The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding by Agatha Christie
‘You’ll really have to pull some rabbits out of a hat if you’re going to do anything with this one, M. Poirot,’ he remarked cheerfully. ‘Nobody else but Rich could have killed the bloke.’
‘Except the valet.’
‘Oh, I’ll give you the valet! As a possibility, that is. But you won’t find anything there. No motives whatever.’
‘You cannot be entirely sure of that. Motives are very curious things.’
‘Well, he wasn’t acquainted with Clayton in any way. He’s got a perfectly innocuous past. And he seems to be perfectly right in his head. I don’t know what more you want?’
‘I want to find out that Rich did not commit the crime.’
‘To please the lady, eh?’ Inspector Miller grinned wickedly. ‘She’s been getting at you, I suppose. Quite something, isn’t she? Cherchez la femme with a vengeance. If she’d had the opportunity, you know, she might have done it herself.’
‘That, no!’
‘You’d be surprised. I once knew a woman like that. Put a couple of husbands out of the way without a blink of her innocent blue eyes. Broken-hearted each time, too. The jury would have acquitted her if they’d had half a chance – which they hadn’t, the evidence being practically cast iron.’
‘Well, my friend, let us not argue. What I make so bold as to ask is a few reliable details on the facts. What a newspaper prints is news – but not always truth!’
‘They have to enjoy themselves. What do you want?’
‘Time of death as near as can be.’
‘Which can’t be very near because the body wasn’t examined until the following morning. Death is estimated to have taken place from thirteen to ten hours previously. That is, between seven and ten o’clock the night before . . . He was stabbed through the jugular vein – Death must have been a matter of moments.’
‘And the weapon?’
‘A kind of Italian stiletto – quite small – razor sharp. Nobody has ever seen it before, or knows where it comes from. But we shall know – in the end . . . It’s a matter of time and patience.’
‘It could not have been picked up in the course of a quarrel.’
‘No. The valet says no such thing was in the flat.’
‘What interests me is the telegram,’ said Poirot. ‘The telegram that called Arnold Clayton away to Scotland . . . Was that summons genuine?’
‘No. There was no hitch or trouble up there. The land transfer, or whatever it was, was proceeding normally.’
‘Then who sent that telegram – I am presuming there was a telegram?’
‘There must have been . . . Not that we’d necessarily believe Mrs Clayton. But Clayton told the valet he was called by wire to Scotland. And he also told Commander McLaren.’
‘What time did he see Commander McLaren?’
‘They had a snack together at their club – Combined Services – that was at about a quarter past seven. Then Clayton took a taxi to Rich’s flat, arriving there just before eight o’clock. After that –’ Miller spread his hands out.
‘Anybody notice anything at all odd about Rich’s manner that evening?’
‘Oh well, you know what people are. Once a thing has happened, people think they noticed a lot of things I bet they never saw at all. Mrs Spence, now, she says he was distrait all the evening. Didn’t always answer to the point. As though he had “something on his mind”. I bet he had, too, if he had a body in the chest! Wondering how the hell to get rid of it!’
‘Why didn’t he get rid of it?’
‘Beats me. Lost his nerve, perhaps. But it was madness to leave it until next day. He had the best chance he’d ever have that night. There’s no night porter on. He could have got his car round – packed the body in the boot – it’s a big boot – driven out in the country and parked it somewhere. He might have been seen getting the body into the car, but the flats are in a side street and there’s a courtyard you drive a car through. At, say, three in the morning, he had a reasonable chance. And what does he do? Goes to bed, sleeps late the next morning and wakes up to find the police in the flat!’
‘He went to bed and slept well as an innocent man might do.’
‘Have it that way if you like. But do you really believe that yourself ?’
‘I shall have to leave that question until I have seen the man myself.’
‘Think you know an innocent man when you see one? It’s not so easy as that.’
‘I know it is not easy – and I should not attempt to say I could do it. What I want to make up my mind about is whether the man is as stupid as he seems to be.’
