The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

Chapter Seven
"Why do you say that?"

He did not answer that question. Instead he said briskly:

"Now to business. Who are the solicitors acting for Major Rich?"

She told him and he made a note of the address.

"Will you write a few words to them and give it to me? I shall want to make arrangements to see Major Rich."

"He - it's been remanded for a week."

"Naturally. That is the procedure. Will you also write a note to Commander McLaren and to your friends the Spences? I shall want to see all of them, and it is essential that they do not at once show me the door."

When she rose from the writing desk, he said:

"One thing more. I shall register my own impressions, but I also want yours - of Commander McLaren and of Mr. and Mrs. Spence."

"Jock is one of our oldest friends. I've known him ever since I was a child. He appears to be quite a dour person, but he's really a dear - always the same - always to be relied upon. He's not gay and amusing but he's a tower of strength - both Arnold and I relied on his judgement a lot."

"And he, also, is doubtless in love with you?" Poirot's eyes twinkled slightly.

"Oh yes," said Margharita happily. "He's always been in love with me - but by now it's become a kind of habit."

"And the Spences?"

"They're amusing - and very good company. Linda Spence is really rather a clever girl. Arnold enjoyed talking with her. She's attractive, too."

"You are friends?"

"She and I? In a way. I don't know that I really like her. She's too malicious."

"And her husband?"

"Oh, Jeremy is delightful. Very musical. Knows a good deal about pictures, too. He and I go to picture shows a good deal together."

"Ah, well, I shall see for myself." He took her hand in his, "I hope, madame, you will not regret asking for my help."

"Why should I regret it?" Her eyes opened wide.

"One never knows," said Poirot cryptically.

"And I - I do not know," he said to himself, as he went down the stairs. The cocktail party was still in full spate, but he avoided being captured and reached the street.

"No," he repeated. "I do not know."

It was of Margharita Clayton he was thinking. That apparently childlike candor, that frank innocence - was it just that? Or did it mask something else? There had been women like that in medieval days - women on whom history had not been able to agree.

He thought of Mary Stuart, the Scottish Queen. Had she known, that night in Kirk o'Fields, of the deed that was to be done? Or was she completely innocent? Had the conspirators told her nothing? Was she one of those childlike simple women who can say to themselves "I do not know" and believe it? He felt the spell of Margharita Clayton. But he was not entirely sure about her...

Such women could be, though innocent themselves, the cause of crimes.

Such women could be, in intent and design, criminals themselves, though not in action.

Theirs was never the hand that held the knife - as to Margharita Clayton - no - he did not know!

Hercule Poirot did not find Major Rich's solicitors very helpful. He had not expected to do so.

They managed to indicate, though without saying so, that it would be in their client's best interest if Mrs. Clayton showed no sign of activity on his behalf.

His visit to them was in the interests of "correctness." He had enough pull with the Home Office and the CID to arrange his interview with the prisoner.

Inspector Miller, who was in charge of the Clayton case, was not one of Poirot's favorites. He was not, however, hostile on this occasion, merely contemptuous.

"Can't waste much time over the old dodderer," he had said to his assisting sergeant before Poirot was shown in. "Still, I'll have to be polite."

"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 aquitted 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 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 Scot- land. 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 noticed 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 the 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."

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 mightn'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 hellcat 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 had only 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.

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 makeup 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 boyfriend 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 like to you 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, has 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 candor of his wife. He was clearly disliking very much being mixed up in the case at all, and his remarks were carefully noninformative. 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 afraid," said Poirot, "that you do not like these questions?"

"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!

"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.

"They've got to find a motive for this ridiculous accusation. They'll try to bring that there was an - association between Mrs. Clayton and myself. That, as I know Mrs. Clayton will have told you, is quite untrue. We are friends, nothing more. But surely it is advisable that she should make no move on my behalf."

Hercule Poirot ignored the point. Instead he picked out a word.

"You said this 'ridiculous' accusation. But it is not that, you know."

"I did not kill Arnold Clayton."

"Call it then a false accusation. Say the accusation is not true. But it is not ridiculous. On the contrary, it is highly plausible. You must know that very well."

"I can only tell you that to me it seems fantastic."

"Saying that will be of very little use to you. We must think of something more useful than that."

"I am represented by solicitors. They have briefed, I understand, eminent counsel to appear for my defence. I cannot accept your use of the word 'we.'"

Unexpectedly Poirot smiled.

"Ah," he said, in his most foreign manner, "that is the flea in the ear you give me. Very well. I go. I wanted to see you. I have seen you. Already I have looked up your career. You passed high up into Sandhurst. You passed into the Staff College. And so on and so on. I have made my own judgement of you today. You are not a stupid man."

