Poirot Investigates. Agatha Christie

rooks, eh?”

      “Yes, he usually took his little rook rifle with him, and I heard one or two shots in the distance.”

      “Where is this little rook rifle now?”

      “In the hall, I think.”

      She led the way out of the room and found and handed the little weapon to Poirot, who examined it cursorily.

      “Two shots fired, I see,” he observed, as he handed it back. “And now, madame, if I might see——”

      He paused delicately.

      “The servant shall take you,” she murmured, averting her head.

      The parlourmaid, summoned, led Poirot upstairs. I remained with the lovely and unfortunate woman. It was hard to know whether to speak or remain silent. I essayed one or two general reflections to which she responded absently, and in a very few minutes Poirot rejoined us.

      “I thank you for all your courtesy, madame. I do not think you need be troubled any further with this matter. By the way, do you know anything of your husband’s financial position?”

      She shook her head.

      “Nothing whatever. I am very stupid over business things.”

      “I see. Then you can give us no clue as to why he suddenly decided to insure his life? He had not done so previously, I understand.”

      “Well, we had only been married a little over a year. But, as to why he insured his life, it was because he had absolutely made up his mind that he would not live long. He had a strong premonition of his own death. I gather that he had had one hæmorrhage already, and that he knew that another one would prove fatal. I tried to dispel these gloomy fears of his, but without avail. Alas, he was only too right!”

      Tears in her eyes, she bade us a dignified farewell. Poirot made a characteristic gesture as we walked down the drive together.

      “Eh bien, that is that! Back to London, my friend, there appears to be no mouse in this mouse-hole. And yet——”

      “Yet what?”

      “A slight discrepancy, that is all! You noticed it? You did not? Still, life is full of discrepancies, and assuredly the man cannot have taken his own life—there is no poison that would fill his mouth with blood. No, no, I must resign myself to the fact that all here is clear and above-board—but who is this?”

      A tall young man was striding up the drive towards us. He passed us without making any sign, but I noted that he was not ill-looking, with a lean, deeply bronzed face that spoke of life in a tropic clime. A gardener who was sweeping up leaves had paused for a minute in his task, and Poirot ran quickly up to him.

      “Tell me, I pray you, who is that gentleman? Do you know him?”

      “I don’t remember his name, sir, though I did hear it. He was staying down here last week for a night. Tuesday, it was.”

      “Quick, mon ami, let us follow him.”

      We hastened up the drive after the retreating figure. A glimpse of a black-robed figure on the terrace at the side of the house, and our quarry swerved and we after him, so that we were witnesses of the meeting.

      Mrs. Maltravers almost staggered where she stood, and her face blanched noticeably.

      “You,” she gasped. “I thought you were on the sea—on your way to East Africa?”

      “I got some news from my lawyers that detained me,” explained the young man. “My old uncle in Scotland died unexpectedly and left me some money. Under the circumstances I thought it better to cancel my passage. Then I saw this bad news in the paper and I came down to see if there was anything I could do. You’ll want some one to look after things for you a bit perhaps.”

      At that moment they became aware of our presence. Poirot stepped forward, and with many apologies explained that he had left his stick in the hall. Rather reluctantly, it seemed to me, Mrs. Maltravers made the necessary introduction.

      “Monsieur Poirot, Captain Black.”

      A few minutes’ chat ensued, in the course of which Poirot elicited the fact that Captain Black was putting up at the Anchor Inn. The missing stick not having been discovered (which was not surprising), Poirot uttered more apologies and we withdrew.

      We returned to the village at a great pace, and Poirot made a bee line for the Anchor Inn.

      “Here we establish ourselves until our friend the Captain returns,” he explained. “You notice that I emphasized the point that we were returning to London by the first train? Possibly you thought I meant it. But no—you observed Mrs. Maltravers’ face when she caught sight of this young Black? She was clearly taken aback, and he—eh bien, he was very devoted, did you not think so? And he was here on Tuesday night—the day before Mr. Maltravers died. We must investigate the doings of Captain Black, Hastings.”

      In about half an hour we espied our quarry approaching the inn. Poirot went out and accosted him and presently brought him up to the room we had engaged.

      “I have been telling Captain Black of the mission which brings us here,” he explained. “You can understand, monsieur le capitaine, that I am anxious to arrive at Mr. Maltravers’ state of mind immediately before his death, and that at the same time I do not wish to distress Mrs. Maltravers unduly by asking her painful questions. Now, you were here just before the occurrence, and can give us equally valuable information.”

      “I’ll do anything I can to help you, I’m sure,” replied the young soldier; “but I’m afraid I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. You see, although Maltravers was an old friend of my people’s, I didn’t know him very well myself.”

      “You came down—when?”

      “Tuesday afternoon. I went up to town early Wednesday morning, as my boat sailed from Tilbury about twelve o’clock. But some news I got made me alter my plans, as I dare say you heard me explain to Mrs. Maltravers.”

      “You were returning to East Africa, I understand?”

      “Yes. I’ve been out there ever since the War—a great country.”

      “Exactly. Now what was the talk about at dinner on Tuesday night?”

      “Oh, I don’t know. The usual odd topics. Maltravers asked after my people, and then we discussed the question of German reparations, and then Mrs. Maltravers asked a lot of questions about East Africa, and I told them one or two yarns, that’s about all, I think.”

      “Thank you.”

      Poirot was silent for a moment, then he said gently: “With your permission, I should like to try a little experiment. You have told us all that your conscious self knows, I want now to question your subconscious self.”

      “Psychoanalysis, what?” said Black, with visible alarm.

      “Oh, no,” said Poirot reassuringly. “You see, it is like this, I give you a word, you answer with another, and so on. Any word, the first one you think of. Shall we begin?”

      “All right,” said Black slowly, but he looked uneasy.

      “Note down the words, please, Hastings,” said Poirot. Then he took from his pocket his big turnip-faced watch and laid it on the table beside him. “We will commence. Day.”

      There was a moment’s pause, and then Black replied:

      “Night.”

      As Poirot proceeded, his answers came quicker.

      “Name,” said Poirot.

      “Place.”

      “Bernard.”

      “Shaw.”

      “Tuesday.”

      “Dinner.”

      “Journey.”