Part 11 (1/2)
Inspector Miller was not an easy man to persuade. But equally Hercule Poirot was not an easy man to shake off until he had got his way. Inspector Miller grumbled, but capitulated.
”- though what Lady Chatterton's got to do with this -”
”Nothing, really. She has provided asylum for a friend, that is all.”
”About those Spences - how did you know?”
”That stiletto came from there? It was a mere guess. Something Jeremy Spence said gave me the idea. I suggested that the stiletto belonged to Margharita Clayton. He showed that he knew positively that it did not.” He paused. ”What did they say?” he asked with some curiosity.
”Admitted that it was very like a toy dagger they'd once had. But it had been mislaid some weeks ago, and they had really forgotten about it. I suppose Rich pinched it from there.”
”A man who likes to play safe, Mr. Jeremy Spence,” said Hercule Poirot. He muttered to himself: ”Some weeks ago. Oh yes, the planning began a long time ago.”
”Eh, what's that?”
”We arrive,” said Poirot. The taxi drew up at Lady Chatterton's house in Cheriton Street. Poirot paid the fare.
Margharita Clayton was waiting for them in the room upstairs. Her face hardened when she saw Miller.
”I didn't know -”
”You did not know who the friend was I proposed to bring?”
”Inspector Miller is not a friend of mine.”
”That rather depends on whether you want to see justice done or not, Mrs. Clayton. Your husband was murdered -”
”And now we have to talk of who killed him,” said Poirot quickly. ”May we sit down, madame?”
Slowly Margharita sat down in a high-backed chair facing the two men.
”I ask,” said Poirot, addressing both his hearers, ”to listen to me patiently. I think I now know what happened on that fatal evening at Major Rich's flat. We started, all of us, by an a.s.sumption that was not true - the a.s.sumption that there were only two persons who had the opportunity of putting the body in the chest - that is to say, Major Rich or William Burgess. But we were wrong - there was a third person at the flat that evening who had an equally good opportunity to do so.”
”And who was that?” demanded Miller sceptically. ”The lift boy?”
”No. Arnold Clayton.”
”What? Concealed his own dead body? You're crazy.”
”Naturally not a dead body - a live one. In simple terms, he hid himself in the chest. A thing that has often been done throughout the course of history. The dead bride in the Mistletoe Bough, Iachimo with designs on the virtue of Imogen, and so on. I thought of it as soon as I saw that there had been holes bored in the chest quite recently. Why? They were made so that there might be a sufficiency of air in the chest. Why was the screen moved from its usual position that evening? So as to hide the chest from the people in the room. So that the hidden man could lift the lid from time to time and relieve his cramp, and hear better what went on.”
”But why,” demanded Margharita wide-eyed with astonishment. ”Why should Arnold want to hide in the chest?”
”Is it you who ask that, madame? Your husband was a jealous man. He was also an inarticulate man. 'Bottled up,' as your friend Mrs. Spence put it. His jealousy mounted. It tortured him! Were you or were you not Rich's mistress? He did not know! He had to know! So - a 'telegram from Scotland,' the telegram that was never sent and that no one ever saw! The overnight bag is packed and conveniently forgotten at the club. He goes to the flat at a time when he has probably ascertained Rich will be out. He tells the valet he will write a note. As soon as he is left alone, he bores the holes in the chest, moves the screen, and climbs inside the chest. Tonight he will know the truth. Perhaps his wife will stay behind the others, perhaps she will go but come back again. That night the desperate, jealousy racked man will know...”
”You're not saying he stabbed himself?” Miller's voice was incredulous. ”Nonsense!”
”Oh no, someone else stabbed him. Somebody who knew he was there. It was murder all right. Carefully planned, long premeditated murder. Think of the other characters in Oth.e.l.lo. It is Iago we should have remembered. Subtle poisoning of Arnold Clayton's mind; hints, suspicions. Honest Iago, the faithful friend, the man you always believe! Arnold Clayton believed him. Arnold Clayton let his jealousy be played upon, be roused to fever pitch. Was the plan of hiding in the chest Arnold's own idea? He may have thought it was - probably he did think so! And so the scene is set. The stiletto, quietly abstracted some weeks earlier, is ready. The evening comes. The lights are low, the gramophone is playing, two couples dance, the odd man out is busy at the record cabinet, close to the Spanish chest and its masking screen. To slip behind the screen, lift the lid and strike - Audacious, but quiet easy!”
”Clayton would have cried out!”
”Not if he were drugged,” said Poirot. ”According to the valet, the body was 'lying like a man asleep.' Clayton was asleep, drugged by the only man who could have drugged him, the man he had had a drink with at the club.”
”Jock?” Margharita's voice rose high in childlike surprise. ”Jock? Not dear old Jock. Why, I've known Jock all my life! Why on earth should Jock...?”
Poirot turned on her.
”Why did two Italians fight a duel? Why did a young man shoot himself? Jock McLaren is an inarticulate man. He has resigned himself, perhaps, to being the faithful friend to you and your husband, but then comes Major Rich as well. It is too much! In the darkness of hate and desire, he plans what is well nigh the perfect murder - a double murder, for he is almost certain to be found guilty of it. And with Rich and your husband both out of the way - he thinks that at last you may turn to him. And perhaps, madame, you would have done... Eh?”
She was staring at him, wide-eyed, horror-struck. Almost unconsciously she breathed: ”Perhaps... I don't know...”
Inspector Miller spoke with sudden authority.
”This is all very well, Poirot. It's a theory, nothing more. There's not a shred of evidence, probably not a word of it is true.”
”It is all true.”
”But there's no evidence. There's nothing we can act on.”
”You are wrong. I think that McLaren, if this is put to him, will admit it. That is, if it is made clear to him that Margharita Clayton knows...”
Poirot paused and added: ”Because, once he knows that, he has lost. The perfect murder has been in vain.”
THE UNDER DOG.
Lily Margrave smoothed her gloves out on her knee with a nervous gesture, and darted a glance at the occupant of the big chair opposite her.
She had heard of M. Hercule Poirot, the well-known investigator, but this was the first time she had seen him in the flesh.
The comic, almost ridiculous, aspect that he presented disturbed her conception of him. Could this funny little man, with the egg-shaped head and the enormous mustaches, really do the wonderful things that were claimed for him? His occupation at the moment struck her as particularly childish. He was piling small blocks of colored wood one upon the other, and seemed far more interested in the result than in the story she was telling.
At her sudden silence, however, he looked sharply across at her.
”Mademoiselle, continue, I pray of you. It is not that I do not attend; I attend very carefully, I a.s.sure you.”
He began once more to pile the little blocks of wood one upon the other, while the girl's voice took up the tale again. It was a gruesome tale, a tale of violence and tragedy, but the voice was so calm and unemotional, the recital was so concise that something of the savor of humanity seemed to have been left out of it.
She stopped at last.
”I hope,” she said anxiously, ”that I have made everything clear.”
Poirot nodded his head several times in emphatic a.s.sent. Then he swept his hand across the wooden blocks, scattering them over the table, and, leaning back in his chair, his fingertips pressed together and his eyes on the ceiling, he began to recapitulate.
”Sir Reuben Astwell was murdered ten days ago. On Wednesday, the day before yesterday, his nephew, Charles Leverson, was arrested by the police. The facts against him as far as you know are - you will correct me if I am wrong, Mademoiselle.
”Sir Reuben was sitting up late writing in his own special sanctum, the Tower room. Mr Leverson came in late, letting himself in with a latch key. He was overheard quarreling with his uncle by the butler, whose room was directly below the Tower room. The quarrel ended with a sudden thud as of a chair being thrown over and a half-smothered cry.