Poirot Investigates
see, that he was found with a rook rifle by his side.”
“You mean my story suggested to him—oh, but that is awful!”
“Do not distress yourself—it would have been one way or another.
Well, I must get on the telephone to London.”
Poirot had a lengthy conversation over the wire, and came back
thoughtful. He went off by himself in the afternoon, and it was
not till seven o’clock that he announced that he could put it off
no longer, but must break the news to the young widow. My sympathy
had already gone out to her unreservedly. To be left penniless,
and with the knowledge that her husband had killed himself to
assure her future was a hard burden for any woman to bear. I
cherished a secret hope, however, that young Black might prove
capable of consoling her after her first grief had passed. He
evidently admired her enormously.
Our interview with the lady was painful. She refused vehemently to
believe the facts that Poirot advanced, and when she was at last
convinced broke down into bitter weeping. An examination of the
body turned our suspicions into certainty. Poirot was very sorry
for the poor lady, but, after all, he was employed by the Insurance
Company, and what could he do? As he was preparing to leave he said
gently to Mrs. Maltravers:
“Madame, you of all people should know that there are no dead!”
“What do you mean?” she faltered, her eyes growing wide.
“Have you never taken part in any spiritualistic séances? You are
mediumistic, you know.”
“I have been told so. But you do not believe in Spiritualism,
surely?”
“Madame, I have seen some strange things. You know that they say
in the village that this house is haunted?”
She nodded, and at that moment the parlourmaid announced that
dinner was ready.
“Won’t you just stay and have something to eat?”
We accepted gratefully, and I felt that our presence could not but
help distract her a little from her own griefs.
We had just finished our soup, when there was a scream outside the
door, and the sound of breaking crockery. We jumped up. The
parlourmaid appeared, her hand to her heart.
“It was a man—standing in the passage.”
Poirot rushed out, returning quickly.
“There is no one there.”
“Isn’t there, sir?” said the parlourmaid weakly. “Oh, it did give
me a start!”
“But why?”
She dropped her voice to a whisper.
“I thought—I thought it was the master—it looked like ’im.”
I saw Mrs. Maltravers give a terrified start, and my mind flew to
the old superstition that a suicide cannot rest. She thought of it
too, I am sure, for a minute later, she caught Poirot’s arm with
a scream.
“Didn’t you hear that? Those three taps on the window? That’s how
_he_ always used to tap when he passed round the house.”
“The ivy,” I cried. “It was the ivy against the pane.”
But a sort of terror was gaining on us all. The parlourmaid was
obviously unstrung, and when the meal was over Mrs. Maltravers
besought Poirot not to go at once. She was clearly terrified to be
left alone. We sat in the little morning-room. The wind was getting
up, and moaning round the house in an eerie fashion. Twice the door
of the room came unlatched and the door slowly opened, and each
time she clung to me with a terrified gasp.
“Ah, but this door, it is bewitched!” cried
Poirot angrily at last. He got up and shut it once more, then
turned the key in the lock. “I shall lock it, so!”
“Don’t do that,” she gasped, “if it should come open now——”
And even as she spoke the impossible happened. The locked door
slowly swung open. I could not see into the passage from where I
sat, but she and Poirot were facing it. She gave one long shriek
as she turned to him.
“You saw him—there in the passage?” she cried.
He was staring down at her with a puzzled face, then shook his
head.
“I saw him—my husband—you must have seen him too?”
“Madame, I saw nothing. You are not well—unstrung——”
“I am perfectly well, I——Oh, God!”
Suddenly, without any warning, the lights quivered and went out.
Out of the darkness came three loud raps. I could hear Mrs.
Maltravers moaning.
And then—I saw!
The man I had seen on the bed upstairs stood there facing us,
gleaming with a faint ghostly light. There was blood on his lips,
and he held his right hand out, pointing. Suddenly a brilliant
light seemed to proceed from it. It passed over Poirot and me, and
fell on Mrs. Maltravers. I saw her white terrified face, and
something else!
“My God, Poirot!” I cried. “Look at her hand, her right hand. It’s
all red!”
Her own eyes fell on it, and she collapsed in a heap on the floor.
“Blood,” she cried hysterically. “Yes, it’s blood. I killed him.
I did it. He was showing me, and then I put my hand on the trigger
and pressed. Save me from him—save me! he’s come back!”
Her voice died away in a gurgle.
“Lights,” said Poirot briskly.
The lights went on as if by magic.
“That’s it,” he continued. “You heard, Hastings? And you, Everett?
Oh, by the way, this is Mr. Everett, rather a fine member of the
theatrical profession. I ’phoned to him this afternoon. His make-up
is good, isn’t it? Quite like the dead man, and with a pocket torch
and the necessary phosphorescence he made the proper impression.
I shouldn’t touch her right hand if I were you, Hastings. Red paint
marks so. When the lights went out I clasped her hand, you see. By
the way, we mustn’t miss our train. Inspector Japp is outside the
window. A bad night—but he has been able to while away the time by
tapping on the window every now and then.”
“You see,” continued Poirot, as we walked briskly through the wind
and rain, “there was a little discrepancy. The doctor seemed to
think the deceased was a Christian Scientist, and who could have
given him that impression but Mrs. Maltravers? But to us she
represented him as being in a grave state of apprehension about
his own health. Again, why was she so taken aback by the reappearance
of young Black? And lastly, although I know that convention decrees
that a woman must make a decent pretence of mourning for her
husband, I do not care for such heavily-rouged eyelids! You did
not observe them, Hastings? No? As I always tell you, you see
nothing!”
