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

In the bright sun of Christmas noon, Poirot walked in the gardens of Gorston Hall. The Hall itself was a large solidly built house with no special architectural pretensions.

Here, on the south side, was a broad terrace flanked with a hedge of clipped yew. Little plants grew in the interstices of the stone flags and at intervals along the terrace there were stone sinks arranged as miniature gardens.

Poirot surveyed them with benign approval. He murmured to himself:

‘C’est bien imagine, c?a!’

In the distance he caught sight of two figures going towards an ornamental sheet of water some three hundred yards away. Pilar was easily recognizable as one of the figures, and he thought at first the other was Stephen Farr, then he saw that the man with Pilar was Harry Lee. Harry seemed very attentive to his attractive niece. At intervals he flung his head back and laughed, then bent once more attentively towards her.

‘Assuredly, there is one who does not mourn,’ Poirot murmured to himself.

A soft sound behind him made him turn. Magdalene Lee was standing there. She, too, was looking at the retreating figures of the man and girl. She turned her head and smiled enchantingly at Poirot. She said:

‘It’s such a glorious sunny day! One can hardly believe in all the horrors of last night, can one, M. Poirot?’

‘It is difficult, truly, madame.’

Magdalene sighed.

‘I’ve never been mixed up in tragedy before. I’ve-I’ve really only just grown up. I stayed a child too long, I think-That’s not a good thing to do.’

Again she sighed. She said:

‘Pilar, now, seems so extraordinarily self-possessed-I suppose it’s the Spanish blood. It’s all very odd, isn’t it?’

‘What is odd, madame?’

‘The way she turned up here, out of the blue!’

Poirot said:

‘I have learned that Mr Lee had been searching for her for some time. He had been in correspondence with the Consulate in Madrid and with the vice-consul at Aliquara, where her mother died.’

‘He was very secretive about it all,’ said Magdalene. ‘Alfred knew nothing about it. No more did Lydia.’

‘Ah!’ said Poirot.

Magdalene came a little nearer to him. He could smell the delicate perfume she used.

‘You know, M. Poirot, there’s some story connected with Jennifer’s husband, Estravados. He died quite soon after the marriage, and there’s some mystery about it. Alfred and Lydia know. I believe it was something-rather disgraceful…’

‘That,’ said Poirot, ‘is indeed sad.’

Magdalene said:

‘My husband feels-and I agree with him-that the family ought to have been told more about the girl’s antecedents. After all, if her father was acriminal -’

She paused, but Hercule Poirot said nothing. He seemed to be admiring such beauties of nature as could be seen in the winter season in the grounds of Gorston Hall.

Magdalene said:

‘I can’t help feeling that the manner of my father-in-law’s death was somehowsignificant. It-it was so veryunEnglish.’

Hercule Poirot turned slowly. His grave eyes met hers in innocent inquiry. 

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The Spanish touch, you think?’

‘Well, theyare cruel, aren’t they?’ Magdalene spoke with an effect of childish appeal. ‘All those bull fights and things!’

Hercule Poirot said pleasantly:

‘You are saying that in your opinion senorita Estravados cut her grandfather’s throat?’

‘Oh no, M. Poirot!’ Magdalene was vehement. She was shocked. ‘I never said anything of the kind! Indeed I didn’t!’

‘Well,’ said Poirot. ‘Perhaps you did not.’

‘But Ido think that she is-well, a suspicious person. The furtive way she picked up something from the floor of that room last night, for instance.’

A different note crept into Hercule Poirot’s voice. He said sharply:

‘She picked up something from the floor last night?’

Magdalene nodded. Her childish mouth curved spitefully.

‘Yes, as soon as we got into the room. She gave a quick glance round to see if anyone was looking, and then pounced on it. But the superintendent man saw her, I’m glad to say, and made her give it up.’

‘What was it that she picked up, do you know, madame?’

‘No. I wasn’t near enough to see.’ Magdalene’s voice held regret. ‘It was something quite small.’ 

Poirot frowned to himself.

‘It is interesting, that,’ he murmured to himself.

Magdalene said quickly:

‘Yes, I thought you ought to know about it. After all, we don’t knowanything about Pilar’s upbringing and what her life has been like. Alfred is always so suspicious and dear Lydia is so casual.’ Then she murmured: ‘Perhaps I’d better go and see if I can help Lydia in any way. There may be letters to write.’

She left him with a smile of satisfied malice on her lips.

Poirot remained lost in thought on the terrace.

To him there came Superintendent Sugden. The police superintendent looked gloomy. He said:

‘Good morning, Mr Poirot. Doesn’t seem quite the right thing to say Merry Christmas, does it?’

