Authors: Agatha Christie
Poirot waved his hand.
“Not in the least. You have told me the only thing that interests me—Lord Cronshaw’s views on the subject of drug taking.”
“Then there’s nothing you want to see?”
“Just one thing.”
“What is that?”
“The set of china figures from which the costumes were copied.”
Japp stared.
“Well, you’re a funny one!”
“You can manage that for me?”
“Come round to Berkeley Square now if you like. Mr. Beltane—or His
Lordship, as I should say now—won’t object.”
W
e set off at once in a taxi. The new Lord Cronshaw was not at home, but at Japp’s request we were shown into the “china room,” where the gems of the collection were kept. Japp looked round him rather helplessly.
“I don’t see how you’ll ever find the ones you want, monsieur.”
But Poirot had already drawn a chair in front of the mantelpiece and was hopping up upon it like a nimble robin. Above the mirror, on a small shelf to themselves, stood six china figures. Poirot examined them minutely, making a few comments to us as he did so.
“
Les voilà!
The old Italian Comedy. Three pairs! Harlequin and Columbine, Pierrot and Pierrette—very dainty in white and green—and Punchinello and Pulcinella in mauve and yellow. Very elaborate, the costume of Punchinello—ruffles and frills, a hump, a high hat. Yes, as I thought, very elaborate.”
He replaced the figures carefully, and jumped down.
Japp looked unsatisfied, but as Poirot had clearly no intention of explaining anything, the detective put the best face he could upon the matter. As we were preparing to leave, the master of the house came in, and Japp performed the necessary introductions.
The sixth Viscount Cronshaw was a man of about fifty, suave in manner, with a handsome, dissolute face. Evidently an elderly roué, with the languid manner of a poseur. I took an instant dislike to him. He greeted us graciously enough, declaring he had heard great accounts of Poirot’s skill, and placing himself at our disposal in every way.
“The police are doing all they can, I know,” Poirot said.
“But I much fear the mystery of my nephew’s death will never be cleared up. The whole thing seems utterly mysterious.”
Poirot was watching him keenly. “Your nephew had no enemies that you know of?”
“None whatever. I am sure of that.” He paused, and then went on: “If there are any questions you would like to ask—”
“Only one.” Poirot’s voice was serious. “The costumes—they were reproduced
exactly
from your figurines?”
“To the smallest detail.”
“Thank you, milor’.” That is all I wanted to be sure of. I wish you good day.”
“And what next?” inquired Japp as we hurried down the street. “I’ve got
to report at the Yard, you know.”
“
Bien!
I will not detain you. I have one other little matter to attend to, and then—”
“Yes?”
“The case will be complete.”
“What? You don’t mean it! You know who killed Lord Cronshaw?”
“
Parfaitement
.”
“Who was it? Eustace Beltane?”
“Ah,
mon ami
, you know my little weakness! Always I have a desire to keep the threads in my own hands up to the last minute. But have no fear. I will reveal all when the time comes. I want no credit—the affair shall be yours, on the condition that you permit me to play out the
dénouement
my own way.”
“That’s fair enough,” said Japp. “That is, if the
dénouement
ever comes! But I say, you
are
an oyster, aren’t you?” Poirot smiled. “Well, so long. I’m off to the Yard.”
He strode off down the street, and Poirot hailed a passing taxi.
“Where are we going now?” I asked in lively curiosity.
“To Chelsea to see the Davidsons.”
He gave the address to the driver.
“What do you think of the new Lord Cronshaw?” I asked.
“What says my good friend Hastings?”
“I distrust him instinctively.”
“You think he is the ‘wicked uncle’ of the story-books, eh?”
“Don’t you?”
“Me, I think he was most amiable towards us,” said Poirot noncommittally.
“Because he had his reasons!”
Poirot looked at me, shook his head sadly, and murmured something that sounded like: “No method.”
T
he Davidsons lived on the third floor of a block of “mansion” flats. Mr. Davidson was out, we were told, but Mrs. Davidson was at home. We were ushered into a long, low room with garish Oriental hangings. The air felt close and oppressive, and there was an overpowering fragrance of joss-sticks. Mrs. Davidson came to us almost immediately, a small, fair creature whose fragility would have seemed pathetic and appealing had it not been for the rather shrewd and calculating gleam in her light blue eyes.
Poirot explained our connection with the case, and she shook her head sadly.
“Poor Cronch—and poor Coco too! We were both so fond of her, and her death has been a terrible grief to us. What is it you want to ask me? Must I really go over all that dreadful evening again?”
“Oh, madame, believe me, I would not harass your feelings unnecessarily. Indeed, Inspector Japp has told me all that is needful. I only wish to see the costume you wore at the ball that night.”
The lady looked somewhat surprised, and Poirot continued smoothly: “You comprehend, madame, that I work on the system of my country. There we always ‘reconstruct’ the crime. It is possible that I may have an actual
représentation
, and if so, you understand, the costumes would be important.”
Mrs. Davidson still looked a bit doubtful.
“I’ve heard of reconstructing a crime, of course,” she said. “But I didn’t know you were so particular about details. But I’ll fetch the dress now.”
She left the room and returned almost immediately with a dainty wisp of white satin and green. Poirot took it from her and examined it, handing it back with a bow.
“
Merci, madame!
I see you have had the misfortune to lose one of your green pompons, the one on the shoulder here.”
