II
To him there came Superintendent Sugden. The police superintendent looked gloomy. He said:
“Good morning, Mr. Poirot. Doesn’t seem quite the right thing to say Merry Christmas, does
it?”
“Mon cher collègue, I certainly do not observe any traces of merriment on your countenance.
If you had said Merry Christmas I should not have replied ‘Many of them!’ ”
“I don’t want another one like this one, and that’s a fact,” said Sugden.
“You have made the progress, yes?”
“I’ve checked up on a good many points. Horbury’s alibi is holding water all right. The
commissionaire at the cinema saw him go in with the girl, and saw him come out with her at the
end of the performance, and seems pretty positive he didn’t leave, and couldn’t have left and
returned during the performance. The girl swears quite definitely he was with her in the cinema all
the time.”
Poirot’s eyebrows rose.
“I hardly see, then, what more there is to say.”
The cynical Sugden said:
“Well, one never knows with girls! Lie themselves black in the face for the sake of a man.”
“That does credit to their hearts,” said Hercule Poirot.
Sugden growled.
“That’s a foreign way of looking at it. It’s defeating the ends of justice.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Justice is a very strange thing. Have you ever reflected on it?”
Sugden stared at him. He said:
“You’re a queer one, Mr. Poirot.”
“Not at all. I follow a logical train of thought. But we will not enter into a dispute on the
question. It is your belief, then, that this demoiselle from the milk shop is not speaking the truth?”
Sugden shook his head.
“No,” he said, “it’s not like that at all. As a matter of fact, I think she is telling the truth. She’s
a simple kind of girl, and I think if she was telling me a pack of lies I’d spot it.”
Poirot said:
“You have the experience, yes?”
“That’s just it, Mr. Poirot. One does know, more or less, after a lifetime of taking down
statements, when a person’s lying and when they’re not. No, I think the girl’s evidence is genuine,
and if so, Horbury couldn’t have murdered old Mr. Lee, and that brings us right back to the people
in the house.”
He drew a deep breath.
“One of ’em did it, Mr. Poirot. One of ’em did it. But which?”
“You have no new data?”
“Yes, I’ve had a certain amount of luck over the telephone calls. Mr. George Lee put through
a call to Westeringham at two minutes to nine. That call lasted under six minutes.”
“Aha!”
“As you say! Moreover, no other call was put through—to Westeringham or anywhere else.”
“Very interesting,” said Poirot, with approval. “M. George Lee says he has just finished
telephoning when he hears the noise overhead—but actually he had finished telephoning nearly
ten minutes before that. Where was he in those ten minutes? Mrs. George Lee says that she was
telephoning—but actually she never put through a call at all. Where was she?”
Sugden said:
“I saw you talking to her, M. Poirot?”
His voice held a question, but Poirot replied:
“You are in error!”
“Eh?”
“I was not talking to her—she was talking to me!”
“Oh—” Sugden seemed to be about to brush the distinction aside impatiently; then, as its
significance sank in, he said:
“She was talking to you, you say?”
“Most definitely. She came out here for that purpose.”
“What did she have to say?”
“She wished to stress certain points: the unEnglish character of the crime—the possibly
undesirable antecedents of Miss Estravados on the paternal side—the fact that Miss Estravados
had furtively picked up something from the floor last night.”
“She told you that, did she?” said Sugden with interest.
“Yes. What was it that the señorita picked up?”
Sugden sighed.
“I could give you three hundred guesses! I’ll show it to you. It’s the sort of thing that solves
the whole mystery in detective stories! If you can make anything out of it, I’ll retire from the
police force!”
“Show it me.”
Sugden took an envelope from his pocket and tilted its contents on to the palm of his hand. A
faint grin showed on his face.
“There you are. What do you make of it?”
On the superintendent’s broad palm lay a little triangular piece of pink rubber and a small
wooden peg.
His grin broadened as Poirot picked up the articles and frowned over them.
“Make anything of them, Mr. Poirot?”
“This little piece of stuff might have been cut from a sponge bag?”
“It was. It comes from a sponge bag in Mr. Lee’s room. Somebody with sharp scissors just
cut a small triangular piece out of it. Mr. Lee may have done it himself, for all I know. But it beats
me why he should do it. Horbury can’t throw any light on the matter. As for the peg, it’s about the
size of a cribbage peg, but they’re usually made of ivory. This is just rough wood—whittled out of
a bit of deal, I should say.”
“Most remarkable,” murmured Poirot.
“Keep ’em if you like,” said Sugden kindly. “I don’t want them.”
“Mon ami, I would not deprive you of them!”
“They don’t mean anything at all to you?”
“I must confess—nothing whatever!”