IV
Poirot had no intention of seeing Charles Rich until he had seen everyone else.
He started with Commander McLaren.
McLaren was a tall, swarthy, uncommunicative man. He had a rugged but pleasant face. He was a shy man and not easy to talk to. But Poirot persevered.
Fingering Margharita’s note, McLaren said almost reluctantly:
‘Well, if Margharita wants me to tell you all I can, of course I’ll do so. Don’t know what there is to tell, though. You’ve heard it all already. But whatever Margharita wants – I’ve always done what she wanted – ever since she was sixteen. She’s got a way with her, you know.’
‘I know,’ said Poirot. He went on: ‘First I should like you to answer a question quite frankly. Do you think Major Rich is guilty?’
‘Yes, I do. I wouldn’t say so to Margharita if she wants to think he’s innocent, but I simply can’t see it any other way. Hang it all, the fellow’s got to be guilty.’
‘Was there bad feeling between him and Mr Clayton?’
‘Not in the least. Arnold and Charles were the best of friends. That’s what makes the whole thing so extraordinary.’
‘Perhaps Major Rich’s friendship with Mrs Clayton –’
He was interrupted. ‘Faugh! All that stuff. All the papers slyly hinting at it . . . Damned innuendoes! Mrs Clayton and Rich were good friends and that’s all! Margharita’s got lots of friends. I’m her friend. Been one for years. And nothing the whole world mighn’t know about it. Same with Charles and Margharita.’
‘You do not then consider that they were having an affair together?’
‘Certainly NOT !’ McLaren was wrathful. ‘Don’t go listening to that hell-cat Spence woman. She’d say anything.’
‘But perhaps Mr Clayton suspected there might be something between his wife and Major Rich.’
‘You can take it from me he did nothing of the sort! I’d have known if so. Arnold and I were very close.’
‘What sort of man was he? You, if anyone, should know.’
‘Well, Arnold was a quiet sort of chap. But he was clever – quite brilliant, I believe. What they call a first-class financial brain. He was quite high up in the Treasury, you know.’
‘So I have heard.’
‘He read a good deal. And he collected stamps. And he was extremely fond of music. He didn’t dance, or care much for going out.’
‘Was it, do you think, a happy marriage?’
Commander McLaren’s answer did not come quickly. He seemed to be puzzling it out.
‘That sort of thing’s very hard to say . . . Yes, I think they were happy. He was devoted to her in his quiet way. I’m sure she was fond of him. They weren’t likely to split up, if that’s what you’re thinking. They hadn’t, perhaps, a lot in common.’
Poirot nodded. It was as much as he was likely to get. He said: ‘Now tell me about that last evening. Mr Clayton dined with you at the club. What did he say?’
‘Told me he’d got to go to Scotland. Seemed vexed about it. We didn’t have dinner, by the way. No time. Just sandwiches and a drink. For him, that is. I only had the drink. I was going out to a buffet supper, remember.’
‘Mr Clayton mentioned a telegram?’
‘Yes.’
‘He did not actually show you the telegram?’
‘No.’
‘Did he say he was going to call on Rich?
‘Not definitely. In fact he said he doubted if he’d have time. He said “Margharita can explain or you can.” And then he said: “See she gets home all right, won’t you?” Then he went off. It was all quite natural and easy.’
‘He had no suspicion at all that the telegram wasn’t genuine?’
‘Wasn’t it?’ Commander McLaren looked startled.
‘Apparently not.’
‘How very odd . . .’ Commander McLaren went into a kind of coma, emerging suddenly to say:
‘But that really is odd. I mean, what’s the point? Why should anybody want him to go to Scotland?’
‘It is a question that needs answering, certainly.’
Hercule Poirot left, leaving the commander apparently still puzzling on the matter.
V
The Spences lived in a minute house in Chelsea.
Linda Spence received Poirot with the utmost delight. ‘Do tell me,’ she said. ‘Tell me all about Margharita! Where is she?’
