Читать книгу Problem at Pollensa Bay - Агата Кристи, Agatha Christie, Detection Club The - Страница 6

Joan Ashby came out of her bedroom and stood a moment on the landing outside her door. She was half turning as if to go back into the room when, below her feet as it seemed, a gong boomed out.

Immediately Joan started forward almost at a run. So great was her hurry that at the top of the big staircase she collided with a young man arriving from the opposite direction.

‘Hullo, Joan! Why the wild hurry?’

‘Sorry, Harry. I didn’t see you.’

‘So I gathered,’ said Harry Dalehouse dryly. ‘But as I say, why the wild haste?’

‘It was the gong.’

‘I know. But it’s only the first gong.’

‘No, it’s the second.’

‘First.’

‘Second.’

Thus arguing they had been descending the stairs. They were now in the hall, where the butler, having replaced the gongstick, was advancing toward them at a grave and dignified pace.

‘It is the second,’ persisted Joan. ‘I know it is. Well, for one thing, look at the time.’

Harry Dalehouse glanced up at the grandfather clock.

‘Just twelve minutes past eight,’ he remarked. ‘Joan, I believe you’re right, but I never heard the first one. Digby,’ he addressed the butler, ‘is this the first gong or the second?’

‘The first, sir.’

‘At twelve minutes past eight? Digby, somebody will get the sack for this.’

A faint smile showed for a minute on the butler’s face.

‘Dinner is being served ten minutes later tonight, sir. The master’s orders.’

‘Incredible!’ cried Harry Dalehouse. ‘Tut, tut! Upon my word, things are coming to a pretty pass! Wonders will never cease. What ails my revered uncle?’

‘The seven o’clock train, sir, was half an hour late, and as—’ The butler broke off, as a sound like the crack of a whip was heard.

‘What on earth—’ said Harry. ‘Why, that sounded exactly like a shot.’

A dark, handsome man of thirty-five came out of the drawing room on their left.

‘What was that?’ he asked. ‘It sounded exactly like a shot.’

‘It must have been a car backfiring, sir,’ said the butler. ‘The road runs quite close to the house this side and the upstairs windows are open.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Joan doubtfully. ‘But that would be over there.’ She waved a hand to the right. ‘And I thought the noise came from here.’ She pointed to the left.

The dark man shook his head.

‘I don’t think so. I was in the drawing room. I came out here because I thought the noise came from this direction.’ He nodded his head in front of him in the direction of the gong and the front door.

‘East, west, and south, eh?’ said the irrepressible Harry. ‘Well, I’ll make it complete, Keene. North for me. I thought it came from behind us. Any solutions offered?’

‘Well, there’s always murder,’ said Geoffrey Keene, smiling. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Ashby.’

‘Only a shiver,’ said Joan. ‘It’s nothing. A what-do-you-call-it walking over my grave.’

‘A good thought—murder,’ said Harry. ‘But, alas! No groans, no blood. I fear the solution is a poacher after a rabbit.’

‘Seems tame, but I suppose that’s it,’ agreed the other. ‘But it sounded so near. However, let’s come into the drawing room.’

‘Thank goodness, we’re not late,’ said Joan fervently. ‘I was simply haring it down the stairs thinking that was the second gong.’

All laughing, they went into the big drawing room.

Lytcham Close was one of the most famous old houses in England. Its owner, Hubert Lytcham Roche, was the last of a long line, and his more distant relatives were apt to remark that ‘Old Hubert, you know, really ought to be certified. Mad as a hatter, poor old bird.’

Allowing for the exaggeration natural to friends and relatives, some truth remained. Hubert Lytcham Roche was certainly eccentric. Though a very fine musician, he was a man of ungovernable temper and had an almost abnormal sense of his own importance. People staying in the house had to respect his prejudices or else they were never asked again.

One such prejudice was his music. If he played to his guests, as he often did in the evening, absolute silence must obtain. A whispered comment, a rustle of a dress, a movement even—and he would turn round scowling fiercely, and goodbye to the unlucky guest’s chances of being asked again.

