Hercule Poirot - Christie Agatha (лучшие книги без регистрации TXT) 📗

Superintendent Sugden held up a large official hand. He said authoritatively:

‘Will everybody kindly leave the room except Mr Lee and-er-Mr George Lee?…’

They moved slowly towards the door, reluctantly, like sheep. Superintendent Sugden intercepted Pilar suddenly.

‘Excuse me, miss,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Nothing must be touched or disturbed.’

She stared at him. Stephen Farr said impatiently:

‘Of course not. She understands that.’

Superintendent Sugden said, still in the same pleasant manner: ‘You picked up something from the floor just now?’

Pilar’s eyes opened. She stared and said incredulously: ‘Idid?’

Superintendent Sugden was still pleasant. His voice was just a little firmer.

‘Yes, I saw you…’

‘Oh!’

‘So please give it to me. It’s in your hand now.’

Slowly Pilar unclosed her hand. There lay in it a wisp of rubber and a small object made of wood. Superintendent Sugden took them, enclosed them in an envelope and put them away in his breast pocket. He said: ‘Thank you.’

He turned away. Just for a minute Stephen Farr’s eyes showed a startled respect. It was as though he had underestimated the large handsome superintendent.

They went slowly out of the room. Behind them they heard the superintendent’s voice saying officially:

‘And now, if you please…’

‘Nothing like a wood fire,’ said Colonel Johnson as he threw on an additional log and then drew his chair nearer to the blaze. ‘Help yourself,’ he added, hospitably calling attention to the tantalus and siphon that stood near his guest’s elbow.

The guest raised a polite hand in negation. Cautiously he edged his own chair nearer to the blazing logs, though he was of the opinion that the opportunity for roasting the soles of one’s feet (like some mediaeval torture) did not offset the cold draught that swirled round the back of the shoulders.

Colonel Johnson, Chief Constable of Middleshire, might be of the opinion that nothing could beat a wood fire, but Hercule Poirot was of the opinion that central heating could and did every time!

‘Amazing business that Cartwright case,’ remarked the host reminiscently. ‘Amazing man! Enormous charm of manner. Why, when he came here with you, he had us all eating out of his hand.’

He shook his head.

‘We’ll never have anything like that case!’ he said. ‘Nicotine poisoning is rare, fortunately.’

‘There was a time when you would have considered all poisoning unEnglish,’ suggested Hercule Poirot. ‘A device of foreigners! Unsportsmanlike!’

‘I hardly think we could say that,’ said the chief constable. ‘Plenty of poisoning by arsenic-probably a good deal more than has ever been suspected.’

‘Possibly, yes.’

‘Always an awkward business, a poisoning case,’ said Johnson. ‘Conflicting testimony of the experts-then doctors are usually so extremely cautious in what they say. Always a difficult case to take to a jury. No, if onemust have murder (which heaven forbid!) give me a straightforward case. Something where there’s no ambiguity about the cause of death.’

Poirot nodded.

‘The bullet wound, the cut throat, the crushed-in skull? It is there your preference lies?’

‘Oh, don’t call it a preference, my dear fellow. Don’t harbour the idea that Ilike murder cases! Hope I never have another. Anyway, we ought to be safe enough during your visit.’

Poirot began modestly: 

‘My reputation-’

But Johnson had gone on.

‘Christmas time,’ he said. ‘Peace, goodwill-and all that kind of thing. Goodwill all round.’

Hercule Poirot leaned back in his chair. He joined his fingertips. He studied his host thoughtfully.

He murmured: ‘It is, then, your opinion that Christmas time is an unlikely season for crime?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Johnson was thrown slightly out of his stride. ‘Well, as I’ve just said-season of good cheer, and all that!’

Hercule Poirot murmured:

‘The British, they are so sentimental!’

Johnson said stoutly: ‘What if we are? What if we do like the old ways, the old traditional festivities? What’s the harm?’

‘There is no harm. It is all most charming! But let us for a moment examinefacts. You have said that Christmas is a season of good cheer. That means, does it not, a lot of eating and drinking? It means, in fact, theover eating! And with the overeating there comes the indigestion! And with the indigestion there comes the irritability!’

‘Crimes,’ said Colonel Johnson, ‘are not committed from irritability.’ 

‘I am not so sure! Take another point. There is, at Christmas, a spirit of goodwill. It is, as you say, “the thing to do”. Old quarrels are patched up, those who have disagreed consent to agree once more, even if it is only temporarily.’

Johnson nodded.

‘Bury the hatchet, that’s right.’

