The Clocks - Agatha Christie [49]
He sighed and shook his head and murmured, obviously by a natural association of ideas:
“Ce cher Hastings. My friend Hastings of whom you have often heard me speak. It is a long time since I have had news of him. What an absurdity to go and bury oneself in South America, where they are always having revolutions.”
“That’s not confined to South America,” I pointed out. “They’re having revolutions all over the world nowadays.”
“Let us not discuss the Bomb,” said Hercule Poirot. “If it has to be, it has to be, but let us not discuss it.”
“Actually,” I said, “I came to discuss something quite different with you.”
“Ah! You are about to be married, is that it? I am delighted, mon cher, delighted.”
“What on earth put that in your head, Poirot?” I asked. “Nothing of the kind.”
“It happens,” said Poirot, “it happens every day.”
“Perhaps,” I said firmly, “but not to me. Actually I came to tell you that I’d run across rather a pretty little problem in murder.”
“Indeed? A pretty problem in murder, you say? And you have brought it to me. Why?”
“Well—” I was slightly embarrassed. “I—I thought you might enjoy it,” I said.
Poirot looked at me thoughtfully. He caressed his moustache with a loving hand, then he spoke.
“A master,” he said, “is often kind to his dog. He goes out and throws a ball for the dog. A dog, however, is also capable of being kind to its master. A dog kills a rabbit or a rat and he brings it and lays it at his master’s feet. And what does he do then? He wags his tail.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Am I wagging my tail?”
“I think you are, my friend. Yes, I think you are.”
“All right then,” I said. “And what does master say? Does he want to see doggy’s rat? Does he want to know all about it?”
“Of course. Naturally. It is a crime that you think will interest me. Is that right?”
“The whole point of it is,” I said, “that it just doesn’t make sense.”
“That is impossible,” said Poirot. “Everything makes sense. Everything.”
“Well, you try and make sense of this. I can’t. Not that it’s really anything to do with me. I just happened to come in on it. Mind you, it may turn out to be quite straightforward, once the dead man is identified.”
“You are talking without method or order,” said Poirot severely. “Let me beg of you to let me have the facts. You say it is a murder, yes?”
“It’s a murder all right,” I assured him. “Well, here we go.”
I described to him in detail the events that had taken place at 19, Wilbraham Crescent. Hercule Poirot leant back in his chair. He closed his eyes and gently tapped with a forefinger the arm of his chair while he listened to my recital. When I finally stopped, he did not speak for a moment. Then he asked, without opening his eyes:
“Sans blague?”
“Oh, absolutely,” I said.
“Epatant,” said Hercule Poirot. He savoured the word on his tongue and repeated it syllable by syllable. “E-pa-tant.” After that he continued his tapping on the arm of his chair and gently nodded his head.
“Well,” I said impatiently, after waiting a few moments more. “What have you got to say?”
“But what do you want me to say?”
“I want you to give me the solution. I’ve always understood from you that it was perfectly possible to lie back in one’s chair, just think about it all, and come up with the answer. That it was quite unnecessary to go and question people and run about looking for clues.”
“It is what I have always maintained.”
“Well, I’m calling your bluff,” I said. “I’ve given you the facts, and now I want the answer.”
“Just like that, hein? But then there is a lot more to be known, mon ami. We are only at the beginning of the facts. Is that not so?”
“I still want you to come up with something.”
“I see.” He reflected a moment. “One thing is certain,” he pronounced. “It must be a very simple crime.”
“Simple?” I demanded