Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

narrative,’ said Poirot. ‘Mademoiselle Saintclair had just fainted on the drawing-room carpet at Daisymead, you remember.’

      I shrugged. ‘As a result of Mademoiselle’s first murmured words when she came round, the two male Oglanders stepped out, one to fetch a doctor to attend to the lady, who was evidently suffering terribly from shock, and the other to the police-station – whence after telling his story, he accompanied the police to Mon Désir, Mr Reedburn’s magnificent villa, which is situated at no great distance from Daisymead. There they found the great man, who by the way suffers from a somewhat unsavoury reputation, lying in the library with the back of his head cracked open like an eggshell.’

      ‘I have cramped your style,’ said Poirot kindly. ‘Forgive me, I pray … Ah, here is M. le Prince!’

      Our distinguished visitor was announced under the title of Count Feodor. He was a strange-looking youth, tall, eager, with a weak chin, the famous Mauranberg mouth, and the dark fiery eyes of a fanatic.

      ‘M. Poirot?’

      My friend bowed.

      ‘Monsieur, I am in terrible trouble, greater than I can well express –’

      Poirot waved his hand. ‘I comprehend your anxiety. Mademoiselle Saintclair is a very dear friend, is it not so?’

      The prince replied simply: ‘I hope to make her my wife.’

      Poirot sat up in his chair, and his eyes opened.

      The prince continued: ‘I should not be the first of my family to make a morganatic marriage. My brother Alexander has also defied the Emperor. We are living now in more enlightened days, free from the old caste-prejudice. Besides, Mademoiselle Saintclair, in actual fact, is quite my equal in rank. You have heard hints as to her history?’

      ‘There are many romantic stories of her origin – not an uncommon thing with famous dancers. I have heard that she is the daughter of an Irish charwoman, also the story which makes her mother a Russian grand duchess.’

      ‘The first story is, of course, nonsense,’ said the young man. ‘But the second is true. Valerie, though bound to secrecy, has let me guess as much. Besides, she proves it unconsciously in a thousand ways. I believe in heredity, M. Poirot.’

      ‘I too believe in heredity,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘I have seen some strange things in connection with it – moi qui vous parle … But to business, M. le Prince. What do you want of me? What do you fear? I may speak freely, may I not? Is there anything to connect Mademoiselle Saintclair with the crime? She knew Reedburn of course?’

      ‘Yes. He professed to be in love with her.’

      ‘And she?’

      ‘She would have nothing to say to him.’

      Poirot looked at him keenly. ‘Had she any reason to fear him?’

      The young man hesitated. ‘There was an incident. You know Zara, the clairvoyant?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘She is wonderful. You should consult her some time. Valerie and I went to see her last week. She read the cards for us. She spoke to Valerie of trouble – of gathering clouds; then she turned up the last card – the covering card, they call it. It was the king of clubs. She said to Valerie: “Beware. There is a man who holds you in his power. You fear him – you are in great danger through him. You know whom I mean?” Valerie was white to the lips. She nodded and said: “Yes, yes, I know.” Shortly afterwards we left. Zara’s last words to Valerie were: “Beware of the king of clubs. Danger threatens you!” I questioned Valerie. She would tell me nothing – assured me that all was well. But now, after last night, I am more sure than ever that in the king of clubs Valerie saw Reedburn, and that he was the man she feared.’

      The Prince paused abruptly. ‘Now you understand my agitation when I opened the paper this morning. Supposing Valerie, in a fit of madness – oh, it is impossible!’

      Poirot rose from his seat, and patted the young man kindly on the shoulder. ‘Do not distress yourself, I beg of you. Leave it in my hands.’

      ‘You will go to Streatham? I gather she is still there, at Daisymead – prostrated by the shock.’

      ‘I will go at once.’

      ‘I have arranged matters – through the embassy. You will be allowed access everywhere.’

      ‘Then we will depart – Hastings, you will accompany me? Au revoir, M. le Prince.’

      Mon Désir was an exceptionally fine villa, thoroughly modern and comfortable. A short carriage-drive led up to it from the road, and beautiful gardens extended behind the house for some acres.

      On mentioning Prince Paul’s name, the butler who answered the door at once took us to the scene of the tragedy. The library was a magnificent room, running from back to front of the whole building, with a window at either end, one giving on the front carriage-drive, and the other on the garden. It was in the recess of the latter that the body had lain. It had been removed not long before, the police having concluded their examination.

      ‘That is annoying,’ I murmured to Poirot. ‘Who knows what clues they may have destroyed?’

      My little friend smiled. ‘Eh – Eh! How often must I tell you that clues come from within? In the little grey cells of the brain lies the solution of every mystery.’

      He turned to the butler. ‘I suppose, except for the removal of the body, the room has not been touched?’

      ‘No, sir. It’s just as it was when the police came up last night.’

      ‘These curtains, now. I see they pull right across the window recess. They are the same in the other window. Were they drawn last night?’

      ‘Yes, sir, I draw them every night.’

      ‘Then Reedburn must have drawn them back himself?’

      ‘I suppose so, sir.’

      ‘Did you know your master expected a visitor last night?’

      ‘He did not say so, sir. But he gave orders he was not to be disturbed after dinner. You see, sir, there is a door leading out of the library on to the terrace at the side of the house. He could have admitted anyone that way.’

      ‘Was he in the habit of doing that?’

      The butler coughed discreetly. ‘I believe so, sir.’

      Poirot strode to the door in question. It was unlocked. He stepped through it on to the terrace which joined the drive on the right; on the left it led up to a red brick wall.

      ‘The fruit garden, sir. There is a door leading into it farther along, but it was always locked at six o’clock.’

      Poirot nodded, and re-entered the library, the butler following.

      ‘Did you hear nothing of last night’s events?’

      ‘Well, sir, we heard voices in the library, a little before nine. But that wasn’t unusual, especially being a lady’s voice. But of course, once we were all in the servants’ hall, right the other side, we didn’t hear anything at all. And then, about eleven o’clock, the police came.’

      ‘How many voices did you hear?’

      ‘I couldn’t say, sir. I only noticed the lady’s.’

      ‘Ah!’

      ‘I beg pardon, sir, but Dr Ryan is still in the house, if you would care to see him.’

      We jumped at the suggestion, and in a few minutes the doctor, a cheery, middle-aged man, joined us, and gave Poirot all the information he required. Reedburn had been lying near the window, his head by the marble window-seat. There were two wounds, one between the eyes, and the other, the fatal one, on the back of the head.

      ‘He was lying on his back?’

      ‘Yes.