Another point was absolute punctuality for the crowning meal of the day. Breakfast was immaterial—you might come down at noon if you wished. Lunch also—a simple meal of cold meats and stewed fruit. But dinner was a rite, a festival, prepared by a cordon bleu whom he had tempted from a big hotel by the payment of a fabulous salary.

A first gong was sounded at five minutes past eight. At a quarter past eight a second gong was heard, and immediately after the door was flung open, dinner announced to the assembled guests, and a solemn procession wended its way to the dining room. Anyone who had the temerity to be late for the second gong was henceforth excommunicated—and Lytcham Close shut to the unlucky diner forever.

Hence the anxiety of Joan Ashby, and also the astonishment of Harry Dalehouse, at hearing that the sacred function was to be delayed ten minutes on this particular evening. Though not very intimate with his uncle, he had been to Lytcham Close often enough to know what a very unusual occurrence that was.

Geoffrey Keene, who was Lytcham Roche’s secretary, was also very much surprised.

‘Extraordinary,’ he commented. ‘I’ve never known such a thing to happen. Are you sure?’

‘Digby said so.’

‘He said something about a train,’ said Joan Ashby. ‘At least I think so.’

‘Queer,’ said Keene thoughtfully. ‘We shall hear all about it in due course, I suppose. But it’s very odd.’

Both men were silent for a moment or two, watching the girl. Joan Ashby was a charming creature, blue-eyed and golden-haired, with an impish glance. This was her first visit to Lytcham Close and her invitation was at Harry’s prompting.

The door opened and Diana Cleves, the Lytcham Roches’ adopted daughter, came into the room.

There was a daredevil grace about Diana, a witchery in her dark eyes and her mocking tongue. Nearly all men fell for Diana and she enjoyed her conquests. A strange creature, with her alluring suggestion of warmth and her complete coldness.

‘Beaten the Old Man for once,’ she remarked. ‘First time for weeks he hasn’t been here first, looking at his watch and tramping up and down like a tiger at feeding time.’

The young men had sprung forward. She smiled entrancingly at them both—then turned to Harry. Geoffrey Keene’s dark cheek flushed as he dropped back.

He recovered himself, however, a moment later as Mrs Lytcham Roche came in. She was a tall, dark woman, naturally vague in manner, wearing floating draperies of an indeterminate shade of green. With her was a middle-aged man with a beaklike nose and a determined chin—Gregory Barling. He was a somewhat prominent figure in the financial world and, well-bred on his mother’s side, he had for some years been an intimate friend of Hubert Lytcham Roche.

Boom!

The gong resounded imposingly. As it died away, the door was flung open and Digby announced:

‘Dinner is served.’

Then, well-trained servant though he was, a look of complete astonishment flashed over his impassive face. For the first time in his memory, his master was not in the room!

That his astonishment was shared by everybody was evident. Mrs Lytcham Roche gave a little uncertain laugh.

‘Most amazing. Really—I don’t know what to do.’

Everybody was taken aback. The whole tradition of Lytcham Close was undermined. What could have happened? Conversation ceased. There was a strained sense of waiting.

At last the door opened once more; a sigh of relief went round only tempered by a slight anxiety as to how to treat the situation. Nothing must be said to emphasize the fact that the host had himself transgressed the stringent rule of the house.

But the newcomer was not Lytcham Roche. Instead of the big, bearded, viking-like figure, there advanced into the long drawing room a very small man, palpably a foreigner, with an egg-shaped head, a flamboyant moustache, and most irreproachable evening clothes.

His eyes twinkling, the newcomer advanced toward Mrs Lytcham Roche.

‘My apologies, madame,’ he said. ‘I am, I fear, a few minutes late.’

‘Oh, not at all!’ murmured Mrs Lytcham Roche vaguely. ‘Not at all, Mr—’ She paused.

‘Poirot, madame. Hercule Poirot.’

He heard behind him a very soft ‘Oh’—a gasp rather than an articulate word—a woman’s ejaculation. Perhaps he was flattered.

‘You knew I was coming?’ he murmured gently. ‘N’est ce pas, madame? Your husband told you.’

