Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories by Agatha Christie
“Will not hang a man,” said Poirot, “and what is more to the point, it will not save a man from being hanged. Lady Astwell, if you sincerely believe that M. Leverson is innocent, and that your suspicions of the secretary are well-founded, will you consent to a little experiment?”
“What kind of an experiment?” demanded Lady Astwell suspiciously.
“Will you permit yourself to be put into a condition of hypnosis?”
“Whatever for?”
Poirot leaned forward.
“If I were to tell you, Madame, that your intuition is based on certain facts recorded subconsciously, you would probably be sceptical. I will only say, then, that this experiment I propose may be of great importance to that unfortunate young man, Charles Leverson. You will not refuse?”
“Who is going to put me into a trance?” demanded Lady Astwell suspiciously. “You?”
“A friend of mine, Lady Astwell, arrives, if I mistake not, at this very minute. I hear the wheels of the car outside.”
“Who is he?”
“A Dr. Cazalet of Harley Street.”
“Is he—all right?” asked Lady Astwell apprehensively.
“He is not a quack, Madame, if that is what you mean. You can trust yourself in his hands quite safely.”
“Well,” said Lady Astwell with a sigh, “I think it is all bunkum, but you can try if you like. Nobody is going to say that I stood in your way.”
“A thousand thanks, Madame.”
Poirot hurried from the room. In a few minutes he returned ushering in a cheerful, round-faced little man, with spectacles, who was very upsetting to Lady Astwell’s conception of what a hypnotist should look like. Poirot introduced them.
“Well,” said Lady Astwell good-humouredly, “how do we start this tomfoolery?”
“Quite simple, Lady Astwell, quite simple,” said the little doctor. “Just lean back, so—that’s right, that’s right. No need to be uneasy.”
“I am not in the least uneasy,” said Lady Astwell. “I should like to see anyone hypnotizing me against my will.”
Dr. Cazalet smiled broadly.
“Yes, but if you consent, it won’t be against your will, will it?” he said cheerfully. “That’s right. Turn off that other light, will you, M. Poirot? Just let yourself go to sleep, Lady Astwell.”
He shifted his position a little.
“It’s getting late. You are sleepy—very sleepy. Your eyelids are heavy, they are closing—closing—closing. Soon you will be asleep. . . .”
His voice droned on, low, soothing, and monotonous. Presently he leaned forward and gently lifted Lady Astwell’s right eyelid. Then he turned to Poirot, nodding in a satisfied manner.
“That’s all right,” he said in a low voice. “Shall I go ahead?”
“If you please.”
The doctor spoke out sharply and authoritatively: “You are asleep, Lady Astwell, but you hear me, and you can answer my questions.”
Without stirring or raising an eyelid, the motionless figure on the sofa replied in a low, monotonous voice:
“I hear you. I can answer your questions.”
“Lady Astwell, I want you to go back to the evening on which your husband was murdered. You remember that evening?”
“Yes.”
“You are at the dinner table. Describe to me what you saw and felt.”
The prone figure stirred a little restlessly.
“I am in great distress. I am worried about Lily.”
“We know that; tell us what you saw.”
“Victor is eating all the salted almonds; he is greedy. Tomorrow I shall tell Parsons not to put the dish on that side of the table.”
“Go on, Lady Astwell.”
“Reuben is in a bad humour tonight. I don’t think it is altogether about Lily. It is something to do with business. Victor looks at him in a queer way.”
“Tell us about Mr. Trefusis, Lady Astwell.”
“His left shirt cuff is frayed. He puts a lot of grease on his hair. I wish men didn’t, it ruins the covers in the drawing room.”
Cazalet looked at Poirot; the other made a motion with his head.
“It is after dinner, Lady Astwell, you are having coffee. Describe the scene to me.”
“The coffee is good tonight. It varies. Cook is very unreliable over her coffee. Lily keeps looking out of the window, I don’t know why. Now Reuben comes into the room; he is in one of his worst moods tonight, and bursts out with a perfect flood of abuse to poor Mr. Trefusis. Mr. Trefusis has his hand round the paper knife, the big one with the sharp blade like a knife. How hard he is grasping it; his knuckles are quite white. Look, he has dug it so hard in the table that the point snaps. He holds it just as you would hold a dagger you were going to stick into someone. There, they have gone out together now. Lily has got her green evening dress on; she looks so pretty in green, just like a lily. I must have the covers cleaned next week.”
“Just a minute, Lady Astwell.”
The doctor leaned across to Poirot.
“We have got it, I think,” he murmured; “that action with the paper knife, that’s what convinced her that the secretary did the thing.”
“Let us go on to the Tower room now.”
The doctor nodded, and began once more to question Lady Astwell in his high, decisive voice.
“It is later in the evening; you are in the Tower room with your husband. You and he have had a terrible scene together, have you not?”
Again the figure stirred uneasily.
“Yes—terrible—terrible. We said dreadful things—both of us.”
“Never mind that now. You can see the room clearly, the curtains were drawn, the lights were on.”
“Not the middle light, only the desk light.”
“You are leaving your husband now, you are saying good night to him.”
