Th0 g
h
well
Suddenly
Poirot
uttered
in ,.
"Those
holes
there they
are
a
h
exclamation
uri
·
,ous.
One
would
THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST
43
say that they had been newly made."
The holes in question were at the back of the
chest against the wall. There were three or four of
them. They were about a quarter of an inch in
diameter- and certainly had the effect of having
been freshly made.
Poirot bent down to examine them, looking in-quiringly
at the valet.
"It's certainly curious, sir. I don't remember
ever seeing those holes in the past, though maybe I
wouldn't notice them."
"It makes no matter," said Poirot.
Closing the lid of the chest, he stepped back into
the room until he was standing with his back
against the window. Then he suddenly asked a
question.
"Tell me," he said. "When you brought the x
cigarettes into your master that night,, was there
not something out of place in the room?"
Burgoyne hesitated for a minute, then with
some slight reluctance he replied,
"It's odd your saying that, sir. Now you come
to mention it, there was. That screen there that
cuts off the draft from the bedroom door--it was
moved a bit more to the left."
"Like this?"
Poirot darted nimbly forward and pulled at the
screen. It was a handsome affair of painted
leather. It already slightly obscured the view of the
chest, and as Poirot adjusted it, it hid the chest
altogether.
"That's right, sir," said the valet. "It was like
that."
"And the next morning?"
44
Agatha Christie
"It was still like that. I remember. I moved it
away and it was then I saw the stain. The carpet's
gone to be cleaned, sir. That's why the boards are
bare."
Poirot nodded.
"I see," he said. "I thank you."
He placed a crisp piece of paper in the valet's
palm.
"Thank you, sir."
"Poirot," I said when we were out in the street,
"that point about the screen--is that a point
helpful to Rich?"
"It is a further point against him," said Poirot
ruefully. "The screen hid the chest from the room.
It also hid the stain on the carpet. Sooner or later
the blood was bound to soak through the wood
and stain the carpet. The screen would prevent
discovery for the moment. Yes--but there is some-thing
there that I do not understand. The valet,
Hastings, the valet."
"What about the valet? He seemed a most in-telligent
fellow."
"As you say, most intelligent. Is it credible,
then, that Major Rich failed to realize that the
valet would certainly discover the body in the
morning? Immediately after the deed he had no
time for anything--granted. He shoves the body
into the chest, pulls the screen in front of it and
goes through the evening hoping for the best. But
after the guests are gone? Surely, then is the time
to dispose of the body."
"Perhaps he hoped the valet wouldn't notice
the stain?"
"That, mort ami, is absurd. A stained carpet is
THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST
the first thing a good servant would be bound to,
notice. And Major Rich, he goes to bed and snores
there comfortably and does nothing at all about
the matter. Very remarkable and interesting,
that."
"Curtiss might have seen the stains when he
was changing the records the night before?" I sug,
gested.
"That is unlikely. The screen would throw
deep shadow just there. No, but I begin to see,
Yes, dimly I begin to see."
"See what?" I asked eagerly.
"The possibilities, shall we say, of an alter,,
native explanation. Our next visit may throw light
on things."
Our next visit was to the doctor who had exam,
ined the body. His evidence was a mere recapitula,
tion of what he had already given at the inquest.
Deceased had been stabbed to the heart with
long thin knife something like a stiletto. The knife
had been left in the wound. Death had been in,
stantaneous. The knife was the property of Major
Rich and usually lay on his writing table. Ther
were no fingerprints on it, the doctor understood,
It had been either wiped or held in a handkerchief.
As regards time, any time between seven and hint
seemed indicated.
"He could not, for instance, have been kille
after midnight?" asked Poirot.
"No. That I can say. Ten o'clock at the outsid
--but seven-thirty to eight seems clearly indi,
cated."
"There is a second hypothesis possible," Poirol
said when we were back home. "I wonder if y0
46
Agatha Christie
see it, Hastings. To me it is very plain, and I only
need one point to clear up the matter for good and
all. ' '
"It's no good," I said. "I'm not there."