‘Oh—oh, yes,’ said Mrs Lytcham Roche, her manner unconvincing in the extreme. ‘I mean, I suppose so. I am so terribly unpractical, M. Poirot. I never remember anything. But fortunately Digby sees to everything.’

‘My train, I fear, was late,’ said M. Poirot. ‘An accident on the line in front of us.’

‘Oh,’ cried Joan, ‘so that’s why dinner was put off.’

His eye came quickly round to her—a most uncannily discerning eye.

‘That is something out of the usual—eh?’

‘I really can’t think—’ began Mrs Lytcham Roche, and then stopped. ‘I mean,’ she went on confusedly, ‘it’s so odd. Hubert never—’

Poirot’s eyes swept rapidly round the group.

‘M. Lytcham Roche is not down yet?’

‘No, and it’s so extraordinary—’ She looked appealingly at Geoffrey Keene.

‘Mr Lytcham Roche is the soul of punctuality,’ explained Keene. ‘He has not been late for dinner for—well, I don’t know that he was ever late before.’

To a stranger the situation must have been ludicrous—the perturbed faces and the general consternation.

‘I know,’ said Mrs Lytcham Roche with the air of one solving a problem. ‘I shall ring for Digby.’

She suited the action to the word.

The butler came promptly.

‘Digby,’ said Mrs Lytcham Roche, ‘your master. Is he—’

As was customary with her, she did not finish her sentence. It was clear that the butler did not expect her to do so. He replied promptly and with understanding.

‘Mr Lytcham Roche came down at five minutes to eight and went into the study, madam.’

‘Oh!’ She paused. ‘You don’t think—I mean—he heard the gong?’

‘I think he must have—the gong is immediately outside the study door.’

‘Yes, of course, of course,’ said Mrs Lytcham Roche more vaguely than ever.

‘Shall I inform him, madam, that dinner is ready?’

‘Oh, thank you, Digby. Yes, I think—yes, yes, I should.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Lytcham Roche to her guests as the butler withdrew, ‘what I would do without Digby!’

A pause followed.

Then Digby re-entered the room. His breath was coming a little faster than is considered good form in a butler.

‘Excuse me, madam—the study door is locked.’

It was then that M. Hercule Poirot took command of the situation.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘that we had better go to the study.’

He led the way and everyone followed. His assumption of authority seemed perfectly natural. he was no longer a rather comic-looking guest. He was a personality and master of the situation.

He led the way out into the hall, past the staircase, past the great clock, past the recess in which stood the gong. Exactly opposite that recess was a closed door.

He tapped on it, first gently, then with increasing violence. But there was no reply. Very nimbly he dropped to his knees and applied his eye to the keyhole. He rose and looked round.

‘Messieurs,’ he said, ‘we must break open this door. Immediately!’

As before no one questioned his authority. Geoffrey Keene and Gregory Barling were the two biggest men. They attacked the door under Poirot’s directions. It was no easy matter. The doors of Lytcham Close were solid affairs—no modern jerry-building here. It resisted the attack valiantly, but at last it gave before the united attack of the men and crashed inward.

The house party hesitated in the doorway. They saw what they had subconsciously feared to see. Facing them was the window. On the left, between the door and the window, was a big writing table. Sitting, not at the table, but sideways to it, was a man—a big man—slouched forward in the chair. His back was to them and his face to the window, but his position told the tale. His right hand hung limply down and below it, on the carpet, was a small shining pistol.

Poirot spoke sharply to Gregory Barling.

‘Take Mrs Lytcham Roche away—and the other two ladies.’

The other nodded comprehendingly. He laid a hand on his hostess’s arm. She shivered.

‘He has shot himself,’ she murmured. ‘Horrible!’ With another shiver she permitted him to lead her away. The two girls followed.

Poirot came forward into the room, the two young men behind him.

He knelt down by the body, motioning them to keep back a little.

He found the bullet hole on the right side of the head. It had passed out the other side and had evidently struck a mirror hanging on the left-hand wall, since this was shivered. On the writing table was a sheet of paper, blank save for the word Sorry scrawled across it in hesitating, shaky writing.

