Poirot Investigates Agatha Christie (fb2 epub reader .txt) đ
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- Author: Agatha Christie
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âYou see,â continued Poirot, as we walked briskly through the wind and rain, âthere was a little discrepancy. The doctor seemed to think the deceased was a Christian Scientist, and who could have given him that impression but Mrs. Maltravers? But to us she represented him as being in a grave state of apprehension about his own health. Again, why was she so taken aback by the reappearance of young Black? And lastly, although I know that convention decrees that a woman must make a decent pretence of mourning for her husband, I do not care for such heavily-rouged eyelids! You did not observe them, Hastings? No? As I always tell you, you see nothing!
âWell, there it was. There were the two possibilities. Did Blackâs story suggest an ingenious method of committing suicide to Mr. Maltravers, or did his other listener, the wife, see an equally ingenious method of committing murder? I inclined to the latter view. To shoot himself in the way indicated, he would probably have had to pull the trigger with his toeâ âor at least so I imagine. Now if Maltravers had been found with one boot off, we should almost certainly have heard of it from someone. An odd detail like that would have been remembered.
âNo, as I say, I inclined to the view that it was a case of murder, not suicide, but I realized that I had not a shadow of proof in support of my theory. Hence the elaborate little comedy you saw played tonight.â
âEven now I donât quite see all the details of the crime?â I said.
âLet us start from the beginning. Here is a shrewd and scheming woman who, knowing of her husbandâs financial dĂ©bĂącle and tired of the elderly mate she has only married for his money, induces him to insure his life for a large sum, and then seeks for the means to accomplish her purpose. An accident gives her thatâ âthe young soldierâs strange story. The next afternoon when monsieur le capitaine, as she thinks, is on the high seas, she and her husband are strolling round the grounds. âWhat a curious story that was last night!â she observes. âCould a man shoot himself in such a way? Do show me if it is possible!â The poor foolâ âhe shows her. He places the end of the rifle in his mouth. She stoops down, and puts her finger on the trigger, laughing up at him. âAnd now, sir,â she says saucily, âsupposing I pull the trigger?â
âAnd thenâ âand then, Hastingsâ âshe pulls it!â
The Adventure of the Cheap FlatSo far, in the cases which I have recorded, Poirotâs investigations have started from the central fact, whether murder or robbery, and have proceeded from thence by a process of logical deduction to the final triumphant unravelling. In the events I am now about to chronicle, a remarkable chain of circumstances led from the apparently trivial incidents which first attracted Poirotâs attention to the sinister happenings which completed a most unusual case.
I had been spending the evening with an old friend of mine, Gerald Parker. There had been, perhaps, about half a dozen people there besides my host and myself, and the talk fell, as it was bound to do sooner or later wherever Parker found himself, on the subject of house-hunting in London. Houses and flats were Parkerâs special hobby. Since the end of the War, he had occupied at least half a dozen different flats and maisonnettes. No sooner was he settled anywhere than he would light unexpectedly upon a new find, and would forthwith depart bag and baggage. His moves were nearly always accomplished at a slight pecuniary gain, for he had a shrewd business head, but it was sheer love of the sport that actuated him, and not a desire to make money at it. We listened to Parker for some time with the respect of the novice for the expert. Then it was our turn, and a perfect babel of tongues was let loose. Finally the floor was left to Mrs. Robinson, a charming little bride who was there with her husband. I had never met them before, as Robinson was only a recent acquaintance of Parkerâs.
âTalking of flats,â she said, âhave you heard of our piece of luck, Mr. Parker? Weâve got a flatâ âat last! In Montagu Mansions.â
âWell,â said Parker, âIâve always said there are plenty of flatsâ âat a price!â
âYes, but this isnât at a price. Itâs dirt cheap. Eighty pounds a year!â
âButâ âbut Montagu Mansions is just off Knightsbridge, isnât it? Big handsome building. Or are you talking of a poor relation of the same name stuck in the slums somewhere?â
âNo, itâs the Knightsbridge one. Thatâs what makes it so wonderful.â
âWonderful is the word! Itâs a blinking miracle. But there must be a catch somewhere. Big premium, I suppose?â
âNo premium!â
âNo premâ âoh, hold my head, somebody!â groaned Parker.
âBut weâve got to buy the furniture,â continued Mrs. Robinson.
âAh!â Parker brisked up. âI knew there was a catch!â
âFor fifty pounds. And itâs beautifully furnished!â
âI give it up,â said Parker. âThe present occupants must be lunatics with a taste for philanthropy.â
Mrs. Robinson was looking a little troubled. A little pucker appeared between her dainty brows.
âIt is queer, isnât it? You donât think thatâ âthatâ âthe place is haunted?â
âNever heard of a haunted flat,â declared Parker decisively.
âN-o.â Mrs. Robinson appeared far from convinced. âBut there were several things about it all that struck me asâ âwell, queer.â
âFor instanceâ ââ I suggested.
âAh,â said Parker, âour criminal expertâs attention is aroused! Unburden yourself to him, Mrs. Robinson. Hastings is
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