Poirot pursued his theme:

‘And families now, families who have been separated throughout the year, assemble once more together. Now under these conditions, my friend, you must admit that there will occur a great amount ofstrain. People who do notfeel amiable are putting great pressure on themselves toappear amiable! There is at Christmas time a great deal ofhypocrisy, honourable hypocrisy, hypocrisy undertakenpour le bon motif, c’est entendu, but nevertheless hypocrisy!’

‘Well, I shouldn’t put it quite like that myself,’ said Colonel Johnson doubtfully.

Poirot beamed upon him.

‘No, no. It isI who am putting it like that, notyou. Iam pointing out to you that under these conditions-mental strain, physicalmalaise -it is highly probable that dislikes that were before merely mild and disagreements that were trivial might suddenly assume a more serious character. The result of pretending to be a more amiable, a more forgiving, a more high-minded person than one really is, has sooner or later the effect of causing one to behave as a more disagreeable, a more ruthless and an altogether more unpleasant person than is actually the case! If you dam the stream of natural behaviour,mon ami, sooner or later the dam bursts and a cataclysm occurs!’

Colonel Johnson looked at him doubtfully.

‘Never know when you’re serious and when you’re pulling my leg,’ he grumbled.

Poirot smiled at him.

‘I am not serious! Not in the least am I serious! But all the same, it is true what I say-artificial conditions bring about their natural reaction.’

Colonel Johnson’s manservant entered the room.

‘Superintendent Sugden on the phone, sir.’

‘Right. I’ll come.’

With a word of apology the chief constable left the room.

He returned some three minutes later. His face was grave and perturbed.

‘Damn it all!’ he said. ‘Case of murder! On Christmas Eve, too!’

Poirot’s eyebrows rose.

‘It is that definitely-murder, I mean?’

‘Eh? Oh, no other solution possible! Perfectly clear case. Murder-and a brutal murder at that!’

‘Who is the victim?’ 

‘Old Simeon Lee. One of the richest men we’ve got! Made his money in South Africa originally. Gold-no, diamonds, I believe. He sunk an immense fortune in manufacturing some particular gadget of mining machinery. His own invention, I believe. Anyway, it’s paid him hand over fist! They say he’s a millionaire twice over.’

Poirot said: ‘He was well liked, yes?’

Johnson said slowly:

‘Don’t think anyone liked him. Queer sort of chap. He’s been an invalid for some years now. I don’t know very much about him myself. But of course he is one of the big figures of the county.’

‘So this case, it will make a big stir?’

‘Yes. I must get over to Longdale as fast as I can.’

He hesitated, looking at his guest. Poirot answered the unspoken question:

‘You would like that I should accompany you?’

Johnson said awkwardly:

‘Seems a shame to ask you. But, well, you know how it is! Superintendent Sugden is a good man, none better, painstaking, careful, thoroughly sound-but-well, he’s not animaginative chap in any way. Should like very much, as you are here, benefit of your advice.’

He halted a little over the end part of his speech, making it somewhat telegraphic in style. Poirot responded quickly. 

‘I shall be delighted. You can count on me to assist you in any way I can. We must not hurt the feelings of the good superintendent. It will be his case-not mine. Iam only the unofficial consultant.’

Colonel Johnson said warmly:

‘You’re a good fellow, Poirot.’

With those words of commendation, the two men started out.

It was a constable who opened the front door to them and saluted. Behind him, Superintendent Sugden advanced down the hall and said:

‘Glad you’ve got here, sir. Shall we come into this room here on the left-Mr Lee’s study? I’d like to run over the main outlines. The whole thing’s a rum business.’

He ushered them into a small room on the left of the hall. There was a telephone there and a big desk covered with papers. The walls were lined with bookcases.

The chief constable said: ‘Sugden, this is M. Hercule Poirot. You may have heard of him. Just happened to be staying with me. Superintendent Sugden.’

Poirot made a little bow and looked the other man over. He saw a tall man with square shoulders and amilitary bearing who had an aquiline nose, a pugnacious jaw and a large flourishing chestnut-coloured moustache. Sugden stared hard at Hercule Poirot after acknowledging the introduction. Hercule Poirot stared hard at Superintendent Sugden’s moustache. Its luxuriance seemed to fascinate him.

The superintendent said:

‘Of course I have heard of you, Mr Poirot. You were in this part of the world some years ago, if I remember rightly. Death of Sir Bartholomew Strange. Poisoning case. Nicotine. Not my district, but of course I heard all about it.’

Colonel Johnson said impatiently:

‘Now, then, Sugden, let’s have the facts. A clear case, you said.’

‘Yes, sir, it’s murder right enough-not a doubt of that. Mr Lee’s throat was cut-jugular vein severed, I understand from the doctor. But there’s something very odd about the whole matter.’