Hercule Poirots casebook. Agatha Christie
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title of count is often useful in the profession of blackmailing.
“I suppose I might as well be frank. You seem to know a good deal.”
“I have employed my gray cells to some advantage. Come, Signor Ascanio, you visited the dead man on the Tuesday morning that is so, is it not?”
‘Yes, but I never went there on the following evening. There was no need. I will tell you all. Certain information concerning a man of great position in Italy had come into this scoundrel’s possession. He demanded a big sum of money in return for the papers. I came over to England to arrange the matter. I called upon him by appointment that morning. One of the young secretaries of the Elmbassy was with me. The count was more reasonable than I had hoped, although even then the sum of money I paid him was a huge one”
“Pardon, how was it paid?”
“In Italian notes of comparatively small denomination. I paid over the money then and there. He handed me the incriminating papers. I never saw him again.”
“Why did you not say all this when you were arrested?” “my delicate position I was forced to deny any association with the man.”
“And how do you account for the events of the evening, then?"
"I can only think that someone must have deliberately impersonated me. I understand that no money was found in the flat.”
Poirot looked at him and shook his head.
“Strange,” he murmured. “We all have the little gray cells. And so few of us know how to use them. Good morning, Signor Ascanio. I believe your story. It is very much as I had imagined. But I had to make sure.”
After bowing his guest out, Poirot returned to his armchair and smiled at me.
“Let us hear M. le Capitaine Hastings on the case?”
“Well, I suppose Ascanio is right—somebody impersonated him.” ‘Never, never will you use the brains the good God has gaven you. Recall to yourself some words I uttered after leaving the flat that night. I referred to the window curtains not being drawn. We are in the month of June. It is still light at eight o’clock. The light is failing by half-past. I perceive a struggling impression that you will arrive some day. Now let us continue. The coffee was, as I said, very black. Count Foscatini s teeth were magnificently white. CoflPee stains the teeth. We reason from that that Count Foscatini did not drink any coffee. Yet there was coffee in all three cups. Why should anyone pretend Count Foscatini had drunk coffee when he had not done so?”
I shook my head, utterly bewildered.
‘Come, I will help you. What evidence have we that Ascanio and his friend, or two men posing as them, ever came to the flat that night? Nobody saw them go in; nobody saw them go out. We have the evidence of one man and of a host of inanimate objects”
“You mean?” mean knives and forks and plates and empty dishes. Ah, but it was a clever idea! Graves is a thief and a scoundrel, but what a man of method! He overhears a portion of the conversation in the morning, enough to realize that Ascanio will be in an awkward position to defend himself. The following evening, about eight o'clock, he tells his master he is wanted at the telephone. Foscatini sits down, stretches out his hand to the telephone, and from behind Graves strikes him down with the marble figure. Then quickly to the service telephone—dinner for three! It comes, he lays the table, dirties the plates, knives, and forks” etc. But he has to get rid of the food too. Not only is he a man of brain; he has a resolute and capacious stomach! But after eating three tournedos, the rice souffle is too much for him! He even smokes a cigar and two cigarettes to carry out the illusion. Ah, but it was magnificently thorough! Then, having moved on the hands of the clock to 8:47, he smashes it and stops it. The one thing he does not do is to draw the curtains. But if there had been a real dinner party the curtains would have been drawn as soon as the light began to fail. Then he hurries out, mentioning the guests to the lift man in passing. He hurries to a telephone box, and as near as possible to 8:47 rings up the doctor with his master” dying cry. So successful is his idea that no one ever inquires if a call was put through from Flat n at that time.”
“Except Hercule Poirot, I suppose?” I said sarcastically.
“Not even Hercule Poirot,” said my friend, with a smile. “I am about to inquire now. I had to prove my point to you first. But you will see, I shall be right; and then Japp, to whom I have already gaven a hint, will be able to arrest the respectable Graves. I wonder how much of the money he has spent”
Poirot was right. He always is, confound him!
The Case of the Missing Will
THE problem presented to us by Miss Violet Marsh made rather a pleasant change from our usual routine work. Poirot had received a brisk and businesslike note from the lady asking for an appointment, and he had replied asking her to call upon him at eleven o’clock the following day.
She arrived punctually一a tall, handsome young woman, plainly but neatly dressed, with an assured and businesslike manner. Clearly a young woman who meant to get on in the world. I am not a great admirer of the so-called New Woman myself, and, in spite of her good looks, I was not particularly prepossessed in her favor.
“My business is of a somewhat unusual nature, Monsieur Poirot,” she began» after she had accepted a chair. “I had better begin at the beginning and tell you the whole story”
“If you please, mademoiselle.”
am an orphan. My father was one of two brothers, sons of a small yeoman farmer in Devonshire. The farm was a poor one, and the elder brother, Andrew, emigrated to Australia, where he did very well indeed, and by means of successful speculation in land became a very rich man. The younger brother, Roger (my father), had no leanings towards the agricultural life. He managed to educate himself a little, and obtained a post as a clerk with a small firm. He married slightly above him； my mother was the daughter of a poor artist. My father died when I was six years old. When I was fourteen’ my mother followed him to the grave. My only living relation then was my Uncle Andrew, who had recently returned from Australia and bought a small place, Crabtree Manor, in his natI have county. He was exceedingly kind to his brother s orphan child, took me to lI have with him, and treated me in every way as though I was his own daughter.
“Crabtree Manor, in spite of its name, is really only an old farmhouse. Farming was in my uncle's blood, and he was intensely interested in various modern farming experiments. Although kindness itself to me, he had certain peculiar and deeply rooted ideas as to the upbringing of women. Himself a man of little or no education, though possessing remarkable shrewdness, he placed little value on what he called 4bo”k knowledge/ He was especially opposed to the education of women. In his opinion, girls should learn practical housework and dairywork, be useful about the home, and have as little to do with book learning as possible. He proposed to bring me up on these lines, to my biter disappointment and annoyance. I rebelled frankly. I knew that I possessed a good brain, and had absolutely no talent for domestic duties. My uncle and I had many biter arguments on the subject, for, though much attached to each other, we were both self-willed. I was lucky enough to win a scholarship, and up to a certain point was successful in getting my own way. The crisis arose when I resolved to go to Girton. I had a little money of my own, left me by my mother, and I was quite determined to make the best use of the gifts God had gaven me. I had one long, final argument with my uncle. He put the facts plainly before me. He had no other relations, and he had intended me to be his sole heiress. As I have told you, he was a very rich man. If I persisted in these “new-fangled notions’ of mine,however, I need look for nothing from him. I remained polite, but firm. I should always be deeply attached to him, I told him, but I must lead my own life. We parted on that note. 4You fancy your brain, my girl/ were his last words. Tve no book learning, but» for all that, Til pit mine against yours any day. Well see what we shall see.’
“That was nine years ago. I have stayed with him for a weekend occasionally, and our relations were perfectly amicable, though his views remained unaltered. He never referred to my having matriculated, nor