"But make an effort, Hastings. Make an ef-fort.''
"Very well," I said. "At seven-forty Clayton is
alive and well. The last person to see him alive is
Rich--"
"So we assume."
"Well, isn't it so?"
"You forget, rnon ami, that Major Rich denies
that. He states explicitly that Clayton had gone
when he came in"
"But the valet says that he would have heard
Clayton leave because of the bang of the door.
And also, if Clayton had left, when did he return?
He couldn't have returned after midnight because
the doctor says positively that he was dead at least
two hours before that. That only leaves one alter-native."
"Yes, rnon ami?" said Poirot.
"That in the five minutes Clayton was alone in
the sitting room, someone else came in and killed
him. But there we have the same objection. Only
someone with a key could come in without the
valet's knowing, and in the same way the mur-derer
on leaving would have had to bang the door,
and that again the valet would have heard."
"Exactly," said Poirot. "And therefore--"
"And therefore--nothing," I said. "I can see
no other solution."
"It is a pity," murmured Poirot. "And it is
THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST
47
really so exceedingly simple--as the clear blue eyes
of Madame Clayton."
"You really believe--"
"I believe nothing--until I have got proof. One
little proof will convince me."
He took up the telephone and called japp at
Scotland Yard.
Twenty minutes later we were standing before a
little heap of assorted objects laid out on a table.
They were the contents of the dead man's pockets.
There was a handkerchief, a handful of loose
change, a pocketbook containing three pounds ten
shillings, a couple of bills and a worn snapshot of
Marguerita Clayton. There was also a pocket-knife,
a gold pencil and a cumbersome wooden
tool.
It was on this latter that Poirot swooped. He
unscrewed it and several small blades fell out.
"You see, Hastings, a gimlet and all the rest of
it. Ah! it would be a matter of a very few minutes
to bore a few holes in the chest with this.'
"Those holes we saw?"
"Precisely."
"You mean it was Clayton who bored them
himself?''
"Mais, ouimrnais, oui! What did they suggest
to you, those holes? They were not to see through,
because they were at the back of the chest. What
were they for, then? Clearly for air? But you do
not make air holes for a dead body, so clearly they
were not made by the murderer. They suggest one
thing--and one thing only--that a man was going
to hide in that chest. And at once, on that hypoth
48
Agatha Christie
esis, things become ifitelligible. Mr. Clayton is
jealous of his wife and Rich. He plays the old, old
trick of pretending to go away. He watches Rich
go out, then he gains admission, is left alone to
write a note, quickly bores those holes and hides
inside the chest. His wife is coming there that
night. Possibly Rich will put the others off, possi-bly
she will remain after the others have gone, or
pretend to go and return. Whatever it is, Clayton
will know. Anything is preferable to the ghastly
torment of suspicion he is enduring."
"Then you mean that Rich killed him after the
others had gone? But the doctor said that was im-possible.''
"Exactly. So you see, Hastings, he must have
been killed during the evening."
"But everyone was in the room!"
"Precisely," said Poirot gravely. "You see the
beauty of that? 'Everyone was in the room.' What
an alibi! What sangfroid--what nerve--what au-dacity!''
"I still don't understand." .
"Who went behind that screen to wind up the
phonograph and change the records? The phono-graph
and the chest were side by side, remember.
The others are dancing--the phonograph is play-ing.
And the man who does not dance lifts the lid
of the chest and thrusts the knife he has just
.slipped into his sleeve deep into the body of the
man who was hiding there."
"Impossible! The man would cry out."
"Not if he were drugged first?"
"Drugged?"
"Yes. Who did Clayton have a drink with at
THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST
49
seven-thirty? Ah! Now you see. Curtiss! Curtiss
has inflamed Clayton's mind with suspicions
against his wife and Rich. Curtiss suggests this
plan--the visit to Scotland, the concealment in the
chest, the final touch of moving the screen. Not so
that Clayton can raise the lid a little and get
relief--no, so that he, Curtiss, can raise that lid
unobserved. The plan is Curtiss', and observe the
beauty of it, Hastings. If Rich had observed the
screen was out of place and moved it back--well,
no harm is done. He can make another plan.