‘Mon cher collegue, I certainly do not observe any traces of merriment on your countenance. If you had said Merry Christmas I should not have replied “Many of them!” ’

‘I don’t want another one like this one, and that’s a fact,’ said Sugden.

‘You have made the progress, yes?’ 

‘I’ve checked up on a good many points. Horbury’s alibi is holding water all right. The commissionaire at the cinema saw him go in with the girl, and saw him come out with her at the end of the performance, and seems pretty positive he didn’t leave, and couldn’t have left and returned during the performance. The girl swears quite definitely he was with her in the cinema all the time.’

Poirot’s eyebrows rose.

‘I hardly see, then, what more there is to say.’

The cynical Sugden said:

‘Well, one never knows with girls! Lie themselves black in the face for the sake of a man.’

‘That does credit to their hearts,’ said Hercule Poirot.

Sugden growled.

‘That’s a foreign way of looking at it. It’s defeating the ends of justice.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘Justice is a very strange thing. Have you ever reflected on it?’

Sugden stared at him. He said:

‘You’re a queer one, Mr Poirot.’

‘Not at all. I follow a logical train of thought. But we will not enter into a dispute on the question. It is your belief, then, that this demoiselle from the milk shop is not speaking the truth?’

Sugden shook his head. 

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s not like that at all. As a matter of fact, I think sheis telling the truth. She’s a simple kind of girl, and I think if she was telling me a pack of lies I’d spot it.’

Poirot said:

‘You have the experience, yes?’

‘That’s just it, Mr Poirot. One does know, more or less, after a lifetime of taking down statements, when a person’s lying and when they’re not. No, I think the girl’s evidence is genuine, and if so, Horburycouldn’t have murdered old Mr Lee, and that brings us right back to the people in the house.’

He drew a deep breath.

‘One of ’em did it, Mr Poirot. One of ’em did it. Butwhich?’

‘You have no new data?’

‘Yes, I’ve had a certain amount of luck over the telephone calls. Mr George Lee put through a call to Westeringham at two minutes to nine. That call lasted under six minutes.’

‘Aha!’

‘As you say! Moreover,no other call was put through-to Westeringham or anywhere else.’

‘Very interesting,’ said Poirot, with approval. ‘M. George Lee says he has just finished telephoning when he hears the noise overhead-but actually he had finished telephoning nearlyten minutes before that. Where was he in those ten minutes? Mrs George Lee says thatshe was telephoning-but actually she never put through a call at all. Where wasshe?’

Sugden said:

‘I saw you talking to her, M. Poirot?’

His voice held a question, but Poirot replied:

‘You are in error!’

‘Eh?’

‘Iwas not talking toher -she was talking tome!’

‘Oh-’ Sugden seemed to be about to brush the distinction aside impatiently; then, as its significance sank in, he said:

‘Shewas talking toyou, you say?’

‘Most definitely. She came out here for that purpose.’

‘What did she have to say?’

‘She wished to stress certain points: the unEnglish character of the crime-the possibly undesirable antecedents of Miss Estravados on the paternal side-the fact that Miss Estravados had furtively picked up something from the floor last night.’

‘She told you that, did she?’ said Sugden with interest.

‘Yes. What was it that the senorita picked up?’

Sugden sighed.

‘I could give you three hundred guesses! I’ll show it to you. It’s the sort of thing that solves the whole mystery in detective stories! If you can make anything out of it, I’ll retire from the police force!’

‘Show it me.’

Sugden took an envelope from his pocket and tilted its contents on to the palm of his hand. A faint grin showed on his face.

‘There you are. What do you make of it?’

On the superintendent’s broad palm lay a little triangular piece of pink rubber and a small wooden peg.

His grin broadened as Poirot picked up the articles and frowned over them.

‘Make anything of them, Mr Poirot?’

‘This little piece of stuff might have been cut from a spongebag?’

‘It was. It comes from a spongebag in Mr Lee’s room. Somebody with sharp scissors just cut a small triangular piece out of it. Mr Lee may have done it himself, for all I know. But it beats mewhy he should do it. Horbury can’t throw any light on the matter. As for the peg, it’s about the size of a crib-bage peg, but they’re usually made of ivory. This is just rough wood-whittled out of a bit of deal, I should say.’

‘Most remarkable,’ murmured Poirot.

‘Keep ’em if you like,’ said Sugden kindly. ‘Idon’t want them.’

‘Mon ami, I would not deprive you of them!’ 

‘They don’t mean anything at all to you?’