“Splendid!” said Sugden with heavy sarcasm, returning them to his pocket. “We are getting
on!”
Poirot said:
“Mrs. George Lee, she recounts that the young lady stooped and picked these bagatelles up in
a furtive manner. Should you say that that was true?”
Sugden considered the point.
“N-o,” he said hesitatingly. “I shouldn’t quite go as far as that. She didn’t look guilty—
nothing of that kind—but she did set about it rather—well, quickly and quietly—if you know what
I mean. And she didn’t know I’d seen her do it! That I’m sure of. She jumped when I rounded on
her.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“Then there was a reason? But what conceivable reason could there have been? That little
piece of rubber is quite fresh. It has not been used for anything. It can have no meaning
whatsoever; and yet—”
Sugden said impatiently:
“Well, you can worry about it if you like, Mr. Poirot. I’ve got other things to think about.”
Poirot asked:
“The case stands—where, in your opinion?”
Sugden took out his notebook.
“Let’s get down to facts. To begin with, there are the people who couldn’t have done it. Let’s
get them out of the way first—”
“They are—?”
“Alfred and Harry Lee. They’ve got a definite alibi. Also Mrs. Alfred Lee, since Tressilian
saw her in the drawing room only about a minute before the row started upstairs. Those three are
clear. Now for the others. Here’s a list. I’ve put it this way for clearness.”
He handed the book to Poirot.
At the time of the crime
George Lee ?
Mrs. George Lee ?
David Lee playing piano in music room (confirmed by his
wife)
Mrs. David Lee in music room (confirmed by husband)
Miss Estravados in her bedroom (no confirmation)
Stephen Farr in ballroom playing gramophone (confirmed by
three of staff who could hear the music in
servants’ hall).
Poirot said, handing back the list:
“And therefore?”
“And therefore,” said Sugden, “George Lee could have killed the old man. Mrs. George Lee
could have killed him. Pilar Estravados could have killed him; and either Mr. or Mrs. David Lee
could have killed him, but not both.”
“You do not, then, accept that alibi?”
Superintendent Sugden shook his head emphatically.
“Not on your life! Husband and wife—devoted to each other! They may be in it together, or
if one of them did it, the other is ready to swear to an alibi. I look at it this way: Someone was in
the music room playing the piano. It may have been David Lee. It probably was, since he was an
acknowledged musician, but there’s nothing to say his wife was there too except her word and his.
In the same way, it may have been Hilda who was playing that piano while David Lee crept
upstairs and killed his father! No, it’s an absolutely different case from the two brothers in the
dining room. Alfred Lee and Harry Lee don’t love each other. Neither of them would perjure
himself for the other’s sake.”
“What about Stephen Farr?”
“He’s a possible suspect because that gramophone alibi is a bit thin. On the other hand, it’s
the sort of alibi that’s really sounder than a good cast-iron dyed-in-the-wool alibi which, ten to
one, has been faked up beforehand!”
Poirot bowed his head thoughtfully.
“I know what you mean. It is the alibi of a man who did not know that he would be called
upon to provide such a thing.”
“Exactly! And anyway, somehow, I don’t believe a stranger was mixed up in this thing.”
Poirot said quickly:
“I agree with you. It is here a family affair. It is a poison that works in the blood—it is
intimate—it is deep-seated. There is here, I think, hate and knowledge. . . .”
He waved his hands.
“I do not know—it is difficult!”
Superintendent Sugden had waited respectfully, but without being much impressed. He said:
“Quite so, Mr. Poirot. But we’ll get at it, never fear, with elimination and logic. We’ve got
the possibilities now—the people with opportunity. George Lee, Magdalene Lee, David Lee, Hilda
Lee, Pilar Estravados, and I’ll add, Stephen Farr. Now we come to motive. Who had a motive for
putting old Mr. Lee out of the way? There again we can wash out certain people. Miss Estravados,
for one. I gather that as the will stands now, she doesn’t get anything at all. If Simeon Lee had
died before her mother, her mother’s share would have come down to her (unless her mother
willed it otherwise), but as Jennifer Estravados predeceased Simeon Lee, that particular legacy
reverts to the other members of the family. So it was definitely to Miss Estravados’ interests to
keep the old man alive. He’d taken a fancy to her; it’s pretty certain he’d have left her a good slice
of money when he made a new will. She had everything to lose and nothing to gain by his murder.
You agree to that?”
“Perfectly.”
“There remains, of course, the possibility that she cut his throat in the heat of a quarrel, but
that seems extremely unlikely to me. To begin with, they were on the best of terms, and she hadn’t
been here long enough to bear him a grudge about anything. It therefore seems highly unlikely that
Miss Estravados has anything to do with the crime—except that you might argue that to cut a
man’s throat is an unEnglish sort of thing to do, as your friend Mrs. George put it?”