Poirot’s eyes darted back to the door.

‘The key is not in the lock,’ he said. ‘I wonder—’

His hand slid into the dead man’s pocket.

‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘At least I think so. Have the goodness to try it, monsieur?’

Geoffrey Keene took it from him and tried it in the lock.

‘That’s it, all right.’

‘And the window?’

Harry Dalehouse strode across to it.

‘Shut.’

‘You permit?’ Very swiftly, Poirot scrambled to his feet and joined the other at the window. It was a long French window. Poirot opened it, stood a minute scrutinizing the grass just in front of it, then closed it again.

‘My friends,’ he said, ‘we must telephone for the police. Until they have come and satisfied themselves that it is truly suicide nothing must be touched. Death can only have occurred about a quarter of an hour ago.’

‘I know,’ said Harry hoarsely. ‘We heard the shot.’

‘Comment? What is that you say?’

Harry explained with the help of Geoffrey Keene. As he finished speaking, Barling reappeared.

Poirot repeated what he had said before, and while Keene went off to telephone, Poirot requested Barling to give him a few minutes’ interview.

They went into a small morning room, leaving Digby on guard outside the study door, while Harry went off to find the ladies.

‘You were, I understand, an intimate friend of M. Lytcham Roche,’ began Poirot. ‘It is for that reason that I address myself to you primarily. In etiquette, perhaps, I should have spoken first to madame, but at the moment I do not think that is pratique.’

He paused.

‘I am, see you, in a delicate situation. I will lay the facts plainly before you. I am, by profession, a private detective.’

The financier smiled a little.

‘It is not necessary to tell me that, M. Poirot. Your name is, by now, a household word.’

‘Monsieur is too amiable,’ said Poirot, bowing. ‘Let us, then, proceed. I receive, at my London address, a letter from this M. Lytcham Roche. In it he says that he has reason to believe that he is being swindled of large sums of money. For family reasons, so he puts it, he does not wish to call in the police, but he desires that I should come down and look into the matter for him. Well, I agree. I come. Not quite so soon as M. Lytcham Roche wishes—for after all I have other affairs, and M. Lytcham Roche, he is not quite the King of England, though he seems to think he is.’

Barling gave a wry smile.

‘He did think of himself that way.’

‘Exactly. Oh, you comprehend—his letter showed plainly enough that he was what one calls an eccentric. He was not insane, but he was unbalanced, n’est-ce pas?’

‘What he’s just done ought to show that.’

‘Oh, monsieur, but suicide is not always the act of the unbalanced. The coroner’s jury, they say so, but that is to spare the feelings of those left behind.’

‘Hubert was not a normal individual,’ said Barling decisively. ‘He was given to ungovernable rages, was a monomaniac on the subject of family pride, and had a bee in his bonnet in more ways than one. But for all that he was a shrewd man.’

‘Precisely. He was sufficiently shrewd to discover that he was being robbed.’

‘Does a man commit suicide because he’s being robbed?’ Barling asked.

‘As you say, monsieur. Ridiculous. And that brings me to the need for haste in the matter. For family reasons—that was the phrase he used in his letter. Eh bien, monsieur, you are a man of the world, you know that it is for precisely that—family reasons—that a man does commit suicide.’

‘You mean?’

‘That it looks—on the face of it—as if ce pauvre monsieur had found out something further—and was unable to face what he had found out. But you perceive, I have a duty. I am already employed—commissioned—I have accepted the task. This “family reason”, the dead man did not want it to get to the police. So I must act quickly. I must learn the truth.’

‘And when you have learned it?’

‘Then—I must use my discretion. I must do what I can.’

‘I see,’ said Barling. He smoked for a minute or two in silence, then he said, ‘All the same I’m afraid I can’t help you. Hubert never confided anything to me. I know nothing.’

‘But tell me, monsieur, who, should you say, had a chance of robbing this poor gentleman?’

‘Difficult to say. Of course, there’s the agent for the estate. He’s a new man.’

‘The agent?’

