Poirot's Early Cases - Christie Agatha - Страница 17

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'What a woman? cried Poirot enthusiastically as we descended the stairs. 'Mon /]hu, quelle femrnel Not a word of argument - of protestation, of bluff! One quick glance, and she had sized up the position correctly. I tell you, Hastings, a woman who can accept defeat like that - with a careless smile - will go far! She is dangerous, she has the nerves of steel; she - ' He tripped heavily.

'If you can manage to moderate your transports and look where you're going, it might be as well,' I suggested. 'When did you first suspect the Countess?' 'Mon ami, it was the glove and the cigarette case - the double clue, shall we say? - that worried me. Bernard Parker might easily have dropped one or the other - but hardly both. Ah, no, that would have been too carelessl In the same way, if someone else had placed them there to incriminate Parker, one would have been sufficient - the cigarette case or the glove - again not both.

I was forced to the conclusion that one of the two things did not belong to Parker. I imagined at first that the case was his, and that the glove was not. But when I discovered the fellow to the glove, I saw that it was the other way about. Whose, then, was the cigarette case? Clearly, it could not belong to Lady Runcorn.

The initials were wrong. Mr Johnston? Only if he were here under a false name. I interviewed his secretary, and it was apparent at once that everything was clear and aboveboard. There was no reticence about Mr Johnston's past. The Countess, then? She was supposed to have brought jewels with her from Russia; she had only to take the stones from their settings, and it was extremely doubtful if they could ever be identified. What could be easier for her than to pick up one of Parker's gloves from the hall that day and thrust it into the safe? But, bien vfr, she did not intend to drop her own cigarette case.' 'But if the case was hers, why did it have "B.P." on it? The Countess's initials are V.R.' Poirot smiled gently upon me.

'Exactly, tnon ami; but in the Russian alphabet, B is V and Pis R.' 'Well, you couldn't expect me to guess that. I don't know Russian.' 'Neither do I, Hastings. That is why I bought my little book and urged it on your attention.' He sighed.

'A remarkable woman. I have a feeling, my friend - a very decided feeling - I shall meet her again. Where, I wonder?'

'Truth,' I observed, laying aside the Daily Nervrraonger, 'is stranger than fiction?

The remark was not, perhaps, an original one. It appeared to incense my friend. Tilting his egg-shaped head on one side, the little man carefully flicked an imaginary fleck of dust from his carefully creased trousers, and observed: 'How profoundt What a thinker is my friend Hastingsl' Without displaying any annoyance at this quite uncalled-for gibe, I tapped the sheet I had laid aside.

'You've read this morning's paper?' 'I have. And after reading it, I folded it anew symmetrically.

I did not cast it on the floor as you have done, with your so lamentable absence of order and method.' (That is the worst of Poirot. Order and Method are his gods.

He goes so far as to attribute all his success to them.) 'Then you saw the account of the murder of Henry Reedburn, the impresario? It was that which prompted my remark. Not only is truth stranger than fiction - it is more dramatic. Think of that solid middle-class English family, the Oglanders. Father and mother, son and daughter, typical of thousands of families all over this country. The men of the family go to the city every day; the women look after the house. Their lives are perfectly peaceful, and utterly monotonous. Last night they were sitting in their neat suburban drawing-room at Daisymead, Streatham, playing bridge.

Suddenly, without any warning, the french window bursts open, and a woman staggers into the room. Her grey satin frock is marked with a crimson stain. She utters one word, "Murder!" before she sinks to the ground insensible. It is possible that they recognize her from her pictures as Valerie Saintclair, the famous dancer who has lately taken London by storm!'

'Is this your eloquence, or that of the Daily Newsmonger?' inquired Poirot.

'The Daily Newsmonger was in a hurry to go to press, and contented itself with bare facts. But the dramatic possibilities of the story struck me at once.' Poirot nodded thoughtfully. 'Wherever there is human nature, there is drama. But - it is not always just where you think it is.

Remember that. Still, I too am interested in the case, since it is likely that I shall be connected with it.' 'Indeed?' 'Yes. A gentleman rang me up this morning, and made an appointment with me on behalf of Prince Paul of Maurania.' 'But what has that to do with it?' 'You do not read your pretty little English scandal-papers. The ones with the funny stories, and % little mouse has heard -" or "a little bird would like to know -" See here.' I followed his short stubby finger along the paragraph: ' - whether the foreign prince and the famous dancer are really affinities! And if the lady likes her new diamond ringl' 'And now to resume your so dramatic narrative,' said Poirot.

'Mademoiselle Saintclair had just fainted on the drawing-room carpet at Daisymead, you remember.' I shrugged. 'As a result of Mademoiselle's first murmured words when she came round, the two male Oglanders stepped out, one to fetch a doctor to attend to the lady, who was evidently suffering terribly from shock, and the other to the police-station whence after telling his story, he accompanied the police to Mort Dsir, Mr Reedburn's magnificent villa, which is situated at no great distance from Daisymead. There they found the great man, who by the way suffers from a somewhat unsavoury reputation, lying in the library with the back of his head cracked open like an eggshell.' 'I have cramped your style,' said Poirot kindly. 'Forgive me, I pray… Ah, here is M. le Prince?

Our distinguished visitor was announced under the title of Count Feodor. He was a strange-looking youth, tall, eager, with a

weak chin, the famous Mauranberg mouth, and the dark fiery eyes of a fanatic.

'M. Poirot?'

My friend bowed.

'Monsieur, I am in terrible trouble, greater than I can well express - '

Poirot waved his hand. 'I comprehend your anxiety. Mademois-elle Saintclair is a very dear friend, is it not so?'

The Prince replied simply: 'I hope to make her my wife.' Poirot sat up in his chair, and his eyes opened.

The Prince continued: 'I should not be the first of my family to make a morganatic marriage. My brother Alexander has also defied the Emperor. We are living now in more enlightened days, free from the old caste-prejudice. Besides, Mademoiselle Saint-clair, in actual fact, is quite my equal in rank. You have heard hints as to her history?'

'There are many romantic stories of her origin - not an un-common thing with famous dancers. I have heard that she is the daughter of an Irish charwoman, also the story which makes her mother a Russian grand duchess.'

'The first story is, of course, nonsense,' said the young man.

'But the second is true. Valerie, though bound to secrecy, has let me guess as much. Besides, she proves it unconsciously in a thousand ways. I believe in heredity, M. Poirot.'

'I oo believe in heredity,' said Poirot thoughtfully. 'I have seen some strange things in connection with it - mol qui oou parle.

But to business, M. le Prince. What do you want of me? What do you fear? I may speak freely, may I not? Is there anything to connect Mademoiselle Saintclair with the crime? She knew Reedburn of course?'

'Yes. He professed to be in love with her.'

'And she?'

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