"And what has all that got to do with it?"

"Everything! It is impossible that a man of your ability should commit a murder in the way this one was committed. Very well. You are innocent. Tell me now about your manservant Burgess."

"Burgess?"

"Yes. If you didn't kill Clayton, Burgess must have done so. The conclusion seems inescapable. But why? There must be a 'why?' You are the only person who knows Burgess well enough to make a guess at it. Why, Major Rich, why?"

"I can't imagine. I simply can't see it. Oh, I've followed the same line of reasoning as you have. Yes, Burgess had opportunity - the only person who had except myself. The trouble is, I just can't believe it. Burgess is not the sort of man you can imagine murdering anybody."

"What do your legal advisers think?"

Rich's lips set in a grim line.

"My legal advisers spend their time asking me, in a persuasive way, if it isn't true that I have suffered all my life from blackouts when I don't really know what I am doing!"

"As bad as that," said Poirot. "Well, perhaps we shall find it is Burgess who is subject to blackouts. It is always an idea. The weapon now. They showed it to you and asked you if it was yours?"

"It was not mine. I had never seen it before."

"It was not yours, no. But are you quite sure you had never seen it before?"

"No." Was there a faint hesitation. "It's a kind of ornamental toy - really - one sees things like that lying about in people's houses."

"In a woman's drawing room, perhaps. Perhaps in Mrs. Clayton's drawing room?"

"Certainly not!"

The last word came out loudly and the warder looked up.

"Tres bien. Certainly not - and there is no need to shout. But somewhere, at some time, you have seen something very like it. Eh? I am right?"

"I do not think so. In some curio shop... perhaps."

"Ah, very likely." Poirot rose. "I take my leave."

"And now," said Hercule Poirot, "for Burgess. Yes, at long last, for Burgess."

He had learned something about the people in the case, from themselves and from each other. But nobody had given him any knowledge of Burgess. No clue, no hint, of what kind of a man he was.

When he saw Burgess he realized why.

The valet was waiting for him at Major Rich's flat, apprised of his arrival by a telephone call from Commander McLaren.

"I am M. Hercule Poirot."

"Yes, sir, I was expecting you."

Burgess held back the door with a deferential hand and Poirot entered. A small square entrance hall, a door on the left, open, leading into the sitting room. Burgess relieved Poirot of his hat and coat, and followed him into the sitting room.

"Ah," said Poirot looking round. "It was here, then, that it happened?"

"Yes, sir."

A quiet fellow, Burgess, white-faced, a little weedy. Awkward shoulders and elbows. A flat voice with a provincial accent that Poirot did not know. From the east coast, perhaps. Rather a nervous man, perhaps - but otherwise no definite characteristics. It was hard to associate him with positive action of any kind. Could one postulate a negative killer?

He had those pale blue, rather shifty eyes that observant people often equate with dishonesty. Yet a liar can look you in the face with a bold and confident eye.

"What is happening to the flat?" Poirot inquired.

"I'm still looking after it, sir. Major Rich arranged for my pay and to keep it nice until - until -"

The eyes shifted uncomfortably.

"Until -" agreed Poirot.

He added in a matter-of-fact manner: "I should say that Major Rich will almost certainly be committed for trial. The case will come up probably within three months."

Burgess shook his head, not in denial, simply in perplexity.

"It really doesn't seem possible," he said.

"That Major Rich should be a murderer?"

"The whole thing. That chest -"

His eyes went across the room.

"Ah, so that is the famous chest?"

It was a mammoth piece of furniture of very dark polished wood, studded with brass, with a great brass hasp and antique lock.

"A handsome affair." Poirot went over to it.

It stood against the wall near the window, next to a modern cabinet for holding records. On the other side of it was a door, half ajar. The door was partly masked by a big painted leather screen.

"That leads into Major Rich's bedroom," said Burgess.

Poirot nodded. His eyes traveled to the other side of the room. There were two stereophonic record players, each on a low table, trailing snake-like electrical cord. There were easy chairs - a big table. On the walls were a set of Japanese prints. It was a handsome room, comfortable, but not luxurious.

He looked back at William Burgess.

"The discovery," he said kindly, "must have been a great shock to you."

"Oh it was, sir. I'll never forget it." The valet rushed into speech. Words poured from him. He felt, perhaps, that by telling the story often enough, he might at last expunge it from his mind.

