Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

the Avenue Louise without delay.

      François opened the door to me.

      ‘Madame la Baronne is awaiting you.’

      He conducted me to her apartments. She sat in state in a large armchair. There was no sign of Mademoiselle Virginie.

      ‘M. Poirot,’ said the old lady, ‘I have just learned that you are not what you pretend to be. You are a police officer.’

      ‘That is so, madame.’

      ‘You came here to inquire into the circumstances of my son’s death?’

      Again I replied: ‘That is so, madame.’

      ‘I should be glad if you would tell me what progress you have made.’

      I hesitated.

      ‘First I would like to know how you have learned all this, madame.’

      ‘From one who is no longer of this world.’

      Her words, and the brooding way she uttered them, sent a chill to my heart. I was incapable of speech.

      ‘Therefore, monsieur, I would beg of you most urgently to tell me exactly what progress you have made in your investigation.’

      ‘Madame, my investigation is finished.’

      ‘My son?’

      ‘Was killed deliberately.’

      ‘You know by whom?’

      ‘Yes, madame.’

      ‘Who, then?’

      ‘M. de Saint Alard.’

      ‘You are wrong. M. de Saint Alard is incapable of such a crime.’

      ‘The proofs are in my hands.’

      ‘I beg of you once more to tell me all.’

      This time I obeyed, going over each step that had led me to the discovery of the truth. She listened attentively. At the end she nodded her head.

      ‘Yes, yes, it is all as you say, all but one thing. It was not M. de Saint Alard who killed my son. It was I, his mother.’

      I stared at her. She continued to nod her head gently.

      ‘It is well that I sent for you. It is the providence of the good God that Virginie told me before she departed for the convent, what she had done. Listen, M. Poirot! My son was an evil man. He persecuted the church. He led a life of mortal sin. He dragged down the other souls beside his own. But there was worse than that. As I came out of my room in this house one morning, I saw my daughter-in-law standing at the head of the stairs. She was reading a letter. I saw my son steal up behind her. One swift push, and she fell, striking her head on the marble steps. When they picked her up she was dead. My son was a murderer, and only I, his mother, knew it.’

      She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘You cannot conceive, monsieur, of my agony, my despair. What was I to do? Denounce him to the police? I could not bring myself to do it. It was my duty, but my flesh was weak. Besides, would they believe me? My eyesight had been failing for some time – they would say I was mistaken. I kept silence. But my conscience gave me no peace. By keeping silence I too was a murderer. My son inherited his wife’s money. He flourished as the green bay tree. And now he was to have a Minister’s portfolio. His persecution of the church would be redoubled. And there was Virginie. She, poor child, beautiful, naturally pious, was fascinated by him. He had a strange and terrible power over women. I saw it coming. I was powerless to prevent it. He had no intention of marrying her. The time came when she was ready to yield everything to him.

      ‘Then I saw my path clear. He was my son. I had given him life. I was responsible for him. He had killed one woman’s body, now he would kill another’s soul! I went to Mr Wilson’s room, and took the bottle of tablets. He had once said laughingly that there were enough in it to kill a man! I went into the study and opened the big box of chocolates that always stood on the table. I opened a new box by mistake. The other was on the table also. There was just one chocolate left in it. That simplified things. No one ate chocolates except my son and Virginie. I would keep her with me that night. All went as I had planned –’

      She paused, closing her eyes a minute then opened them again.

      ‘M. Poirot, I am in your hands. They tell me I have not many days to live. I am willing to answer for my action before the good God. Must I answer for it on earth also?’

      I hesitated. ‘But the empty bottle, madame,’ I said to gain time. ‘How came that into M. de Saint Alard’s possession?’

      ‘When he came to say goodbye to me, monsieur, I slipped it into his pocket. I did not know how to get rid of it. I am so infirm that I cannot move about much without help, and finding it empty in my rooms might have caused suspicion. You understand, monsieur –’ she drew herself up to her full height – ‘it was with no idea of casting suspicion on M. de Saint Alard! I never dreamed of such a thing. I thought his valet would find an empty bottle and throw it away without question.’

      I bowed my head. ‘I comprehend, madame,’ I said.

      ‘And your decision, monsieur?’

      Her voice was firm and unfaltering, her head held as high as ever.

      I rose to my feet.

      ‘Madame,’ I said, ‘I have the honour to wish you good day. I have made my investigations – and failed! The matter is closed.’

      He was silent for a moment, then said quietly: ‘She died just a week later. Mademoiselle Virginie passed through her novitiate, and duly took the veil. That, my friend, is the story. I must admit that I do not make a fine figure in it.’

      ‘But that was hardly a failure,’ I expostulated. ‘What else could you have thought under the circumstances?’

      ‘Ah, sacré, mon ami,’ cried Poirot, becoming suddenly animated. ‘Is it that you do not see? But I was thirty-six times an idiot! My grey cells, they functioned not at all. The whole time I had the clue in my hands.’

      ‘What clue?’

      ‘The chocolate box! Do you not see? Would anyone in possession of their full eyesight make such a mistake? I knew Madame Déroulard had cataract – the atropine drops told me that. There was only one person in the household whose eyesight was such that she could not see which lid to replace. It was the chocolate box that started me on the track, and yet up to the end I failed consistently to perceive its real significance!

      ‘Also my psychology was at fault. Had M. de Saint Alard been the criminal, he would never have kept an incriminating bottle. Finding it was a proof of his innocence. I had learned already from Mademoiselle Virginie that he was absent-minded. Altogether it was a miserable affair that I have recounted to you there! Only to you have I told the story. You comprehend, I do not figure well in it! An old lady commits a crime in such a simple and clever fashion that I, Hercule Poirot, am completely deceived. Sapristi! It does not bear thinking of! Forget it. Or no – remember it, and if you think at any time that I am growing conceited – it is not likely, but it might arise.’

      I concealed a smile.

      ‘Eh bien, my friend, you shall say to me, “Chocolate box”. Is it agreed?’

      ‘It’s a bargain!’

      ‘After all,’ said Poirot reflectively, ‘it was an experience! I, who have undoubtedly the finest brain in Europe at present, can afford to be magnanimous!’

      ‘Chocolate box,’ I murmured gently.

       ‘Pardon, mon ami?’

      I looked at Poirot’s innocent face, as he bent forward inquiringly, and my heart smote me. I had suffered often at his hands, but I, too, though not possessing the finest brain in Europe, could afford to be magnanimous!

      ‘Nothing,’ I lied, and lit another pipe, smiling