“Do not call her my friend,” said Poirot hastily. “Or I shall speak of your friend Miss
Estravados, who finds you such a handsome man!”
He had the pleasure of seeing the superintendent’s official poise upset again. The police
officer turned crimson. Poirot looked at him with malicious amusement.
He said, and there was a wistful note in his voice:
“It is true that your moustache is superb . . . Tell me, do you use for it a special pomade?”
“Pomade? Good lord, no!”
“What do you use?”
“Use? Nothing at all. It—it just grows.”
Poirot sighed.
“You are favoured by nature.” He caressed his own luxuriant black moustache, then sighed.
“However expensive the preparation,” he murmured, “to restore the natural colour does somewhat
impoverish the quality of the hair.”
Superintendent Sugden, uninterested in hairdressing problems, was continuing in a stolid
manner:
“Considering the motive for the crime, I should say that we can probably wash out Mr.
Stephen Farr. It’s just possible that there was some hanky-panky between his father and Mr. Lee
and the former suffered, but I doubt it. Farr’s manner was too easy and assured when he mentioned
that subject. He was quite confident—and I don’t think he was acting. No, I don’t think we’ll find
anything there.”
“I do not think you will,” said Poirot.
“And there’s one other person with a motive for keeping old Mr. Lee alive—his son Harry.
It’s true that he benefits under the will, but I don’t believe he was aware of the fact. Certainly
couldn’t have been sure of it! The general impression seemed to be that Harry had been definitely
cut out of his share of the inheritance at the time he cut loose. But now he was on the point of
coming back into favour! It was all to his advantage that his father should make a new will. He
wouldn’t be such a fool as to kill him now. Actually, as we know, he couldn’t have done it. You
see, we’re getting on; we’re clearing quite a lot of people out of the way.”
“How true. Very soon there will be nobody left!”
Sugden grinned.
“We’re not going as fast as that! We’ve got George Lee and his wife, and David Lee and
Mrs. David. They all benefit by the death, and George Lee, from all I can make out, is grasping
about money. Moreover, his father was threatening to cut down supplies. So we’ve got George
Lee with motive and opportunity!”
“Continue,” said Poirot.
“And we’ve got Mrs. George! As fond of money as a cat is fond of cream; and I’d be
prepared to bet she’s heavily in debt at the minute! She was jealous of the Spanish girl. She was
quick to spot that the other was gaining an ascendancy over the old man. She’d heard him say that
he was sending for the lawyer. So she struck quickly. You could make out a case.”
“Possibly.”
“Then there’s David Lee and his wife. They inherit under the present will, but I don’t believe,
somehow, that the money motive would be particularly strong in their case.”
“No?”
“No. David Lee seems to be a bit of a dreamer—not a mercenary type. But he’s—well, he’s
odd. As I see it, there are three possible motives for this murder: There’s the diamond
complication, there’s the will, and there’s—well—just plain hate.”
“Ah, you see that, do you?”
Sugden said:
“Naturally. It’s been present in my mind all along. If David Lee killed his father, I don’t think
it was for money. And if he was the criminal it might explain the—well, the bloodletting!”
Poirot looked at him appreciatively.
“Yes, I wondered when you would take that into consideration. So much blood—that is what
Mrs. Alfred said. It takes one back to ancient rituals—to blood sacrifice, to the anointing with the
blood of the sacrifice. . . .”
Sugden said, frowning:
“You mean whoever did it was mad?”
“Mon cher—there are all sorts of deep instincts in man of which he himself is unaware. The
craving for blood—the demand for sacrifice!”
Sugden said doubtfully:
“David Lee looks a quiet, harmless fellow.”
Poirot said:
“You do not understand the psychology. David Lee is a man who lives in the past—a man in
whom the memory of his mother is still very much alive. He kept away from his father for many
years because he could not forgive his father’s treatment of his mother. He came here, let us
suppose, to forgive. But he may not have been able to forgive . . . We do know one thing—that
when David Lee stood by his father’s dead body, some part of him was appeased and satisfied.
‘The mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small.’ Retribution! Payment! The wrong
wiped out by expiation!”
Sugden gave a sudden shudder. He said:
“Don’t talk like that, Mr. Poirot. You give me quite a turn. It may be that it’s as you say. If
so, Mrs. David knows—and means to shield him all she knows how. I can imagine her doing that.
On the other hand, I can’t imagine her being a murderess. She’s such a comfortable commonplace
sort of woman.”
Poirot looked at him curiously.
“So she strikes you like that?” he murmured.