‘Yes. Marshall. Captain Marshall. Very nice fellow, lost an arm in the war. He came here a year ago. But Hubert liked him, I know, and trusted him, too.’

‘If it were Captain Marshall who was playing him false, there would be no family reasons for silence.’

‘N-No.’

The hesitation did not escape Poirot.

‘Speak, monsieur. Speak plainly, I beg of you.’

‘It may be gossip.’

‘I implore you, speak.’

‘Very well, then, I will. Did you notice a very attractive looking young woman in the drawing room?’

‘I noticed two very attractive looking young women.’

‘Oh, yes, Miss Ashby. Pretty little thing. Her first visit. Harry Dalehouse got Mrs Lytcham Roche to ask her. No, I mean a dark girl—Diana Cleves.’

‘I noticed her,’ said Poirot. ‘She is one that all men would notice, I think.’

‘She’s a little devil,’ burst out Barling. ‘She’s played fast and loose with every man for twenty miles round. Someone will murder her one of these days.’

He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, oblivious of the keen interest with which the other was regarding him.

‘And this young lady is—’

‘She’s Lytcham Roche’s adopted daughter. A great disappointment when he and his wife had no children. They adopted Diana Cleves—she was some kind of cousin. Hubert was devoted to her, simply worshipped her.’

‘Doubtless he would dislike the idea of her marrying?’ suggested Poirot.

‘Not if she married the right person.’

‘And the right person was—you, monsieur?’

Barling started and flushed.

‘I never said—’

‘Mais, non, mais, non! You said nothing. But it was so, was it not?’

‘I fell in love with her—yes. Lytcham Roche was pleased about it. It fitted in with his ideas for her.’

‘And mademoiselle herself?’

‘I told you—she’s the devil incarnate.’

‘I comprehend. She has her own ideas of amusement, is it not so? But Captain Marshall, where does he come in?’

‘Well, she’s been seeing a lot of him. People talked. Not that I think there’s anything in it. Another scalp, that’s all.’

Poirot nodded.

‘But supposing that there had been something in it—well, then, it might explain why M. Lytcham Roche wanted to proceed cautiously.’

‘You do understand, don’t you, that there’s no earthly reason for suspecting Marshall of defalcation.’

‘Oh, parfaitement, parfaitement! It might be an affair of a forged cheque with someone in the household involved. This young Mr Dalehouse, who is he?’

‘A nephew.’

‘He will inherit, yes?’

‘He’s a sister’s son. Of course he might take the name—there’s not a Lytcham Roche left.’

‘I see.’

‘The place isn’t actually entailed, though it’s always gone from father to son. I’ve always imagined that he’d leave the place to his wife for her lifetime and then perhaps to Diana if he approved of her marriage. You see, her husband could take the name.’

‘I comprehend,’ said Poirot. ‘You have been most kind and helpful to me, monsieur. May I ask of you one thing further—to explain to Madame Lytcham Roche all that I have told you, and to beg of her that she accord me a minute?’

Sooner than he had thought likely, the door opened and Mrs Lytcham Roche entered. She floated to a chair.

‘Mr Barling has explained everything to me,’ she said. ‘We mustn’t have any scandal, of course. Though I do feel really it’s fate, don’t you? I mean with the mirror and everything.’

‘Comment—the mirror?’

‘The moment I saw it—it seemed a symbol. Of Hubert! A curse, you know. I think old families have a curse very often. Hubert was always very strange. Lately he has been stranger than ever.’

‘You will forgive me for asking, madame, but you are not in any way short of money?’

‘Money? I never think of money.’

‘Do you know what they say, madame? Those who never think of money need a great deal of it.’

He ventured a tiny laugh. She did not respond. Her eyes were far away.

‘I thank you, madame,’ he said, and the interview came to an end.

Poirot rang, and Digby answered.

‘I shall require you to answer a few questions,’ said Poirot. ‘I am a private detective sent for by your master before he died.’

‘A detective!’ the butler gasped. ‘Why?’

‘You will please answer my questions. As to the shot now—’

He listened to the butler’s account.