"I'd gone round the room, sir. Clearing up. Glasses and so on. I'd just stooped to pick up a couple of olives off the floor - and I saw it - on the rug, a rusty dark stain. No, the rug's gone now. To the cleaners. The police had done with it. Whatever's that? I thought. Saying to myself, almost in joke like: 'Really it might be blood! But where does it come from? What got spilled?' And then I saw it was from the chest - down the side, here, where there's a crack. And I said, still not thinking anything, 'Well whatever -?' And I lifted up the lid like this -" (he suited the action to the word) "and there it was the body of a man lying on his side doubled up - like he might be asleep. And that nasty foreign knife or dagger thing sticking up out of his neck. I'll never forget it - never! Not as long as I live! The shock - not expecting it, you understand..."

He breathed deeply.

"I let the lid fall and I ran out of the flat and down to the street. Looking for a policeman - and lucky, I found one - just round the corner."

Poirot regarded him reflectively. The performance, if it was a performance, was very good. He began to be afraid that it was not a performance - that it was just how things had happened.

"You did not think of awakening first Major Rich?" he asked.

"It never occurred to me, sir. What with the shock, I - I just wanted to get out of here -" he swallowed - "and - and get help."

Poirot nodded.

"Did you realize that it was Mr. Clayton?" he asked.

"I ought to have, sir, but you know, I don't believe I did. Of course, as soon as I got back with the police officer, I said 'Why, it's Mr. Clayton!' And he says 'Who's Mr. Clayton?' And I says: 'He was here last night.'"

"Ah," said Poirot, "last night. Do you remember exactly when it was Mr. Clayton arrived here?"

"Not to the minute. But as near as not a quarter to eight, I'd say."

"You knew him well?"

"He and Mrs. Clayton had been here quite frequently during the year and a half I've been employed here."

"Did he seem quite as usual?"

"I think so. A little out of breath - but I took it he'd been hurrying. He was catching a train, or so he said."

"He had a bag with him, I suppose, as he was going to Scotland?"

"No, sir. I imagine he was keeping a taxi down below."

"Was he disappointed to find that Major Rich was out?"

"Not to notice. Just said he'd scribble a note. He came in here and went over to the desk and I went back to the kitchen. I was a little behindhand with the anchovy eggs. The kitchen's at the end of the passage and you don't hear very well from there. I didn't hear him go out or the master come in - but then I wouldn't expect to."

"And the next thing -"

"Major Rich called me. He was standing in the door here. He said he'd forgotten Mrs. Spence's Turkish cigarettes. I was to hurry out and get them. So I did. I brought them back and put them on the table in here. Of course I took it that Mr. Clayton had left by then to get his train."

"And nobody else came to the flat during the time Major Rich was out and you were in the kitchen?"

"No, sir - no one."

"Can you be sure of that?"

"How could anyone, sir? They'd have had to ring the bell."

Poirot shook his head. How could anyone? The Spences and McLaren and also Mrs. Clayton could, he already knew, account for every minute of their time. McLaren had been with acquaintances at the club, the Spences had had a couple of friends in for a drink before starting. Margharita Clayton had talked to a friend on the telephone at just that period. Not that he thought of any of them as possibilities. There would have been better ways of killing Arnold Clayton than following him to a flat with a manservant there and the host returning any moment. No, he had had a last minute hope of a "mysterious stranger"! Someone out of Clayton's apparently impeccable past, recognizing him in the street, following him here. Attacking him with the stiletto, thrusting the body into the chest, and fleeing. Pure melodrama, unrelated to reason or to probabilities! In tune with romantic historical fictions - matching the Spanish chest.

He went back across the room to the chest. He raised the lid. It came up easily, noiselessly. In a faint voice, Burgess said: "It's been scrubbed out, sir, I saw to that."

Poirot bent over it. With a faint exclamation he bent lower. He explored with his fingers.

"These holes - at the back and one side - they look - they feel, as though they had been made quite recently."

"Holes, sir?" The valet bent to see. "I really couldn't say. I've never noticed them particularly."

"They are not very obvious. But they are there. What is their purpose, would you say?"

"I really wouldn't know, sir. Some animal, perhaps - I mean a beetle, something of that kind. Something that gnaws wood?"

"Some animal?" said Poirot. "I wonder."

He stepped back across the room.

"When you came in here with the cigarettes, was there anything at all about this room that looked different? Anything at all? Chairs moved, table, something of that kind?"

"It's odd your saying that, sir... Now you come to mention it, there was. That screen there that cuts off the draft from the bedroom door, it was moved over a bit more to the left."

"Like this?" Poirot moved swiftly.

"A little more still... That's right."

The screen had already masked about half of the chest. The way it was now arranged, it almost hid the chest altogether.

"Why did you think it had been moved?"

"I didn't think, sir."