“Well, yes—a homely body, if you know what I mean!”
“Oh, I know what you mean perfectly!”
Sugden looked at him.
“Come, now, Mr. Poirot, you’ve got ideas about the case. Let’s have them.”
Poirot said slowly: “I have ideas, yes, but they are rather nebulous. Let me first hear your
summing-up of the case.”
“Well, it’s as I said—three possible motives: hate, gain, and this diamond complication. Take
the facts chronologically.
“3:30. Family gathering. Telephone conversation to lawyer overheard by all the family. Then
the old man lets loose on his family, tells them where they all get off. They slink out like a lot of
scared rabbits.”
“Hilda Lee remained behind,” said Poirot.
“So she did. But not for long. Then about six Alfred has an interview with his father—
unpleasant interview. Harry is to be reinstated. Alfred isn’t pleased. Alfred, of course, ought to be
our principal suspect. He had by far the strongest motive. However, to get on, Harry comes along
next. Is in boisterous spirits. Has got the old man just where he wants him. But before those two
interviews Simeon Lee has discovered the loss of the diamonds and has telephoned to me. He
doesn’t mention his loss to either of his two sons. Why? In my opinion because he was quite sure
neither of them had anything to do with it. Neither of them were under suspicion. I believe, as I’ve
said all along, that the old man suspected Horbury and one other person. And I’m pretty sure of
what he meant to do. Remember, he said definitely he didn’t want anyone to come and sit with
him that evening. Why? Because he was preparing the way for two things: First, my visit; and
second, the visit of that other suspected person. He did ask someone to come and see him
immediately after dinner. Now who was that person likely to be? Might have been George Lee.
Much more likely to have been his wife. And there’s another person who comes back into the
picture here—Pilar Estravados. He’s shown her the diamonds. He’d told her their value. How do
we know that girl isn’t a thief? Remember these mysterious hints about the disgraceful behaviour
of her father. Perhaps he was a professional thief and finally went to prison for it.”
Poirot said slowly:
“And so, as you say, Pilar Estravados comes back into the picture. . . .”
“Yes—as a thief. No other way. She may have lost her head when she was found out. She
may have flown at her grandfather and attacked him.”
Poirot said slowly:
“It is possible—yes. . . .”
Superintendent Sugden looked at him keenly.
“But that’s not your idea? Come, Mr. Poirot, what is your idea?”
Poirot said:
“I go back always to the same thing: the character of the dead man. What manner of a man
was Simeon Lee?”
“There isn’t much mystery about that,” said Sugden, staring.
“Tell me, then. That is to say, tell me from the local point of view what was known of the
man.”
Superintendent Sugden drew a doubtful finger along his jawbone. He looked perplexed. He
said:
“I’m not a local man myself. I come from Reeveshire, over the border—next county. But of
course old Mr. Lee was a well-known figure in these parts. I know all about him by hearsay.”
“Yes? And that hearsay was—what?”
Sugden said:
“Well, he was a sharp customer; there weren’t many who could get the better of him. But he
was generous with his money. Openhanded as they make ’em. Beats me how Mr. George Lee can
be the exact opposite, and be his father’s son.”
“Ah! But there are two distinct strains in the family. Alfred, George, and David resemble—
superficially at least—their mother’s side of the family. I have been looking at some portraits in
the gallery this morning.”
“He was hot-tempered,” continued Superintendent Sugden, “and of course he had a bad
reputation with women—that was in his younger days. He’s been an invalid for many years now.
But even there he always behaved generously. If there was trouble, he always paid up handsomely
and got the girl married off as often as not. He may have been a bad lot, but he wasn’t mean. He
treated his wife badly, ran after other women, and neglected her. She died of a broken heart, so
they say. It’s a convenient term, but I believe she was really very unhappy, poor lady. She was
always sickly and never went about much. There’s no doubt that Mr. Lee was an odd character.
Had a revengeful streak in him, too. If anyone did him a nasty turn he always paid it back, so they
say, and didn’t mind how long he had to wait to do it.”
“The mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small,” murmured Poirot.
Superintendent Sugden said heavily:
“Mills of the devil, more likely! Nothing saintly about Simeon Lee. The kind of man you
might say had sold his soul to the devil and enjoyed the bargain! And he was proud, too, proud as
Lucifer.”
“Proud as Lucifer!” said Poirot. “It is suggestive, what you say there.”
Superintendent Sugden said, looking puzzled:
“You don’t mean that he was murdered because he was proud?”
“I mean,” said Poirot, “that there is such a thing as inheritance. Simeon Lee transmitted that
pride to his sons—”
He broke off. Hilda Lee had come out of the house and was standing looking along the
terrace.