“Yes, it got torn off at the ball. I picked it up and gave it to poor Lord Cronshaw to keep for me.”
“That was after supper?”
“Yes.”
“Not long before the tragedy, perhaps?”
A faint look of alarm came into Mrs. Davidson’s pale eyes, and she replied quickly: “Oh no—long before that. Quite soon after supper, in fact.”
“I see. Well, that is all. I will not derange you further.
Bonjour, madame
.”
“Well,” I said as we emerged from the building, “that explains the mystery of the green pompon.”
“I wonder.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“You saw me examine the dress, Hastings?”
“Yes?”
“
Eh bien
, the pompon that was missing had not been wrenched off, as the lady said. On the contrary, it had been
cut
off, my friend, cut off with scissors. The threads were all quite even.”
“Dear me!” I exclaimed. “This becomes more and more involved.”
“On the contrary,” replied Poirot placidly, “it becomes more and more simple.”
“Poirot,” I cried, “one day I shall murder you! Your habit of finding everything perfectly simple is aggravating to the last degree!”
“But when I explain,
mon ami
, is it not always perfectly simple?”
“Yes; that is the annoying part of it! I feel then that I could have done it myself.”
“And so you could, Hastings, so you could. If you would but take the trouble of arranging your ideas! Without method—”
“Yes, yes,” I said hastily, for I knew Poirot’s eloquence when started on his favourite theme only too well. “Tell me, what do we do next? Are you really going to reconstruct the crime?”
“Hardly that. Shall we say that the drama is over, but that I propose to add a—harlequinade?”
T
he following Tuesday was fixed upon by Poirot as the day for this mysterious performance. The preparations greatly intrigued me. A white screen was erected at one side of the room, flanked by heavy curtains at either side. A man with some lighting apparatus arrived next, and finally a group of members of the theatrical profession, who disappeared into Poirot’s bedroom, which had been rigged up as a temporary dressing-room.
Shortly before eight, Japp arrived, in no very cheerful mood. I gathered that the official detective hardly approved of Poirot’s plan.
“Bit melodramatic, like all his ideas. But there, it can do no harm, and as he says, it might save us a good bit of trouble. He’s been very smart over the case. I was on the same scent myself, of course—” I felt instinctively that Japp was straining the truth here “—but there, I promised to let him play the thing out his own way. Ah! Here is the crowd.”
His Lordship arrived first, escorting Mrs. Mallaby, whom I had not as yet seen. She was a pretty, dark-haired woman, and appeared perceptibly nervous. The Davidsons followed. Chris Davidson also I saw for the first time. He was handsome enough in a rather obvious style, tall and dark, with the easy grace of the actor.
Poirot had arranged seats for the party facing the screen. This was illuminated by a bright light. Poirot switched out the other lights so that the room was in darkness except for the screen. Poirot’s voice rose out of the gloom.
“Messieurs, mesdames, a word of explanation. Six figures in turn will pass across the screen. They are familiar to you. Pierrot and his Pierrette; Punchinello the buffoon, and elegant Pulcinella; beautiful Columbine, lightly dancing, Harlequin, the sprite, invisible to man!”
With these words of introduction, the show began. In turn each figure that Poirot had mentioned bounded before the screen, stayed there a moment poised, and then vanished. The lights went up, and a sigh of relief went round. Everyone had been nervous, fearing they knew not what. It seemed to me that the proceedings had gone singularly flat. If the criminal was among us, and Poirot expected him to break down at the mere sight of a familiar figure the device had failed signally—as it was almost bound to do. Poirot, however, appeared not a whit discomposed. He stepped forward, beaming.
“Now, messieurs and mesdames, will you be so good as to tell me, one at a time, what it is that we have just seen? Will you begin, milor’?”
The gentleman looked rather puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”
“Just tell me what we have been seeing.”
“I—er—well, I should say we have seen six figures passing in front of a screen and dressed to represent the personages in the old Italian Comedy, or—er—ourselves the other night.”
“Never mind the other night, milor’,” broke in Poirot. “The first part of your speech was what I wanted. Madame, you agree with Milor’ Cronshaw?”
He had turned as he spoke to Mrs. Mallaby.
“I—er—yes, of course.”
“You agree that you have seen six figures representing the Italian Comedy?”
“Why, certainly.”
“Monsieur Davidson? You too?”
“Yes.”
“Madame?”
“Yes.”
“Hastings? Japp? Yes? You are all in accord?”
He looked around upon us; his face grew rather pale, and his eyes were green as any cat’s.
“And yet—
you are all wrong
! Your eyes have lied to you—as they lied to you on the night of the Victory Ball. To ‘see’ things with your eyes, as they say, is not always to see the truth. One must see with the eyes of the mind; one must employ the little cells of grey! Know, then, that tonight and on the night of the Victory Ball, you saw not
six
figures but
five
! See!”
The lights went out again. A figure bounded in front of the screen—Pierrot!
“Who is that?” demanded Poirot. “Is it Pierrot?”
“Yes,” we all cried.
“Look again!”
With a swift movement the man divested himself of his loose Pierrot garb. There in the limelight stood glittering Harlequin! At the same moment there was a cry and an overturned chair.
“Curse you,” snarled Davidson’s voice. “Curse you! How did you guess?”
Then came the clink of handcuffs and Japp’s calm official voice. “I arrest you, Christopher Davidson—charge of murdering Viscount Cronshaw—anything you say will be used in evidence against you.”