‘That I am not at liberty to state, Madame.’
‘She has hidden herself well! Margharita is very clever at that sort of thing. But she’ll be called to give evidence at the trial, I suppose? She can’t wiggle herself out of that.’
Poirot looked at her appraisingly. He decided grudgingly that she was attractive in the modern style (which at that moment resembled an underfed orphan child). It was not a type he admired. The artistically disordered hair fluffed out round her head, a pair of shrewd eyes watched him from a slightly dirty face devoid of make-up save for a vivid cerise mouth. She wore an enormous pale-yellow sweater hanging almost to her knees, and tight black trousers.
‘What’s your part in all this?’ demanded Mrs Spence. ‘Get the boy-friend out of it somehow? Is that it? What a hope!’
‘You think then, that he is guilty?’
‘Of course. Who else?’
That, Poirot thought, was very much the question. He parried it by asking another question.
‘What did Major Rich seem to you like on that fatal evening? As usual? Or not as usual?’
Linda Spence screwed up her eyes judicially.
‘No, he wasn’t himself. He was – different.’
‘How, different?’
‘Well, surely, if you’ve just stabbed a man in cold blood –’
‘But you were not aware at the time that he had just stabbed a man in cold blood, were you?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘So how did you account for his being “different”? In what way?’
‘Well – distrait. Oh, I don’t know. But thinking it over afterwards I decided that there had definitely been something.’
Poirot sighed.
‘Who arrived first?’
‘We did, Jim and I. And then Jock. And finally Margharita.’
‘When was Mr Clayton’s departure for Scotland first mentioned?’
‘When Margharita came. She said to Charles: “Arnold’s terribly sorry. He’s had to rush off to Edinburgh by the night train.” And Charles said: “Oh, that’s too bad.” And then Jock said: “Sorry. Thought you already knew.” And then we had drinks.’
‘Major Rich at no time mentioned seeing Mr Clayton that evening? He said nothing of his having called in on his way to the station?’
‘Not that I heard.’
‘It was strange, was it not,’ said Poirot, ‘about that telegram?’
‘What was strange?’
‘It was a fake. Nobody in Edinburgh knows anything about it.’
‘So that’s it. I wondered at the time.’
‘You have an idea about the telegram?’
‘I should say it rather leaps to the eye.’
‘How do you mean exactly?’
‘My dear man,’ said Linda. ‘Don’t play the innocent. Unknown hoaxer gets the husband out of the way! For that night, at all events, the coast is clear.’
‘You mean that Major Rich and Mrs Clayton planned to spend the night together.’
‘You have heard of such things, haven’t you?’ Linda looked amused.
‘And the telegram was sent by one or the other of them?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘Major Rich and Mrs Clayton were having an affair together you think?’
‘Let’s say I shouldn’t be surprised if they were. I don’t know it for a fact.’
‘Did Mr Clayton suspect?’
‘Arnold was an extraordinary person. He was all bottled up, if you know what I mean. I think he did know. But he was the kind of man who would never have let on. Anyone would think he was a dry stick with no feelings at all. But I’m pretty sure he wasn’t like that underneath. The queer thing is that I should have been much less surprised if Arnold had stabbed Charles than the other way about. I’ve an idea Arnold was really an insanely jealous person.’
‘That is interesting.’
‘Though it’s more likely, really, that he’d have done in Margharita. Othello – that sort of thing. Margharita, you know, had an extraordinary effect on men.’
‘She is a good-looking woman,’ said Poirot with judicious understatement.
‘It was more than that. She had something. She would get men all het up – mad about her – and turn round and look at them with a sort of wide-eyed surprise that drove them barmy.’
‘Une femme fatale.’
‘That’s probably the foreign name for it.’
‘You know her well?’
‘My dear, she’s one of my best friends – and I wouldn’t trust her an inch!’
‘Ah,’ said Poirot and shifted the subject to Commander McLaren.