To him there came Superintendent Sugden. The police superintendent looked gloomy. He said:
“Good morning, Mr. Poirot. Doesn’t seem quite the right thing to say Merry Christmas, does
it?”
“Mon cher collègue, I certainly do not observe any traces of merriment on your countenance.
If you had said Merry Christmas I should not have replied ‘Many of them!’ ”
“I don’t want another one like this one, and that’s a fact,” said Sugden.
“You have made the progress, yes?”
“I’ve checked up on a good many points. Horbury’s alibi is holding water all right. The
commissionaire at the cinema saw him go in with the girl, and saw him come out with her at the
end of the performance, and seems pretty positive he didn’t leave, and couldn’t have left and
returned during the performance. The girl swears quite definitely he was with her in the cinema all
the time.”
Poirot’s eyebrows rose.
“I hardly see, then, what more there is to say.”
The cynical Sugden said:
“Well, one never knows with girls! Lie themselves black in the face for the sake of a man.”
“That does credit to their hearts,” said Hercule Poirot.
Sugden growled.
“That’s a foreign way of looking at it. It’s defeating the ends of justice.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Justice is a very strange thing. Have you ever reflected on it?”
Sugden stared at him. He said:
“You’re a queer one, Mr. Poirot.”
“Not at all. I follow a logical train of thought. But we will not enter into a dispute on the
question. It is your belief, then, that this demoiselle from the milk shop is not speaking the truth?”
Sugden shook his head.
“No,” he said, “it’s not like that at all. As a matter of fact, I think she is telling the truth. She’s
a simple kind of girl, and I think if she was telling me a pack of lies I’d spot it.”
Poirot said:
“You have the experience, yes?”
“That’s just it, Mr. Poirot. One does know, more or less, after a lifetime of taking down
statements, when a person’s lying and when they’re not. No, I think the girl’s evidence is genuine,
and if so, Horbury couldn’t have murdered old Mr. Lee, and that brings us right back to the people
in the house.”
He drew a deep breath.
“One of ’em did it, Mr. Poirot. One of ’em did it. But which?”
“You have no new data?”
“Yes, I’ve had a certain amount of luck over the telephone calls. Mr. George Lee put through
a call to Westeringham at two minutes to nine. That call lasted under six minutes.”
“Aha!”
“As you say! Moreover, no other call was put through—to Westeringham or anywhere else.”
“Very interesting,” said Poirot, with approval. “M. George Lee says he has just finished
telephoning when he hears the noise overhead—but actually he had finished telephoning nearly
ten minutes before that. Where was he in those ten minutes? Mrs. George Lee says that she was
telephoning—but actually she never put through a call at all. Where was she?”
Sugden said:
“I saw you talking to her, M. Poirot?”
His voice held a question, but Poirot replied:
“You are in error!”
“Eh?”
“I was not talking to her—she was talking to me!”
“Oh—” Sugden seemed to be about to brush the distinction aside impatiently; then, as its
significance sank in, he said:
“She was talking to you, you say?”
“Most definitely. She came out here for that purpose.”
“What did she have to say?”
“She wished to stress certain points: the unEnglish character of the crime—the possibly
undesirable antecedents of Miss Estravados on the paternal side—the fact that Miss Estravados
had furtively picked up something from the floor last night.”
“She told you that, did she?” said Sugden with interest.
“Yes. What was it that the señorita picked up?”
Sugden sighed.
“I could give you three hundred guesses! I’ll show it to you. It’s the sort of thing that solves
the whole mystery in detective stories! If you can make anything out of it, I’ll retire from the
police force!”
“Show it me.”
Sugden took an envelope from his pocket and tilted its contents on to the palm of his hand. A
faint grin showed on his face.
“There you are. What do you make of it?”
On the superintendent’s broad palm lay a little triangular piece of pink rubber and a small
wooden peg.
His grin broadened as Poirot picked up the articles and frowned over them.
“Make anything of them, Mr. Poirot?”
“This little piece of stuff might have been cut from a sponge bag?”
“It was. It comes from a sponge bag in Mr. Lee’s room. Somebody with sharp scissors just
cut a small triangular piece out of it. Mr. Lee may have done it himself, for all I know. But it beats
me why he should do it. Horbury can’t throw any light on the matter. As for the peg, it’s about the
size of a cribbage peg, but they’re usually made of ivory. This is just rough wood—whittled out of
a bit of deal, I should say.”
“Most remarkable,” murmured Poirot.
“Keep ’em if you like,” said Sugden kindly. “I don’t want them.”
“Mon ami, I would not deprive you of them!”
“They don’t mean anything at all to you?”
“I must confess—nothing whatever!”
