The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding - Agatha Christie [34]
He was looking at the firm jaw, the narrow head. A lean brown man, athletic and sinewy. Something of the greyhound about him. A man whose face gave nothing away, and who was receiving his visitor with a marked lack of cordiality.
‘I quite understand that Mrs Clayton sent you to see me with the best intentions. But quite frankly, I think she was unwise. Unwise both for her own sake and mine.’
‘You mean?’
Rich gave a nervous glance over his shoulder. But the attendant warder was the regulation distance away. Rich lowered his voice.
‘They’ve got to find a motive for this ridiculous accusation. They’ll try to bring that there was an – association between Mrs Clayton and myself. That, as I know Mrs Clayton will have told you, is quite untrue. We are friends, nothing more. But surely it is advisable that she should make no move on my behalf ?’
Hercule Poirot ignored the point. Instead he picked out a word.
‘You said this “ridiculous” accusation. But it is not that, you know.’
‘I did not kill Arnold Clayton.’
‘Call it then a false accusation. Say the accusation is not true. But it is not ridiculous. On the contrary, it is highly plausible. You must know that very well.’
‘I can only tell you that to me it seems fantastic.’
‘Saying that will be of very little use to you. We must think of something more useful than that.’
‘I am represented by solicitors. They have briefed, I understand, eminent counsel to appear for my defence. I cannot accept your use of the word “we”.’
Unexpectedly Poirot smiled.
‘Ah,’ he said, in his most foreign manner, ‘that is the flea in the ear you give me. Very well. I go. I wanted to see you. I have seen you. Already I have looked up your career. You passed high up into Sandhurst. You passed into the Staff College. And so on and so on. I have made my own judgement of you today. You are not a stupid man.’
‘And what has all that got to do with it?’
‘Everything! It is impossible that a man of your ability should commit a murder in the way this one was committed. Very well. You are innocent. Tell me now about your manservant Burgess.’
‘Burgess?’
‘Yes. If you didn’t kill Clayton, Burgess must have done so. The conclusion seems inescapable. But why? There must be a “why?” You are the only person who knows Burgess well enough to make a guess at it. Why, Major Rich, why?’
‘I can’t imagine. I simply can’t see it. Oh, I’ve followed the same line of reasoning as you have. Yes, Burgess had opportunity – the only person who had except myself. The trouble is, I just can’t believe it. Burgess is not the sort of man you can imagine murdering anybody.’
‘What do your legal advisers think?’
Rich’s lips set in a grim line.
‘My legal advisers spend their time asking me, in a persuasive way, if it isn’t true that I have suffered all my life from blackouts when I don’t really know what I am doing!’
‘As bad as that,’ said Poirot. ‘Well, perhaps we shall find it is Burgess who is subject to blackouts. It is always an idea. The weapon now. They showed it to you and asked you if it was yours?’
‘It was not mine. I had never seen it before.’
‘It was not yours, no. But are you quite sure you had never seen it before?’
‘No.’ Was there a faint hesitation? ‘It’s a kind of ornamental toy – really – One sees things like that lying about in people’s houses.’
‘In a woman’s drawing-room, perhaps. Perhaps in Mrs Clayton’s drawing-room?’
‘Certainly NOT!’
The last word came out loudly and the warder looked up.
‘Très bien. Certainly not – and there is no need to shout. But somewhere, at some time, you have seen something very like it. Eh? I am right?’
‘I do not think so . . . In some curio shop . . . perhaps.’
‘Ah, very likely.’ Poirot rose. ‘I take my leave.’
VII
‘And now,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘for Burgess. Yes, at long last, for Burgess.’
He had learnt something about the people in the case, from themselves and from each other. But nobody had given him any knowledge of Burgess. No clue, no hint, of what kind of a man he was.
When he saw Burgess he realized why.
The