrs Middleton’ had ever been on their books. They had received the Hon. Mrs Havering’s application for a housekeeper, and had sent her various applicants for the post. When she sent them the engagement fee, she omitted to mention which woman she had selected.

Somewhat crestfallen, I returned to London. I found Poirot established in an armchair by the fire in a garish, silk dressing-gown. He greeted me with much affection.

‘Mon ami Hastings! But how glad I am to see you. Veritably I have for you a great affection! And you have enjoyed yourself? You have run to and fro with the good Japp? You have interrogated and investigated to your heart’s content?’

‘Poirot,’ I cried, ‘the thing’s a dark mystery! It will never be solved.’

‘It is true that we are not likely to cover ourselves with glory over it.’

‘No, indeed. It’s a hard nut to crack.’

‘Oh, as far as that goes, I am very good at cracking the nuts! A veritable squirrel! It is not that which embarrasses me. I know well enough who killed Mr Harrington Pace.’

‘You know? How did you find out?’

‘Your illuminating answers to my wires supplied me with the truth. See here, Hastings, let us examine the facts methodically and in order. Mr Harrington Pace is a man with a considerable fortune which at his death will doubtless pass to his nephew. Point No 1. His nephew is known to be desperately hard up. Point No 2. His nephew is also known to be – shall we say a man of rather loose moral fibre? Point No 3.’

‘But Roger Havering is proved to have journeyed straight up to London.’

‘Précisément – and therefore, as Mr Havering left Elmer’s Dale at 6.15, and since Mr Pace cannot have been killed before he left, or the doctor would have spotted the time of the crime as being given wrongly when he examined the body, we conclude quite rightly, that Mr Havering did not shoot his uncle. But there is a Mrs Havering, Hastings.’

‘Impossible! The housekeeper was with her when the shot was fired.’

‘Ah, yes, the housekeeper. But she has disappeared.’

‘She will be found.’

‘I think not. There is something peculiarly elusive about that housekeeper, don’t you think so, Hastings? It struck me at once.’

‘She played her part, I suppose, and then got out in the nick of time.’

‘And what was her part?’

‘Well, presumably to admit her confederate, the black-bearded man.’

‘Oh, no, that was not her part! Her part was what you have just mentioned, to provide an alibi for Mrs Havering at the moment the shot was fired. And no one will ever find her, mon ami, because she does not exist! “There’s no such person,” as your so great Shakespeare says.’

‘It was Dickens,’ I murmured, unable to suppress a smile. ‘But what do you mean, Poirot?’

‘I mean that Zoe Havering was an actress before her marriage, that you and Japp only saw the housekeeper in a dark hall, a dim middle-aged figure in black with a faint subdued voice, and finally that neither you nor Japp, nor the local police whom the housekeeper fetched, ever saw Mrs Middleton and her mistress at one and the same time. It was child’s play for that clever and daring woman. On the pretext of summoning her mistress, she runs upstairs, slips on a bright jumper and a hat with black curls attached which she jams down over the grey transformation. A few deft touches, and the make-up is removed, a slight dusting of rouge, and the brilliant Zoe Havering comes down with her clear ringing voice. Nobody looks particularly at the housekeeper. Why should they? There is nothing to connect her with the crime. She, too, has an alibi.’

‘But the revolver that was found at Ealing? Mrs Havering could not have placed it there?’

‘No, that was Roger Havering’s job – but it was a mistake on their part. It put me on the right track. A man who has committed murder with a revolver which he found on the spot would fling it away at once, he would not carry it up to London with him. No, the motive was clear, the criminals wished to focus the interest of the police on a spot far removed from Derbyshire, they were anxious to get the police away as soon as possible from the vicinity of Hunter’s Lodge. Of course the revolver found at Ealing was not the one with which Mr Pace was shot. Roger Havering discharged one shot from it, brought it up to London, went straight to his club to establish his alibi, then went quickly out to Ealing by the District, a matter of about twenty minutes only, placed the parcel where it was found and so back to town. That charming creature, his wife, quietly shoots Mr Pace after dinner – you remember he was shot from behind? Another significant point, that! – reloads the revolver and puts it back in its place, and then starts off with her desperate little comedy.’