“Splendid!” said Sugden with heavy sarcasm, returning them to his pocket. “We are getting
on!”
Poirot said:
“Mrs. George Lee, she recounts that the young lady stooped and picked these bagatelles up in
a furtive manner. Should you say that that was true?”
Sugden considered the point.
“N-o,” he said hesitatingly. “I shouldn’t quite go as far as that. She didn’t look guilty—
nothing of that kind—but she did set about it rather—well, quickly and quietly—if you know what
I mean. And she didn’t know I’d seen her do it! That I’m sure of. She jumped when I rounded on
her.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“Then there was a reason? But what conceivable reason could there have been? That little
piece of rubber is quite fresh. It has not been used for anything. It can have no meaning
whatsoever; and yet—”
Sugden said impatiently:
“Well, you can worry about it if you like, Mr. Poirot. I’ve got other things to think about.”
Poirot asked:
“The case stands—where, in your opinion?”
Sugden took out his notebook.
“Let’s get down to facts. To begin with, there are the people who couldn’t have done it. Let’s
get them out of the way first—”
“They are—?”
“Alfred and Harry Lee. They’ve got a definite alibi. Also Mrs. Alfred Lee, since Tressilian
saw her in the drawing room only about a minute before the row started upstairs. Those three are
clear. Now for the others. Here’s a list. I’ve put it this way for clearness.”
He handed the book to Poirot.
At the time of the crime
George Lee ?
Mrs. George Lee ?
David Lee playing piano in music room (confirmed by his
wife)
Mrs. David Lee in music room (confirmed by husband)
Miss Estravados in her bedroom (no confirmation)
Stephen Farr in ballroom playing gramophone (confirmed by
three of staff who could hear the music in
servants’ hall).
Poirot said, handing back the list:
“And therefore?”
“And therefore,” said Sugden, “George Lee could have killed the old man. Mrs. George Lee
could have killed him. Pilar Estravados could have killed him; and either Mr. or Mrs. David Lee
could have killed him, but not both.”
“You do not, then, accept that alibi?”
Superintendent Sugden shook his head emphatically.
“Not on your life! Husband and wife—devoted to each other! They may be in it together, or
if one of them did it, the other is ready to swear to an alibi. I look at it this way: Someone was in
the music room playing the piano. It may have been David Lee. It probably was, since he was an
acknowledged musician, but there’s nothing to say his wife was there too except her word and his.
In the same way, it may have been Hilda who was playing that piano while David Lee crept
upstairs and killed his father! No, it’s an absolutely different case from the two brothers in the
dining room. Alfred Lee and Harry Lee don’t love each other. Neither of them would perjure
himself for the other’s sake.”
“What about Stephen Farr?”
“He’s a possible suspect because that gramophone alibi is a bit thin. On the other hand, it’s
the sort of alibi that’s really sounder than a good cast-iron dyed-in-the-wool alibi which, ten to
one, has been faked up beforehand!”
Poirot bowed his head thoughtfully.
“I know what you mean. It is the alibi of a man who did not know that he would be called
upon to provide such a thing.”
“Exactly! And anyway, somehow, I don’t believe a stranger was mixed up in this thing.”
Poirot said quickly:
“I agree with you. It is here a family affair. It is a poison that works in the blood—it is
intimate—it is deep-seated. There is here, I think, hate and knowledge. . . .”
He waved his hands.
“I do not know—it is difficult!”
Superintendent Sugden had waited respectfully, but without being much impressed. He said:
“Quite so, Mr. Poirot. But we’ll get at it, never fear, with elimination and logic. We’ve got
the possibilities now—the people with opportunity. George Lee, Magdalene Lee, David Lee, Hilda
Lee, Pilar Estravados, and I’ll add, Stephen Farr. Now we come to motive. Who had a motive for
putting old Mr. Lee out of the way? There again we can wash out certain people. Miss Estravados,
for one. I gather that as the will stands now, she doesn’t get anything at all. If Simeon Lee had
died before her mother, her mother’s share would have come down to her (unless her mother
willed it otherwise), but as Jennifer Estravados predeceased Simeon Lee, that particular legacy
reverts to the other members of the family. So it was definitely to Miss Estravados’ interests to
keep the old man alive. He’d taken a fancy to her; it’s pretty certain he’d have left her a good slice
of money when he made a new will. She had everything to lose and nothing to gain by his murder.
You agree to that?”
“Perfectly.”
“There remains, of course, the possibility that she cut his throat in the heat of a quarrel, but
that seems extremely unlikely to me. To begin with, they were on the best of terms, and she hadn’t
been here long enough to bear him a grudge about anything. It therefore seems highly unlikely that
Miss Estravados has anything to do with the crime—except that you might argue that to cut a
man’s throat is an unEnglish sort of thing to do, as your friend Mrs. George put it?”