“No, I was too angry.”
“It is the last time you will see him; very soon he will be murdered. Do you know who murdered him, Lady Astwell?”
“Yes. Mr. Trefusis.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because of the bulge—the bulge in the curtain.”
“There was a bulge in the curtain?”
“Yes.”
“You saw it?”
“Yes. I almost touched it.”
“Was there a man concealed there—Mr. Trefusis?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
For the first time the monotonous answering voice hesitated and lost confidence.
“I—I—because of the paper knife.”
Poirot and the doctor again interchanged swift glances.
“I don’t understand you, Lady Astwell. There was a bulge in the curtain, you say? Someone concealed there? You didn’t see that person?”
“No.”
“You thought it was Mr. Trefusis because of the way he held the paper knife earlier?”
“Yes.”
“But Mr. Trefusis had gone to bed, had he not?”
“Yes—yes, that’s right, he had gone away to his room.”
“So he couldn’t have been behind the curtain in the window?”
“No—no, of course not, he wasn’t there.”
“He had said good night to your husband some time before, hadn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t see him again?”
“No.”
She was stirring now, throwing herself about, moaning faintly.
“She is coming out,” said the doctor. “Well, I think we have got all we can, eh?”
Poirot nodded. The doctor leaned over Lady Astwell.
“You are waking,” he murmured softly. “You are waking now. In another minute you will open your eyes.”
The two men waited, and presently Lady Astwell sat upright and stared at them both.
“Have I been having a nap?”
“That’s it, Lady Astwell, just a little sleep,” said the doctor.
She looked at
“Some of your hocus-pocus, eh?”
“You don’t feel any the worse, I hope,” he asked.
Lady Astwell yawned.
“I feel rather tired and done up.”
The doctor rose.
“I will ask them to send you up some coffee,” he said, “and we will leave you for the present.”
“Did I—say anything?” Lady Astwell called after them as they reached the door.
Poirot smiled back at her.
“Nothing of great importance, Madame. You informed us that the drawing room covers needed cleaning.”
“So they do,” said Lady Astwell. “You needn’t have put me into a trance to get me to tell you that.” She laughed good-humouredly. “Anything more?”
“Do you remember M. Trefusis picking up a paper knife in the drawing room that night?” asked Poirot.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Lady Astwell. “He may have done so.”
“Does a bulge in the curtain convey anything to you?”
Lady Astwell frowned.
“I seem to remember,” she said slowly. “No—it’s gone, and yet—”
“Do not distress yourself, Lady Astwell,” said Poirot quickly; “it is of no importance—of no importance whatever.”
The doctor went with Poirot to the latter’s room.
“Well,” said Cazalet, “I think this explains things pretty clearly. No doubt when Sir Reuben was dressing down the secretary, the latter grabbed tight hold on a paper knife, and had to exercise a good deal of self-control to prevent himself answering back. Lady Astwell’s conscious mind was wholly taken up with the problem of Lily Margrave, but her subconscious mind noticed and misconstrued the action.
“It implanted in her the firm conviction that Trefusis murdered Sir Reuben. Now we come to the bulge in the curtain. That is interesting. I take it from what you have told me of the Tower room that the desk was right in the window. There are curtains across that window, of course?”
“Yes, mon ami, black velvet curtains.”
“And there is room in the embrasure of the window for anyone to remain concealed behind them?”
“There would be just room, I think.”
“Then there seems at least a possibility,” said the doctor slowly, “that someone was concealed in the room, but if so it could not be the secretary, since they both saw him leave the room. It could not be Victor Astwell, for Trefusis met him going out, and it could not be Lily Margrave. Whoever it was must have been concealed there before Sir Reuben entered the room that evening. You have told me pretty well how the land lies. Now what about Captain Naylor? Could it have been he who was concealed there?”
“It is always possible,” admitted Poirot. “He certainly dined at the hotel, but how soon he went out afterwards is difficult to fix exactly. He returned about half past twelve.”
“Then it might have been he,” said the doctor, “and if so, he committed the crime. He had the motive, and there was a weapon near at hand. You don’t seem satisfied with the idea, though?”
“Me, I have other ideas,” confessed Poirot. “Tell me now, M. le Docteur, supposing for one minute that Lady Astwell herself had committed this crime, would she necessarily betray the fact in the hypnotic state?”
The doctor whistled.
“So that’s what you are getting at? Lady Astwell is the criminal, eh? Of course—it is possible; I never thought of it till this minute. She was the last to be with him, and no one saw him alive afterwards. As to your question, I should be inclined to say—no. Lady Astwell would go into the hypnotic state with a strong mental reservation to say nothing of her own part in the crime. She would answer my questions truthfully, but she would be dumb on that one point. Yet I should hardly have expected her to be so insistent on Mr. Trefusis’s guilt.”
“I comprehend,” said Poirot. “But I have not said that I believe Lady Astwell to be the criminal. It is a suggestion, that is all.”
“It is an interesting case,” said the doctor after a minute or two. “Granting Charles Leverson is innocent, there are so many possibilities, Humphrey Naylor, Lady Astwell, and even Lily Margrave.”
