VII
Colonel Johnson stared at Sugden for some minutes before he spluttered
Do you mean to tell me, Superintendent, that this is one of those damned cases you get in
detective stories where a man is killed in a locked room by some apparently supernatural agency
A very faint smile agitated the superintendent’s moustache as he replied gravely
I do not think it’s quite as bad as that, sir.
Colonel Johnson said
Suicide. It must be suicide
Where’s the weapon, if so? No, sir, suicide won’t do.
Then how did the murderer escape? By the window?” Sugden shook his head.
I’ll take my oath he didn’t do that.
But the door was locked, you say, on the inside.
The superintendent nodded. He drew a key from his pocket and laid it on the table.
No fingerprints,” he announced. “But just look at that key, sir. Take a look at it with that
magnifying glass there.
Poirot bent forward. He and Johnson examined the key together. The chief constable uttered
an exclamation.
By Jove, I get you. Those faint scratches on the end of the barrel. You see ’em, Poirot
But yes, I see. That means, does it not, that the key was turned from outside the door
turned by means of a special implement that went through the keyhole and gripped the barrel
possibily an ordinary pair of pliers would do it.
The superintendent nodded.
It can be done all right.
Poirot said: “The idea being, then, that the death would be thought to be suicide, since the
door was locked and no one was in the room
That was the idea, M. Poirot, not a doubt of it, I should say.
Poirot shook his head doubtfully.
But the disorder in the room! As you say, that by itself wiped out the idea of suicide. Surely
the murderer would first of all have set the room to rights.
Superintendent Sugden said: “But he hadn’t time, Mr. Poirot. That’s the whole point. He
hadn’t time. Let’s say he counted on catching the old gentleman unawares. Well, that didn’t come
off. There was a struggle—a struggle heard plainly in the room underneath; and, what’s more, the
old gentleman called out for help. Everyone came rushing up. The murderer’s only got time to nip
out of the room and turn the key from the outside.
That is true,” Poirot admitted. “Your murderer, he may have made the bungle. But why, oh
why, did he not at least leave the weapon? For naturally, if there is no weapon, it cannot be
suicide! That was an error most grave.
Superintendent Sugden said stolidly
Criminals usually make mistakes. That’s our experience.
Poirot gave a light sigh. He murmured
But all the same, in spite of his mistakes, he has escaped this criminal.
I don’t think he has exactly escaped.
You mean he is in the house still
I don’t see where else he can be. It was an inside job.
But, tout de même,” Poirot pointed out gently, “he has escaped to this extent: You do not
know who he is.
Superintendent Sugden said gently but firmly
I rather fancy that we soon shall. We haven’t done any questioning of the household yet.
Colonel Johnson cut in
Look here, Sugden, one thing strikes me. Whoever turned that key from the outside must
have had some knowledge of the job. That’s to say, he probably has had criminal experience.
These sort of tools aren’t easy to manage.
You mean it was a professional job, sir
That’s what I mean.
It does seem like it,” the other admitted. “Following that up, it looks as though there were a
professional thief among the servants. That would explain the diamonds being taken and the
murder would follow on logically from that.
Well, anything wrong with that theory
It’s what I thought myself to begin with. But it’s difficult. There are eight servants in the
house; six of them are women, and of those six, five have been here for four years and more. Then
there’s the butler and the footman. The butler has been here for close on forty years—bit of a
record that, I should say. The footman’s local, son of the gardener, and brought up here. Don’t see
very well how he can be a professional. The only other person is Mr. Lee’s valet attendant. He’s
comparatively new, but he was out of the house—still is—went out just before eight o’clock.
Colonel Johnson said
Have you got a list of just who exactly was in the house
Yes, sir. I got it from the butler.” He took out his notebook. “Shall I read it to you
Please, Sugden.
Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Lee. Mr. George Lee, M.P., and his wife, Mr. Henry Lee, Mr. and Mrs.
David Lee. Miss”—the superintendent paused a little, taking the words carefully—“Pilar”—he
pronounced it like a piece of architecture—“Estravados. Mr. Stephen Farr. Then for the servants
Edward Tressilian, butler. Walter Champion, footman. Emily Reeves, cook. Queenie Jones
kitchenmaid. Gladys Spent, head housemaid. Grace Best, second housemaid. Beatrice Moscombe
third housemaid. Joan Kench, betweenmaid. Sydney Horbury, valet attendant.
That’s the lot, eh
That’s the lot, sir.