‘Jock? Old faithful? He’s a pet. Born to be the friend of the family. He and Arnold were really close friends. I think Arnold unbent to him more than to anyone else. And of course he was Margharita’s tame cat. He’d been devoted to her for years.’
‘And was Mr Clayton jealous of him, too?’
‘Jealous of Jock? What an idea! Margharita’s genuinely fond of Jock, but she’s never given him a thought of that kind. I don’t think, really, that one ever would . . . I don’t know why . . . It seems a shame. He’s so nice.’
Poirot switched to consideration of the valet. But beyond saying vaguely that he mixed a very good side car, Linda Spence seemed to have no ideas about Burgess, and indeed seemed barely to have noticed him.
But she was quite quick in the uptake.
‘You’re thinking, I suppose, that he could have killed Arnold just as easily as Charles could? It seems to me madly unlikely.’
‘That remark depresses me, Madame. But then, it seems to me (though you will probably not agree) that it is madly unlikely – not that Major Rich should kill Arnold Clayton – but that he should kill him in just the way he did.’
‘Stiletto stuff ? Yes, definitely not in character. More likely the blunt instrument. Or he might have strangled him, perhaps?’
Poirot sighed.
‘We are back at Othello. Yes, Othello . . . you have given me there a little idea . . .’
‘Have I? What –’ There was the sound of a latchkey and an opening door. ‘Oh, here’s Jeremy. Do you want to talk to him, too?’
Jeremy Spence was a pleasant-looking man of thirty-odd, well groomed, and almost ostentatiously discreet. Mrs Spence said that she had better go and have a look at a casserole in the kitchen and went off, leaving the two men together.
Jeremy Spence displayed none of the engaging candour of his wife. He was clearly disliking very much being mixed up in the case at all, and his remarks were carefully non-informative. They had known the Claytons some time, Rich not so well. Had seemed a pleasant fellow. As far as he could remember, Rich had seemed absolutely as usual on the evening in question. Clayton and Rich always seemed on good terms. The whole thing seemed quite unaccountable.
Throughout the conversation Jeremy Spence was making it clear that he expected Poirot to take his departure. He was civil, but only just so.
‘I am afrai
‘Well, we’ve had quite a session of this with the police. I rather feel that’s enough. We’ve told all we know or saw. Now – I’d like to forget it.’
‘You have my sympathy. It is most unpleasant to be mixed up in this. To be asked not only what you know or what you saw but perhaps even what you think?’
‘Best not to think.’
‘But can one avoid it? Do you think, for instance, that Mrs Clayton was in it, too. Did she plan the death of her husband with Rich?’
‘Good lord, no.’ Spence sounded shocked and dismayed. ‘I’d no idea that there was any question of such a thing?’
‘Has your wife not suggested such a possibility?’
‘Oh Linda! You know what women are – always got their knife into each other. Margharita never gets much of a show from her own sex – a darned sight too attractive. But surely this theory about Rich and Margharita planning murder – that’s fantastic!’
‘Such things have been known. The weapon, for instance. It is the kind of weapon a woman might possess, rather than a man.’
‘Do you mean the police have traced it to her – They can’t have! I mean –’
‘I know nothing,’ said Poirot truthfully, and escaped hastily.
From the consternation on Spence’s face, he judged that he had left that gentleman something to think about!
VI
‘You will forgive my saying, M. Poirot, that I cannot see how you can be of assistance to me in any way.’
Poirot did not answer. He was looking thoughtfully at the man who had been charged with the murder of his friend, Arnold Clayton.
He was looking at the firm jaw, the narrow head. A lean brown man, athletic and sinewy. Something of the greyhound about him. A man whose face gave nothing away, and who was receiving his visitor with a marked lack of cordiality.
‘I quite understand that Mrs Clayton sent you to see me with the best intentions. But quite frankly, I think she was unwise. Unwise both for her own sake and mine.’
‘You mean?’
Rich gave a nervous glance over his shoulder. But the attendant warder was the regulation distance away. Rich lowered his voice.