Clayton hides in the chest, the mild narcotic that
Curtiss had administered takes effect. He sinks
into unconsciousness. Curtiss lifts up the lid and
strikes--and the phonograph goes on playing
Walking My Baby Back Home."
I found my voice. "Why? But why?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"Why did a man shoot himself? Why did two
Italians fight a duel? Curtiss is of a dark passion-ate
temperament. He wanted Marguerita Clayton.
With her husband and Rich out of the way, she
would, or so he thought, turn to him."
He added musingly:
"These simple childlike women . . . they are
very dangerous. But mon Dieu.t what an artistic
like that. I may be a genius myself, but I am
capable of recognizing genius in other people. A
perfect murder, mon ami. I, Hercule Poirot, say it
to you. A perfect murder, tpatant,t''
How Does your
Garden Grow?
Hercule Poirot arranged his letters in a neat pile in
front of him. He picked up the topmost letter,
studied the address for a moment, then neatly slit
the back of the envelope with a little paper knife
that he kept on the breakfast table for that express
purpose and extracted the contents. Inside was yet
another envelope, carefully sealed with purple wax
and marked "Private and Confidential."
Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose a little on his
egg-shaped head. He murmured, "Patience! Nous
allons arriver!" and once more brought the little
paper knife into play. This time the envelope
yielded a letter--written in a rather shaky and
spiky handwriting. Several words were heavily
underlined.
Hercule Poirot unfolded it and read. The letter
was headed once again "Private and Confiden
tial." On the right-hand side was the address
53
Agatha Christie
--Rosebank, Charman's Green, Bucks--and the
date--March twenty-first.
Dear M. Poirot: I have been recommended
to you by an old and valued friend of mine
who knows the worry and distress I have been
in lately. Not that this friend knows the actual
circumstances--those I have kept entirely to
myself--the matter being strictly private. My
friend assures me that you are discretion
itself--and that there will be no fear of my
being involved in a police matter which, if my
suspicions should prove correct, I should very
much dislike. But it is of course possible that
I am entirely mistaken. I do not feel myself
clear-headed enough nowadays--suffering
as I do from insomnia and the result of a
severe illness last winter--to investigate
things for myself. I have neither the means
nor the ability. On the other hand, I must
reiterate once more that this is a very delicate
family matter and that for many reasons I
may want the whole thing hushed up. If I am
once assured of the facts, I can deal with the
matter myself and should prefer to do so. I
hope that I have made myself clear on this
point. If you will undertake this investiga-tion,
perhaps you will let me know to the
above address?
Yours very truly,
AMELIA BARROWBY.
Poirot read the letter through twice. Again his
HOW DOES YOUR GARDEI$R()W?
55
eyebrows rose
slightly. Then he laced it on one
side and pr-o, ceeded to the next envelop ¢ in the pile.
At ten o clock precisely he eter-d the room
where Miss Lemon, his confidenlial scretary, sat
awaiting her instructions for the day. Miss Lemon
was forty-eight and of unprepossessing appearance.
Her general effect was that of a lot of bones
flung together at random. She had a passion for
order almost equaling that of Poirot aimself; and
though capable of thinking, sh nx'er thought
unless told to do so.
Poirot handed her the morning correspondence'
"Have the goodness, mademoiselle, to write refusals
couched in correct terms to all (if these."
Miss Lemon ran an eye over the vafious letters,
scribbling in turn a hieroglyphic n egtch of them.
These marks were legible to her al0na and were in
a code of her own: "Soft soap"; ,'slap in the
face"; "purr purr"; "curt"; anti so on. Having
done this, she nodded and looked uP for further
instructions.
Poirot handed her Amelia Barro*vbY's letter.
She extracted it from its double envelope, read it