‘It’s incredible,’ I muttered, fascinated, ‘and yet –’

‘And yet it is true. Bien sur, my friend, it is true. But to bring that precious pair to justice, that is another matter. Well, Japp must do what he can – I have written him fully – but I very much fear, Hastings, that we shall be obliged to leave them to Fate, or le bon Dieu, whichever you prefer.’

‘The wicked flourish like a green bay tree,’ I reminded him.

‘But at a price, Hastings, always at a price, croyez-moi!’

Poirot’s forebodings were confirmed, Japp, though convinced of the truth of his theory, was unable to get together the necessary evidence to ensure a conviction.

Mr Pace’s huge fortune passed into the hands of his murderers. Nevertheless, Nemesis did overtake them, and when I read in the paper that the Hon. Roger and Mrs Havering were amongst those killed in the crashing of the Air Mail to Paris I knew that Justice was satisfied.

12 The Chocolate Box (#ulink_51af5a5e-0ec8-50f8-a7d3-53c2930e8a63)

‘The Chocolate Box’ was first published as ‘The Clue of the Chocolate Box’ in The Sketch, 23 May 1923.

It was a wild night. Outside, the wind howled malevolently, and the rain beat against the windows in great gusts.

Poirot and I sat facing the hearth, our legs stretched out to the cheerful blaze. Between us was a small table. On my side of it stood some carefully brewed hot toddy; on Poirot’s was a cup of thick, rich chocolate which I would not have drunk for a hundred pounds! Poirot sipped the thick brown mess in the pink china cup, and sighed with contentment.

‘Quelle belle vie!’ he murmured.

‘Yes, it’s a good old world,’ I agreed. ‘Here am I with a job, and a good job too! And here are you, famous –’

‘Oh, mon ami!’ protested Poirot.

‘But you are. And rightly so! When I think back on your long line of successes, I am positively amazed. I don’t believe you know what failure is!’

‘He would be a droll kind of original who could say that!’

‘No, but seriously, have you ever failed?’

‘Innumerable times, my friend. What would you? La bonne chance, it cannot always be on your side. I have been called in too late. Very often another, working towards the same goal, has arrived there first. Twice have I been stricken down with illness just as I was on the point of success. One must take the downs with the ups, my friend.’

‘I didn’t quite mean that,’ I said. ‘I meant, had you ever been completely down and out over a case through your own fault?’

‘Ah, I comprehend! You ask if I have ever made the complete prize ass of myself, as you say over here? Once, my friend –’ A slow, reflective smile hovered over his face. ‘Yes, once I made a fool of myself.’

He sat up suddenly in his chair.

‘See here, my friend, you have, I know, kept a record of my little successes. You shall add one more story to the collection, the story of a failure!’

He leaned forward and placed a log on the fire. Then, after carefully wiping his hands on a little duster that hung on a nail by the fireplace, he leaned back and commenced his story.

That of which I tell you (said M. Poirot) took place in Belgium many years ago. It was at the time of the terrible struggle in France between church and state. M. Paul Déroulard was a French deputy of note. It was an open secret that the portfolio of a Minister awaited him. He was among the bitterest of the anti-Catholic party, and it was certain that on his accession to power, he would have to face violent enmity. He was in many ways a peculiar man. Though he neither drank nor smoked, he was nevertheless not so scrupulous in other ways. You comprehend, Hastings, c’était des femmes – toujours des femmes!

He had married some years earlier a young lady from Brussels who had brought him a substantial dot. Undoubtedly the money was useful to him in his career, as his family was not rich, though on the other hand he was entitled to call himself M. le Baron if he chose. There were no children of the marriage, and his wife died after two years – the result of a fall downstairs. Among the property which she bequeathed to him was a house on the Avenue Louise in Brussels.