‘So there were four of you in the hall?’

‘Yes, sir; Mr Dalehouse and Miss Ashby and Mr Keene came from the drawing room.’

‘Where were the others?’

‘The others, sir?’

‘Yes, Mrs Lytcham Roche, Miss Cleves and Mr Barling.’

‘Mrs Lytcham Roche and Mr Barling came down later, sir.’

‘And Miss Cleves?’

‘I think Miss Cleves was in the drawing room, sir.’

Poirot asked a few more questions, then dismissed the butler with the command to request Miss Cleves to come to him.

She came immediately, and he studied her attentively in view of Barling’s revelations. She was certainly beautiful in her white satin frock with the rosebud on the shoulder.

He explained the circumstances which had brought him to Lytcham Close, eyeing her very closely, but she showed only what seemed to be genuine astonishment, with no signs of uneasiness. She spoke of Marshall indifferently with tepid approval. Only at mention of Barling did she approach animation.

‘That man’s a crook,’ she said sharply. ‘I told the Old Man so, but he wouldn’t listen—went on putting money into his rotten concerns.’

‘Are you sorry, mademoiselle, that your—father is dead?’

She stared at him.

‘Of course. I’m modern, you know, M. Poirot. I don’t indulge in sob stuff. But I was fond of the Old Man. Though, of course, it’s best for him.’

‘Best for him?’

‘Yes. One of these days he would have had to be locked up. It was growing on him—this belief that the last Lytcham Roche of Lytcham Close was omnipotent.’

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

‘I see, I see—yes, decided signs of mental trouble. By the way, you permit that I examine your little bag? It is charming—all these silk rosebuds. What was I saying? Oh, yes, did you hear the shot?’

‘Oh, yes! But I thought it was a car or a poacher, or something.’

‘You were in the drawing room?’

‘No. I was out in the garden.’

‘I see. Thank you, mademoiselle. Next I would like to see M. Keene, is it not?’

‘Geoffrey? I’ll send him along.’

Keene came in, alert and interested.

‘Mr Barling has been telling me of the reason for your being down here. I don’t know that there’s anything I can tell you, but if I can—’

Poirot interrupted him. ‘I only want to know one thing, Monsieur Keene. What was it that you stooped and picked up just before we got to the study door this evening?’

‘I—’ Keene half sprang up from his chair, then subsided again. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said lightly.

‘Oh, I think you do, monsieur. You were behind me, I know, but a friend of mine he says I have eyes in the back of my head. You picked up something and you put it in the right hand pocket of your dinner jacket.’

There was a pause. Indecision was written plainly on Keene’s handsome face. At last he made up his mind.

‘Take your choice, M. Poirot,’ he said, and leaning forward he turned his pocket inside out. There was a cigarette holder, a handkerchief, a tiny silk rosebud, and a little gold match box.

A moment’s silence and then Keene said, ‘As a matter of fact it was this.’ He picked up the match box. ‘I must have dropped it earlier in the evening.’

‘I think not,’ said Poirot.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What I say. I, monsieur, am a man of tidiness, of method, of order. A match box on the ground, I should see it and pick it up—a match box of this size, assuredly I should see it! No, monsieur, I think it was something very much smaller—such as this, perhaps.’

He picked up the little silk rosebud.

‘From Miss Cleve’s bag, I think?’

There was a moment’s pause, then Keene admitted it with a laugh.

‘Yes, that’s so. She—gave it to me last night.’

‘I see,’ said Poirot, and at the moment the door opened and a tall fair-haired man in a lounge suit strode into the room.

‘Keene—what’s all this? Lytcham Roche shot himself? Man, I can’t believe it. It’s incredible.’

‘Let me introduce you,’ said Keene, ‘to M. Hercule Poirot.’ The other started. ‘He will tell you all about it.’ And he left the room, banging the door.

‘M. Poirot—’ John Marshall was all eagerness ‘—I’m most awfully pleased to meet you. It is a bit of luck your being down here. Lytcham Roche never told me you were coming. I’m a most frightful admirer of yours, sir.’