“Well, there it was. There were the two possibilities. Did Black’s
story suggest an ingenious method of committing suicide to Mr.
Maltravers, or did his other listener, the wife, see an equally
ingenious method of committing murder? I inclined to the latter
view. To shoot himself in the way indicated, he would probably have
had to pull the trigger with his toe—or at least so I imagine.
Now if Maltravers had been found with one boot off, we should
almost certainly have heard of it from some one. An odd detail like
that would have been remembered.
“No, as I say, I inclined to the view that it was a case of murder,
not suicide, but I realized that I had not a shadow of proof in
support of my theory. Hence the elaborate little comedy you saw
played to-night.”
“Even now I don’t quite see all the details of the crime?” I said.
“Let us start from the beginning. Here is a shrewd and scheming
woman who, knowing of her husband’s financial _débâcle_ and tired
of the elderly mate she has only married for his money, induces
him to insure his life for a large sum, and then seeks for the
means to accomplish her purpose. An accident gives her that—the
young soldier’s strange story. The next afternoon when _monsieur
le capitaine_, as she thinks, is on the high seas, she and her
husband are strolling round the grounds. ‘What a curious story that
was last night!’ she observes. ‘Could a man shoot himself in such
a way? Do show me if it is possible!’ The poor fool—he shows her.
He places the end of the rifle in his mouth. She stoops down, and
puts her finger on the trigger, laughing up at him. ‘And now, sir,’
she says saucily, ‘supposing I pull the trigger?’
“And then—and then, Hastings—she pulls it!”
III
The Adventure of the Cheap Flat
So far, in the cases which I have recorded, Poirot’s investigations
have started from the central fact, whether murder or robbery, and
have proceeded from thence by a process of logical deduction to
the final triumphant unravelling. In the events I am now about to
chronicle, a remarkable chain of circumstances led from the
apparently trivial incidents which first attracted Poirot’s
attention to the sinister happenings which completed a most unusual
case.
I had been spending the evening with an old friend of mine, Gerald
Parker. There had been, perhaps, about half a dozen people there
besides my host and myself, and the talk fell, as it was bound to
do sooner or later wherever Parker found himself, on the subject
of house-hunting in London. Houses and flats were Parker’s special
hobby. Since the end of the War, he had occupied at least half a
dozen different flats and maisonnettes. No sooner was he settled
anywhere than he would light unexpectedly upon a new find, and
would forthwith depart bag and baggage. His moves were nearly
always accomplished at a slight pecuniary gain, for he had a shrewd
business head, but it was sheer love of the sport that actuated
him, and not a desire to make money at it. We listened to Parker
for some time with the respect of the novice for the expert. Then
it was our turn, and a perfect babel of tongues was let loose.
Finally the floor was left to Mrs. Robinson, a charming little
bride who was there with her husband. I had never met them before,
as Robinson was only a recent acquaintance of Parker’s.
“Talking of flats,” she said, “have you heard of our piece of luck,
Mr. Parker? We’ve got a flat—at last! In Montagu Mansions.”
“Well,” said Parker, “I’ve always said there are plenty of flats—at
a price!”
“Yes, but this isn’t at a price. It’s dirt cheap. Eighty pounds a
year!”
“But—but Montagu Mansions is just off Knightsbridge, isn’t it? Big
handsome building. Or are you talking of a poor relation of the
same name stuck in the slums somewhere?”
“No, it’s the Knightsbridge one. That’s what makes it so wonderful.”
“Wonderful is the word! It’s a blinking miracle. But there must be
a catch somewhere. Big premium, I suppose?”
“No premium!”
“No prem—oh, hold my head, somebody!” groaned Parker.
“But we’ve got to buy the furniture,” continued Mrs. Robinson.
“Ah!” Parker brisked up. “I knew there was a catch!”
“For fifty pounds. And it’s beautifully furnished!”
“I give it up,” said Parker. “The present occupants must be lunatics
with a taste for philanthropy.”
Mrs. Robinson was looking a little troubled. A little pucker
appeared between her dainty brows.
“It _is_ queer, isn’t it? You don’t think that—that—the place is
_haunted_?”
“Never heard of a haunted flat,” declared Parker decisively.
“N-o.” Mrs. Robinson appeared far from convinced. “But there were
several things about it all that struck me as—well, queer.”
“For instance——” I suggested.
“Ah,” said Parker, “our criminal expert’s attention is aroused!
Unburden yourself to him, Mrs. Robinson. Hastings is a great
unraveller of mysteries.”
I laughed, embarrassed but not wholly displeased with the rôle
thrust upon me.
“Oh, not really queer, Captain Hastings, but when we went to the
agents, Stosser and Paul—we hadn’t tried them before because they
only have the expensive Mayfair flats, but we thought at any rate
it would do no harm—everything they offered us was four and five
hundred a year, or else huge premiums, and then, just as we were
going, they mentioned that they had a flat at eighty, but that they
doubted if it would be any good our going there, because it had
been on their books some time and they had sent so many people to
see it that it was almost sure to be taken—‘snapped up’ as the