While the Light Lasts - Agatha Christie [54]
Sometimes he would argue with me on the subject.
‘But, my friend, I am not an Anglo-Saxon. Why should I play the hypocrite? Si, si, that is what you do, all of you. The airman who has made a difficult flight, the tennis champion–they look down their noses, they mutter inaudibly that “it is nothing”. But do they really think that themselves? Not for a moment. They would admire the exploit in someone else. So, being reasonable men, they admire it in themselves. But their training prevents them from saying so. Me, I am not like that. The talents that I possess–I would salute them in another. As it happens, in my own particular line, there is no one to touch me. C’est dommage! As it is, I admit freely and without hypocrisy that I am a great man. I have the order, the method and the psychology in an unusual degree. I am, in fact, Hercule Poirot! Why should I turn red and stammer and mutter into my chin that really I am very stupid? It would not be true.’
‘There is certainly only one Hercule Poirot,’ I agreed–not without a spice of malice of which, fortunately, Poirot remained quite oblivious.
Lady Chatterton was one of Poirot’s most ardent admirers. Starting from the mysterious conduct of a Pekingese, he had unravelled a chain which led to a noted burglar and housebreaker. Lady Chatterton had been loud in his praises ever since.
To see Poirot at a party was a great sight. His faultless evening clothes, the exquisite set of his white tie, the exact symmetry of his hair parting, the sheen of pomade on his hair, and the tortured splendour of his famous moustaches–all combined to paint the perfect picture of an inveterate dandy. It was hard, at these moments, to take the little man seriously.
It was about half-past eleven when Lady Chatterton, bearing down upon us, whisked Poirot neatly out of an admiring group, and carried him off–I need hardly say, with myself in tow.
‘I want you to go into my little room upstairs,’ said Lady Chatterton rather breathlessly as soon as she was out of earshot of her other guests. ‘You know where it is, M. Poirot. You’ll find someone there who needs your help very badly–and you will help her, I know. She’s one of my dearest friends–so don’t say no.’
Energetically leading the way as she talked, Lady Chatterton flung open a door, exclaiming as she did so, ‘I’ve got him, Marguerita darling. And he’ll do anything you want. You will help Mrs Clayton, won’t you, M. Poirot?’
And taking the answer for granted, she withdrew with the same energy that characterized all her movements.
Mrs Clayton had been sitting in a chair by the window. She rose now and came toward us. Dressed in deep mourning, the dull black showed up her fair colouring. She was a singularly lovely woman, and there was about her a simple childlike candour which made her charm quite irresistible.
‘Alice Chatterton is so kind,’ she said. ‘She arranged this. She said you would help me, M. Poirot. Of course I don’t know whether you will or not–but I hope you will.’
She had held out her hand and Poirot had taken it. He held it now for a moment or two while he stood scrutinizing her closely. There was nothing ill-bred in his manner of doing it. It was more the kind but searching look that a famous consultant gives a new patient as the latter is ushered into his presence.
‘Are you sure, madame,’ he said at last, ‘that I can help you?’
‘Alice says so.’
‘Yes, but I am asking you, madame.’
A little flush rose to her cheeks.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘What is it, madame, that you want me to do?’
‘You–you–know who I am?’ she asked.
‘Assuredly.’
‘Then you can guess what it is I am asking you to do, M. Poirot–Captain Hastings’–I was gratified that she realized my identity–‘Major Rich did not kill my husband.’
‘Why not?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Poirot smiled at her slight discomfiture.
‘I said, “Why not?”’ he repeated.
‘I’m not sure that I understand.’
‘Yet it is very simple. The police–the lawyers–they will all ask the same question: Why did Major Rich