A disarming young man, thought Poirot—not so young, either, for there was grey hair at the temples and lines in the forehead. It was the voice and manner that gave the impression of boyishness.

‘The police—’

‘They are here now, sir. I came up with them on hearing the news. They don’t seem particularly surprised. Of course, he was mad as a hatter, but even then—’

‘Even then you are surprised at his committing suicide?’

‘Frankly, yes. I shouldn’t have thought that—well, that Lytcham Roche could have imagined the world getting on without him.’

‘He has had money troubles of late, I understand?’

Marshall nodded.

‘He speculated. Wildcat schemes of Barling’s.’

Poirot said quietly, ‘I will be very frank. Had you any reason to suppose that Mr Lytcham Roche suspected you of tampering with your accounts?’

Marshall stared at Poirot in a kind of ludicrous bewilderment. So ludicrous was it that Poirot was forced to smile.

‘I see that you are utterly taken aback, Captain Marshall.’

‘Yes, indeed. The idea’s ridiculous.’

‘Ah! Another question. He did not suspect you of robbing him of his adopted daughter?’

‘Oh, so you know about me and Di?’ He laughed in an embarrassed fashion.

‘It is so, then?’

Marshall nodded.

‘But the old man didn’t know anything about it. Di wouldn’t have him told. I suppose she was right. He’d have gone up like a—a basketful of rockets. I should have been chucked out of a job, and that would have been that.’

‘And instead what was your plan?’

‘Well, upon my word, sir, I hardly know. I left things to Di. She said she’d fix it. As a matter of fact I was looking out for a job. If I could have got one I would have chucked this up.’

‘And mademoiselle would have married you? But M. Lytcham Roche might have stopped her allowance. Mademoiselle Diana is, I should say, fond of money.’

Marshall looked rather uncomfortable.

‘I’d have tried to make it up to her, sir.’

Geoffrey Keene came into the room. ‘The police are just going and would like to see you, M. Poirot.’

‘Merci. I will come.’

In the study were a stalwart inspector and the police surgeon.

‘Mr Poirot?’ said the inspector. ‘We’ve heard of you, sir. I’m Inspector Reeves.’

‘You are most amiable,’ said Poirot, shaking hands. ‘You do not need my co-operation, no?’ He gave a little laugh.

‘Not this time, sir. All plain sailing.’

‘The case is perfectly straightforward, then?’ demanded Poirot.

‘Absolutely. Door and window locked, key of door in dead man’s pocket. Manner very strange the past few days. No doubt about it.’

‘Everything quite—natural?’

The doctor grunted.

‘Must have been sitting at a damned queer angle for the bullet to have hit that mirror. But suicide’s a queer business.’

‘You found the bullet?’

‘Yes, here.’ The doctor held it out. ‘Near the wall below the mirror. Pistol was Mr Roche’s own. Kept it in the drawer of the desk always. Something behind it all, I daresay, but what that is we shall never know.’

Poirot nodded.

The body had been carried to a bedroom. The police now took their leave. Poirot stood at the front door looking after them. A sound made him turn. Harry Dalehouse was close behind him.

‘Have you, by any chance, a strong flashlight, my friend?’ asked Poirot.

‘Yes, I’ll get it for you.’

When he returned with it Joan Ashby was with him.

‘You may accompany me if you like,’ said Poirot graciously.

He stepped out of the front door and turned to the right, stopping before the study window. About six feet of grass separated it from the path. Poirot bent down, playing the flashlight on the grass. He straightened himself and shook his head.

‘No,’ he said, ‘not there.’

Then he paused and slowly his figure stiffened. On either side of the grass was a deep flower border. Poirot’s attention was focused on the right hand border, full of Michaelmas daisies and dahlias. His torch was directed on the front of the bed. Distinct on the soft mould were footprints.

‘Four of them,’ murmured Poirot. ‘Two going toward the window, two coming from it.’

‘A gardener,’ suggested Joan.

‘But no, mademoiselle, but no. Employ your eyes. These shoes are small, dainty, high-heeled, the shoes of a woman. Mademoiselle Diana mentioned having been out in the garden. Do you know if she went downstairs before you did, mademoiselle?’