“Do not call her my friend,” said Poirot hastily. “Or I shall speak of your friend Miss
Estravados, who finds you such a handsome man!”
He had the pleasure of seeing the superintendent’s official poise upset again. The police
officer turned crimson. Poirot looked at him with malicious amusement.
He said, and there was a wistful note in his voice:
“It is true that your moustache is superb . . . Tell me, do you use for it a special pomade?”
“Pomade? Good lord, no!”
“What do you use?”
“Use? Nothing at all. It—it just grows.”
Poirot sighed.
“You are favoured by nature.” He caressed his own luxuriant black moustache, then sighed.
“However expensive the preparation,” he murmured, “to restore the natural colour does somewhat
impoverish the quality of the hair.”
Superintendent Sugden, uninterested in hairdressing problems, was continuing in a stolid
manner:
“Considering the motive for the crime, I should say that we can probably wash out Mr.
Stephen Farr. It’s just possible that there was some hanky-panky between his father and Mr. Lee
and the former suffered, but I doubt it. Farr’s manner was too easy and assured when he mentioned
that subject. He was quite confident—and I don’t think he was acting. No, I don’t think we’ll find
anything there.”
“I do not think you will,” said Poirot.
“And there’s one other person with a motive for keeping old Mr. Lee alive—his son Harry.
It’s true that he benefits under the will, but I don’t believe he was aware of the fact. Certainly
couldn’t have been sure of it! The general impression seemed to be that Harry had been definitely
cut out of his share of the inheritance at the time he cut loose. But now he was on the point of
coming back into favour! It was all to his advantage that his father should make a new will. He
wouldn’t be such a fool as to kill him now. Actually, as we know, he couldn’t have done it. You
see, we’re getting on; we’re clearing quite a lot of people out of the way.”
“How true. Very soon there will be nobody left!”
Sugden grinned.
“We’re not going as fast as that! We’ve got George Lee and his wife, and David Lee and
Mrs. David. They all benefit by the death, and George Lee, from all I can make out, is grasping
about money. Moreover, his father was threatening to cut down supplies. So we’ve got George
Lee with motive and opportunity!”
“Continue,” said Poirot.
“And we’ve got Mrs. George! As fond of money as a cat is fond of cream; and I’d be
prepared to bet she’s heavily in debt at the minute! She was jealous of the Spanish girl. She was
quick to spot that the other was gaining an ascendancy over the old man. She’d heard him say that
he was sending for the lawyer. So she struck quickly. You could make out a case.”
“Possibly.”
“Then there’s David Lee and his wife. They inherit under the present will, but I don’t believe,
somehow, that the money motive would be particularly strong in their case.”
“No?”
“No. David Lee seems to be a bit of a dreamer—not a mercenary type. But he’s—well, he’s
odd. As I see it, there are three possible motives for this murder: There’s the diamond
complication, there’s the will, and there’s—well—just plain hate.”
“Ah, you see that, do you?”
Sugden said:
“Naturally. It’s been present in my mind all along. If David Lee killed his father, I don’t think
it was for money. And if he was the criminal it might explain the—well, the bloodletting!”
Poirot looked at him appreciatively.
“Yes, I wondered when you would take that into consideration. So much blood—that is what
Mrs. Alfred said. It takes one back to ancient rituals—to blood sacrifice, to the anointing with the
blood of the sacrifice. . . .”
Sugden said, frowning:
“You mean whoever did it was mad?”
“Mon cher—there are all sorts of deep instincts in man of which he himself is unaware. The
craving for blood—the demand for sacrifice!”
Sugden said doubtfully:
“David Lee looks a quiet, harmless fellow.”
Poirot said:
“You do not understand the psychology. David Lee is a man who lives in the past—a man in
whom the memory of his mother is still very much alive. He kept away from his father for many
years because he could not forgive his father’s treatment of his mother. He came here, let us
suppose, to forgive. But he may not have been able to forgive . . . We do know one thing—that
when David Lee stood by his father’s dead body, some part of him was appeased and satisfied.
‘The mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small.’ Retribution! Payment! The wrong
wiped out by expiation!”
Sugden gave a sudden shudder. He said:
“Don’t talk like that, Mr. Poirot. You give me quite a turn. It may be that it’s as you say. If
so, Mrs. David knows—and means to shield him all she knows how. I can imagine her doing that.
On the other hand, I can’t imagine her being a murderess. She’s such a comfortable commonplace
sort of woman.”
Poirot looked at him curiously.
“So she strikes you like that?” he murmured.