“There is another you have not mentioned,” said Poirot quietly, “Victor Astwell. According to his own story, he sat in his room with the door open waiting for Charles Leverson’s return, but we have only his own words for it, you comprehend?”
“He is the bad-tempered fellow, isn’t he?” asked the doctor. “The one you told me about?”
“That is so,” agreed Poirot.
The doctor rose to his feet.
“Well, I must be getting back to town. You will let me know how things shape, won’t you?”
After the doctor had left, Poirot pulled the bell for George.
“A cup of tisane, George. My nerves are much disturbed.”
“Certainly, sir,” said George. “I will prepare it immediately.”
Ten minutes later he brought a steaming cup to his master. Poirot inhaled the noxious fumes with pleasure. As he sipped it, he soliloquized aloud.
“The chase is different all over the world. To catch the fox you ride hard with the dogs. You shout, you run, it is a matter of speed. I have not shot the stag myself, but I understand that to do so you crawl for many long, long hours upon your stomach. My friend Hastings has recounted the affair to me. Our method here, my good George, must be neither of these. Let us reflect upon the household cat. For many long, weary hours, he watches the mouse hole, he makes no movement, he betrays no energy, but—he does not go away.”
He sighed and put the empty cup down on its saucer.
“I told you to pack for a few days. Tomorrow, my good George, you will go to London and bring down what is necessary for a fortnight.”
“Very good, sir,” said George. As usual he displayed no emotion.
The apparently permanent presence of Hercule Poirot at Mon Repos was disquieting to many people. Victor Astwell remonstrated with his sister-in-law about it.
“It’s all very well, Nancy. You don’t know what fellows of that kind are like. He has found jolly comfortable quarters here, and he is evidently going to settle down comfortably for about a month, charging you several guineas a day all the while.”
Lady Astwell’s reply was to the effect that she could manage her own affairs without interference.
Lily Margrave tried earnestly to conceal her perturbation. At the time, she had felt sure that Poirot believed her story. Now she was not so certain.
Poirot did not play an entirely quiescent game. On the fifth day of his sojourn he brought down a small thumbograph album to dinner. As a method of getting the thumbprints of the household, it seemed a rather clumsy device, yet not perhaps so clumsy as it seemed, since no one could afford to refuse their thumbprints. Only after the little man had retired to bed did Victor Astwell state his views.
“You see what it means, Nancy. He is out after one of us.”
“Don’t be absurd, Victor.”
“Well, what other meaning could that blinking little book of his have?”
“M. Poirot knows what he is doing,” said Lady Astwell complacently, and looked with some meaning at Owen Trefusis.
On another occasion, Poirot introduced the game of tracing footprints on a sheet of paper. The following morning, going with his soft cat-like tread into the library, the detective startled Owen Trefusis, who leaped from his chair as though he had been shot.
“You must really excuse me, M. Poirot,” he said primly, “but you have us on the jump.”
“Indeed, how is that?” demanded the little man innocently.
“I will admit,” said the secretary, “that I thought the case against Charles Leverson utterly overwhelming. You apparently do not find it so.”
Poirot was standing looking out of the window. He turned suddenly to the other.
“I shall tell you something, M. Trefusis—in confidence.”
“Yes?”
Poirot seemed in no hurry t
“I shall tell you this in confidence, Mr. Trefusis. There is new evidence. It goes to prove that when Charles Leverson entered the Tower room that night, Sir Reuben was already dead.”
The secretary stared at him.
“But what evidence? Why have we not heard of it?”
“You will hear,” said the little man mysteriously. “In the meantime, you and I alone know the secret.”
He skipped nimbly out of the room, and almost collided with Victor Astwell in the hall outside.
“You have just come in, eh, monsieur?”
Astwell nodded.
“Beastly day outside,” he said breathing hard, “cold and blowy.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “I shall not promenade myself today—me, I am like a cat, I sit by the fire and keep myself warm.”
“Ça marche, George,” he said that evening to the faithful valet, rubbing his hands as he spoke, “they are on the tenterhooks—the jump! It is hard, George, to play the game of the cat, the waiting game, but it answers, yes, it answers wonderfully. Tomorrow we make a further effect.”
On the following day, Trefusis was obliged to go up to town. He went up by the same train as Victor Astwell. No sooner had they left the house than Poirot was galvanized into a fever of activity.
“Come, George, let us hurry to work. If the housemaid should approach these rooms, you must delay her. Speak to her sweet nothings, George, and keep her in the corridor.”
He went first to the secretary’s room, and began a thorough search. Not a drawer or a shelf was left uninspected. Then he replaced everything hurriedly, and declared his quest finished. George, on guard in the doorway, gave way to a deferential cough.
“If you will excuse me, sir?”
“Yes, my good George?”
“The shoes, sir. The two pairs of brown shoes were on the second shelf, and the patent leather ones were on the shelf underneath. In replacing them you have reversed the order.”
“Marvellous!” cried Poirot, holding up his hands. “But let us not distress ourselves over that. It is of no importance, I assure you, George. Never will M. Trefusis notice such a trifling matter.”