Any idea where everybody was at the time of the murder
Only roughly. As I told you, I haven’t questioned anybody yet. According to Tressilian, the
gentlemen were in the dining room still. The ladies had gone to the drawing room. Tressilian had
served coffee. According to his statement, he had just got back to his pantry when he heard a noise
upstairs. It was followed by a scream. He ran out into the hall and upstairs in the wake of the
others.
Colonel Johnson said
How many of the family live in the house, and who are just staying here
Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Lee live here. The others are just visiting.
Johnson nodded.
Where are they all
I asked them to stay in the drawing-room until I was ready to take their statements.
I see. Well, we’d better go upstairs and take a look at the doings.
The superintendent led the way up the broad stairs and along the passage.
As he entered the room where the crime had taken place, Johnson drew a deep breath.
Pretty horrible,” he commented.
He stood for a minute studying the overturned chairs, the smashed china, and the blood
bespattered débris.
A thin elderly man stood up from where he had been kneeling by the body and gave a nod.
Evening, Johnson,” he said. “Bit of a shambles, eh
I should say it was. Got anything for us, doctor
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He grinned.
I’ll let you have the scientific language at the inquest! Nothing complicated about it. Throat
cut like a pig. He bled to death in less than a minute. No sign of the weapon.
Poirot went across the room to the windows. As the superintendent had said, one was shut
and bolted. The other was open about four inches at the bottom. A thick patent screw of the kind
known many years ago as an anti-burglar screw secured it in that position.
Sugden said: “According to the butler, that window was never shut wet or fine. There’s a
linoleum mat underneath it in case rain beat in, but it didn’t much, as the overhanging roof
protects it.
Poirot nodded.
He came back to the body and stared down at the old man.
The lips were drawn back from the bloodless gums in something that looked like a snarl. The
fingers were curved like claws.
Poirot said
He does not seem a strong man, no.
The doctor said
He was pretty tough, I believe. He’d survived several pretty bad illnesses that would have
killed most men.
Poirot said: “I do not mean that. I mean, he was not big, not strong physically.
No, he’s frail enough.
Poirot turned from the dead man. He bent to examine an overturned chair, a big chair of
mahogany. Beside it was a round mahogany table and the fragments of a big china lamp. Two
other smaller chairs lay nearby, also the smashed fragments of a decanter and two glasses, a heavy
glass paperweight was unbroken, some miscellaneous books, a big Japanese vase smashed in
pieces, and a bronze statuette of a naked girl completed the débris.
Poirot bent over all these exhibits, studying them gravely, but without touching them. He
frowned to himself as though perplexed.
The chief constable said
Anything strike you, Poirot
Hercule Poirot sighed. He murmured
Such a frail shrunken old man—and yet—all this.
Johnson looked puzzled. He turned away and said to the sergeant, who was busy at his work
What about prints
Plenty of them, sir, all over the room.
What about the safe
No good. Only prints on that are those of the old gentleman himself.
Johnson turned to the doctor.
What about bloodstains?” he asked. “Surely whoever killed him must have got blood on
him.
The doctor said doubtfully
Not necessarily. Bleeding was almost entirely from the jugular vein. That wouldn’t spout
like an artery.
No, no. Still, there seems a lot of blood about.
Poirot said
Yes, there is a lot of blood—it strikes one, that. A lot of blood.
Superintendent Sugden said respectfully
Do you—er—does that suggest anything to you, Mr. Poirot
Poirot looked about him. He shook his head perplexedly.
He said
There is something here—some violence . . .” He stopped a minute, then went on: “Yes, that
is it—violence . . . And blood—an insistence on blood . . . There is—how shall I put it?—there is
too much blood. Blood on the chairs, on the tables, on the carpet . . . The blood ritual? Sacrificial
blood? Is that it? Perhaps. Such a frail old man, so thin, so shrivelled, so dried up—and yet—in his
death—so much blood . . .
His voice died away. Superintendent Sugden, staring at him with round, startled eyes, said in
an awed voice
Funny—that’s what she said—the lady. . . .
Poirot said sharply
What lady? What was it she said
Sugden answered: “Mrs. Lee—Mrs. Alfred. Stood over there by the door and half whispered
it. It didn’t make sense to me.
What did she say
Something about who would have thought the old gentleman had so much blood in him.
Poirot said softly
Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?’ The words of
Lady Macbeth. She said that . . . Ah, that is interesting. . . .