“Well, yes—a homely body, if you know what I mean!”
“Oh, I know what you mean perfectly!”
Sugden looked at him.
“Come, now, Mr. Poirot, you’ve got ideas about the case. Let’s have them.”
Poirot said slowly: “I have ideas, yes, but they are rather nebulous. Let me first hear your
summing-up of the case.”
“Well, it’s as I said—three possible motives: hate, gain, and this diamond complication. Take
the facts chronologically.
“3:30. Family gathering. Telephone conversation to lawyer overheard by all the family. Then
the old man lets loose on his family, tells them where they all get off. They slink out like a lot of
scared rabbits.”
“Hilda Lee remained behind,” said Poirot.
“So she did. But not for long. Then about six Alfred has an interview with his father—
unpleasant interview. Harry is to be reinstated. Alfred isn’t pleased. Alfred, of course, ought to be
our principal suspect. He had by far the strongest motive. However, to get on, Harry comes along
next. Is in boisterous spirits. Has got the old man just where he wants him. But before those two
interviews Simeon Lee has discovered the loss of the diamonds and has telephoned to me. He
doesn’t mention his loss to either of his two sons. Why? In my opinion because he was quite sure
neither of them had anything to do with it. Neither of them were under suspicion. I believe, as I’ve
said all along, that the old man suspected Horbury and one other person. And I’m pretty sure of
what he meant to do. Remember, he said definitely he didn’t want anyone to come and sit with
him that evening. Why? Because he was preparing the way for two things: First, my visit; and
second, the visit of that other suspected person. He did ask someone to come and see him
immediately after dinner. Now who was that person likely to be? Might have been George Lee.
Much more likely to have been his wife. And there’s another person who comes back into the
picture here—Pilar Estravados. He’s shown her the diamonds. He’d told her their value. How do
we know that girl isn’t a thief? Remember these mysterious hints about the disgraceful behaviour
of her father. Perhaps he was a professional thief and finally went to prison for it.”
Poirot said slowly:
“And so, as you say, Pilar Estravados comes back into the picture. . . .”
“Yes—as a thief. No other way. She may have lost her head when she was found out. She
may have flown at her grandfather and attacked him.”
Poirot said slowly:
“It is possible—yes. . . .”
Superintendent Sugden looked at him keenly.
“But that’s not your idea? Come, Mr. Poirot, what is your idea?”
Poirot said:
“I go back always to the same thing: the character of the dead man. What manner of a man
was Simeon Lee?”
“There isn’t much mystery about that,” said Sugden, staring.
“Tell me, then. That is to say, tell me from the local point of view what was known of the
man.”
Superintendent Sugden drew a doubtful finger along his jawbone. He looked perplexed. He
said:
“I’m not a local man myself. I come from Reeveshire, over the border—next county. But of
course old Mr. Lee was a well-known figure in these parts. I know all about him by hearsay.”
“Yes? And that hearsay was—what?”
Sugden said:
“Well, he was a sharp customer; there weren’t many who could get the better of him. But he
was generous with his money. Openhanded as they make ’em. Beats me how Mr. George Lee can
be the exact opposite, and be his father’s son.”
“Ah! But there are two distinct strains in the family. Alfred, George, and David resemble—
superficially at least—their mother’s side of the family. I have been looking at some portraits in
the gallery this morning.”
“He was hot-tempered,” continued Superintendent Sugden, “and of course he had a bad
reputation with women—that was in his younger days. He’s been an invalid for many years now.
But even there he always behaved generously. If there was trouble, he always paid up handsomely
and got the girl married off as often as not. He may have been a bad lot, but he wasn’t mean. He
treated his wife badly, ran after other women, and neglected her. She died of a broken heart, so
they say. It’s a convenient term, but I believe she was really very unhappy, poor lady. She was
always sickly and never went about much. There’s no doubt that Mr. Lee was an odd character.
Had a revengeful streak in him, too. If anyone did him a nasty turn he always paid it back, so they
say, and didn’t mind how long he had to wait to do it.”
“The mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small,” murmured Poirot.
Superintendent Sugden said heavily:
“Mills of the devil, more likely! Nothing saintly about Simeon Lee. The kind of man you
might say had sold his soul to the devil and enjoyed the bargain! And he was proud, too, proud as
Lucifer.”
“Proud as Lucifer!” said Poirot. “It is suggestive, what you say there.”
Superintendent Sugden said, looking puzzled:
“You don’t mean that he was murdered because he was proud?”
“I mean,” said Poirot, “that there is such a thing as inheritance. Simeon Lee transmitted that
pride to his sons—”
He broke off. Hilda Lee had come out of the house and was standing looking along the
terrace.