Joan shook her head.

‘I can’t remember. I was in such a hurry because the gong went, and I thought I’d heard the first one. I do seem to remember that her room door was open as I went past, but I’m not sure. Mrs Lytcham Roche’s was shut, I know.’

‘I see,’ said Poirot.

Something in his voice made Harry look up sharply, but Poirot was merely frowning gently to himself.

In the doorway they met Diana Cleves.

‘The police have gone,’ she said. ‘It’s all—over.’

She gave a deep sigh.

‘May I request one little word with you, mademoiselle?’

She led the way into the morning room, and Poirot followed, shutting the door.

‘Well?’ She looked a little surprised.

‘One little question, mademoiselle. Were you tonight at any time in the flower border outside the study window?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘About seven o’clock and again just before dinner.’

‘I do not understand,’ he said.

‘I can’t see that there is anything to “understand”, as you call it,’ she said coldly. ‘I was picking Michaelmas daisies—for the table. I always do the flowers. That was about seven o’clock.’

‘And afterward—later?’

‘Oh, that! As a matter of fact I dropped a spot of hair oil on my dress—just on the shoulder here. It was just as I was ready to come down. I didn’t want to change the dress. I remembered I’d seen a late rose in bud in the border. I ran out and picked it and pinned it in. See—’ She came close to him and lifted the head of the rose. Poirot saw the minute grease spot. She remained close to him, her shoulder almost brushing his.

‘And what time was this?’

‘Oh, about ten minutes past eight, I suppose.’

‘You did not—try the window?’

‘I believe I did. Yes, I thought it would be quicker to go in that way. But it was fastened.’

‘I see.’ Poirot drew a deep breath. ‘And the shot,’ he said, ‘where were you when you heard that? Still in the flower border?’

‘Oh, no; it was two or three minutes later, just before I came in by the side door.’

‘Do you know what this is, mademoiselle?’

On the palm of his hand he held out the tiny silk rosebud. She examined it coolly.

‘It looks like a rosebud off my little evening bag. Where did you find it?’

‘It was in Mr Keene’s pocket,’ said Poirot dryly. ‘Did you give it to him, mademoiselle?’

‘Did he tell you I gave it to him?’

Poirot smiled.

‘When did you give it to him, mademoiselle?’

‘Last night.’

‘Did he warn you to say that, mademoiselle?’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked angrily.

But Poirot did not answer. He strode out of the room and into the drawing room. Barling, Keene, and Marshall were there. He went straight up to them.

‘Messieurs,’ he said brusquely, ‘will you follow me to the study?’

He passed out into the hall and addressed Joan and Harry.

‘You, too, I pray of you. And will somebody request madame to come? I thank you. Ah! And here is the excellent Digby. Digby, a little question, a very important little question. Did Miss Cleves arrange some Michaelmas daisies before dinner?’

The butler looked bewildered.

‘Yes, sir, she did.’

‘You are sure?’

‘Quite sure, sir.’

‘Très bien. Now—come, all of you.’

Inside the study he faced them.

‘I have asked you to come here for a reason. The case is over, the police have come and gone. They say Mr Lytcham Roche has shot himself. All is finished.’ He paused. ‘But I, Hercule Poirot, say that it is not finished.’

As startled eyes turned to him the door opened and Mrs Lytcham Roche floated into the room.

‘I was saying, madame, that this case is not finished. It is a matter of the psychology. Mr Lytcham Roche, he had the manie de grandeur, he was a king. Such a man does not kill himself. No, no, he may go mad, but he does not kill himself. Mr Lytcham Roche did not kill himself.’ He paused. ‘He was killed.’

‘Killed?’ Marshall gave a short laugh. ‘Alone in a room with the door and window locked?’

‘All the same,’ said Poirot stubbornly, ‘he was killed.’

‘And got up and locked the door or shut the window afterward, I suppose,’ said Diana cuttingly.

‘I will show you something,’ said Poirot, going to the window. He turned the handle of the French windows and then pulled gently.