Part 20 (2/2)
Lily spoke quietly.
”Mr Astwell is a good man,” she said, ”and he is honest. He had nothing to do with the inside work of the Mpala Gold Fields. He is good through and through, and - I have promised to marry him.”
Victor Astwell came to her side and took her other hand.
”Before G.o.d, M. Poirot,” he said, ”I didn't kill my brother.”
”I know you did not,” said Poirot.
His eyes swept around the room.
”Listen, my friends. In an hypnotic trance, Lady Astwell mentioned having seen a bulge in the curtain that night.”
Everyone's eyes swept to the window.
”You mean there was a burglar concealed there?” exclaimed Victor Astwell. ”What a splendid solution!”
”Ah!” said Poirot gently. ”But it was not that curtain.”
He wheeled around and pointed to the curtain that masked the little staircase.
”Sir Reuben used the bedroom the night prior to the crime. He breakfasted in bed, and he had Mr Trefusis up there to give him instructions. I don't know what it was that Mr Trefusis left in that bedroom, but there was something. When he said good night to Sir Reuben and Lady Astwell, he remembered this thing and ran up the stairs to fetch it. I don't think either the husband or wife noticed him, for they had already begun a violent discussion. They were in the middle of this quarrel when Mr Trefusis came down the stairs again.
”The things they were saying to each other were of so intimate and personal a nature that Mr Trefusis was placed in a very awkward position. It was clear to him that they imagined he had left the room some time ago. Fearing to arouse Sir Reuben's anger against himself, he decided to remain where he was and slip out later. He stayed there behind the curtain, and as Lady Astwell left the room she subconsciously noticed the outline of his form there.
”When Lady Astwell had left the room, Trefusis tried to steal out un.o.bserved, but Sir Reuben happened to turn his head, and became aware of the secretary's presence. Already in a bad temper, Sir Reuben hurled abuse at his secretary, and accused him of deliberately eavesdropping and spying.
”Messieurs and Mesdames, I am a student of psychology. All through this case I have looked, not for the bad-tempered man or woman, for bad temper is its own safety valve. He who can bark does not bite. No, I have looked for the good-tempered man, for the man who is patient and self-controlled, for the man who for nine years has played the part of the under dog. There is no strain so great as that which has endured for years, there is no resentment like that which acc.u.mules slowly.
”For nine years Sir Reuben has bullied and browbeaten his secretary, and for nine years that man has endured in silence. But there comes a day when at last the strain reaches its breaking point. Something snaps! It was so that night. Sir Reuben sat down at his desk again, but the secretary, instead of turning humbly and meekly to the door, picks up the heavy wooden club, and strikes down the man who had bullied him once too often.”
He turned to Trefusis, who was staring at him as though turned to stone.
”It was so simple, your alibi. Mr Astwell thought you were in your room, but no one saw you go there. You were just stealing out after striking down Sir Reuben, when you heard it sound, and you hastened back to cover, behind the curtain. You were behind there when Charles Leverson entered the room you were there when Lily Margrave came. It was not till long after that that you crept up through a silent house to your bedroom. Do you deny it?”
Trefusis began to stammer.
”I - I never -”
”Ah! Let us finish this. For two weeks now I have played the comedy, I have showed you the net closing slowly around you. The fingerprints, footprints, the search of your room with the things artistically replaced. I have struck terror into you with all of this; you have lain awake at night fearing and wondering; did you leave a fingerprint in the room or a footprint somewhere?
”Again and again you have gone over the events of that night wondering what you have done or left undone, and so I brought you to the state where you made a slip. I saw the fear leap into your eyes today when I picked up something from the stairs where you had stood hidden that night. Then I made a great parade, the little box, the entrusting of it to George, and I go out.”
Poirot turned toward the door.
”George?”
”I am here, sir.”
The valet came forward.
”Will you tell these ladies and gentlemen what my instructions were?”
”I was to remain concealed in the wardrobe in your room, sir, having placed the cardboard box where you told me to. At half-past three this afternoon, sir, Mr Trefusis entered the room; he went to the drawer and took out the box in question.”
”And in that box,” continued Poirot, ”was a common pin. Me, I speak always the truth. I did pick up something on the stairs this morning. That is your English saying, is it not? 'See a pin and pick it up, all the day you'll have good luck.' Me, I have had good luck, I have found the murderer.”
He turned to the secretary.
”You see?” he said gently. ”You betrayed yourself.”
Suddenly Trefusis broke down. He sank into a chair sobbing, his face buried in his hands.
”I was mad,” he groaned. ”I was mad. But, oh, my G.o.d, he badgered and bullied me beyond bearing. For years I had hated and loathed him.”
”I knew!” cried Lady Astwell.
She sprang forward, her face irradiated with savage triumph.
”I knew that man had done it.”
She stood there, savage and triumphant.
”And you were right,” said Poirot. ”One may call things by different names, but the fact remains. Your 'intuition,' Lady Astwell, proved correct. I felicitate you.”
FOUR-AND-TWENTY BLACKBIRDS.
Hercule Poirot was dining with his friend, Henry Bonnington at the Gallant Endeavour in the King's Road, Chelsea.
Mr Bonnington was fond of the Gallant Endeavour. He liked the leisurely atmosphere, he liked the food which was 'plain' and 'English' and 'not a lot of made up messes.' He liked to tell people who dined with him there just exactly where Augustus John had been wont to sit and draw the attention to the famous artists' names in the visitors' book. Mr Bonnington was himself the least artistic of men - but he took a certain pride in the artistic activities of others.
Molly, the sympathetic waitress, greeted Mr Bonnington as an old friend. She prided herself on remembering her customers' likes and dislikes in the way of food.
'Good evening, sir,' she said, as the two men took their seats at a corner table. 'You're in luck today - turkey stuffed with chestnuts - that's your favourite, isn't it? And ever such a nice Stilton we've got! Will you have soup first or fish?'
Mr Bonnington deliberated the point. He said to Poirot warningly as the latter studied the menu: 'None of your French kickshaws now. Good well-cooked English food.'
'My friend,' Hercule Poirot waved his hand, 'I ask no better! I put myself in your hands unreservedly.'
'Ah - hm - er - hm,' replied Mr Bonnington and gave careful attention to the matter.
These weighty matters, and the question of wine, settled, Mr Bonnington leaned back with a sigh and unfolded his napkin as Molly sped away.
'Good girl, that,' he said approvingly. 'Was quite a beauty once - artists used to paint her. She knows about food, too and that's a great deal more important. Women are very unsound on food as a rule. There's many a woman if she goes out with a fellow she fancies, won't even notice what she eats. She'll just order the first thing she sees.'
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