The Under Dog: A Hercule Poirot Short Story. Agatha Christie

eyes were on the knick-knacks, but doubtless he noted the pause before Lady Astwell’s answer came.

      ‘With a man it’s different. Of course they – they got on very well.’

      ‘Thank you, Madame,’ said Poirot. He was smiling to himself.

      ‘And these were the only people in the house that night?’ he asked. ‘Excepting, of course, the servants.’

      ‘Oh, there was Victor.’

      ‘Victor?’

      ‘Yes, my husband’s brother, you know, and his partner.’

      ‘He lived with you?’

      ‘No, he had just arrived on a visit. He has been out in West Africa for the past few years.’

      ‘West Africa,’ murmured Poirot.

      He had learned that Lady Astwell could be trusted to develop a subject herself if sufficient time was given her.

      ‘They say it’s a wonderful country, but I think it’s the kind of place that has a very bad effect upon a man. They drink too much, and they get uncontrolled. None of the Astwells has a good temper, and Victor’s, since he came back from Africa, has been simply too shocking. He has frightened me once or twice.’

      ‘Did he frighten Miss Margrave, I wonder?’ murmured Poirot gently.

      ‘Lily? Oh, I don’t think he has seen much of Lily.’

      Poirot made a note or two in a diminutive note-book; then he put the pencil back in its loop and returned the note-book to his pocket.

      ‘I thank you, Lady Astwell. I will now, if I may, interview Parsons.’

      ‘Will you have him up here?’

      Lady Astwell’s hand moved towards the bell. Poirot arrested the gesture quickly.

      ‘No, no, a thousand times no. I will descend to him.’

      ‘If you think it is better –’

      Lady Astwell was clearly disappointed at not being able to participate in the forthcoming scene. Poirot adopted an air of secrecy.

      ‘It is essential,’ he said mysteriously, and left Lady Astwell duly impressed.

      He found Parsons in the butler’s pantry, polishing silver. Poirot opened the proceedings with one of his funny little bows.

      ‘I must explain myself,’ he said. ‘I am a detective agent.’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ said Parsons, ‘we gathered as much.’

      His tone was respectful but aloof.

      ‘Lady Astwell sent for me,’ continued Poirot. ‘She is not satisfied; no, she is not satisfied at all.’

      ‘I have heard her ladyship say so on several occasions,’ said Parsons.

      ‘In fact,’ said Poirot, ‘I recount to you the things you already know? Eh? Let us then not waste time on these bagatelles. Take me, if you will be so good, to your bedroom and tell me exactly what it was you heard there on the night of the murder.’

      The butler’s room was on the ground floor, adjoining the servants’ hall. It had barred windows, and the strong-room was in one corner of it. Parsons indicated the narrow bed.

      ‘I had retired, sir, at eleven o’clock. Miss Margrave had gone to bed, and Lady Astwell was with Sir Reuben in the Tower room.’

      ‘Lady Astwell was with Sir Reuben? Ah, proceed.’

      ‘The Tower room, sir, is directly over this. If people are talking in it one can hear the murmur of voices, but naturally not anything that is said. I must have fallen asleep about half past eleven. It was just twelve o’clock when I was awakened by the sound of the front door being slammed to and knew Mr Leverson had returned. Presently I heard footsteps overhead, and a minute or two later Mr Leverson’s voice talking to Sir Reuben.

      ‘It was my fancy at the time, sir, that Mr Leverson was – I should not exactly like to say drunk, but inclined to be a little indiscreet and noisy. He was shouting at his uncle at the top of his voice. I caught a word or two here or there, but not enough to understand what it was all about, and then there was a sharp cry and a heavy thud.’

      There was a pause, and Parsons repeated the last words.

      ‘A heavy thud,’ he said impressively.

      ‘If I mistake not, it is a dull thud in most works of romance,’ murmured Poirot.

      ‘Maybe, sir,’ said Parsons severely. ‘It was a heavy thud I heard.’

      ‘A thousand pardons,’ said Poirot.

      ‘Do not mention it, sir. After the thud, in the silence, I heard Mr Leverson’s voice as plain as plain can be, raised high. “My God,” he said, “my God,” just like that, sir.’

      Parsons, from his first reluctance to tell the tale, had now progressed to a thorough enjoyment of it. He fancied himself mightily as a narrator. Poirot played up to him.

      ‘Mon Dieu,’ he murmured. ‘What emotion you must have experienced!’

      ‘Yes, indeed, sir,’ said Parsons, ‘as you say, sir. Not that I thought very much of it at the time. But it did occur to me to wonder if anything was amiss, and whether I had better go up and see. I went to turn the electric light on, and was unfortunate enough to knock over a chair.

      ‘I opened the door, and went through the servants’ hall, and opened the other door which gives on a passage. The back stairs lead up from there, and as I stood at the bottom of them, hesitating, I heard Mr Leverson’s voice from up above, speaking hearty and cheery-like. “No harm done, luckily,” he says. “Good night,” and I heard him move off along the passage to his own room, whistling.

      ‘Of course I went back to bed at once. Just something knocked over, that’s all I thought it was. I ask you, sir, was I to think Sir Reuben was murdered, with Mr Leverson saying good night and all?’

      ‘You are sure it was Mr Leverson’s voice you heard?’

      Parsons looked at the little Belgian pityingly, and Poirot saw clearly enough that, right or wrong, Parsons’s mind was made up on this point.

      ‘Is there anything further you would like to ask me, sir?’

      ‘There is one thing,’ said Poirot, ‘do you like Mr Leverson?’

      ‘I – I beg your pardon, sir?’

      ‘It is a simple question. Do you like Mr Leverson?’

      Parsons, from being startled at first, now seemed embarrassed.