Hercule Poirot's Christmas

‘No, no. It isI who am putting it like that, not you. I am pointing out to you that under these conditions – mental strain, physical malaise – it is highly probable that dislikes that were before merely mild and disagreements that were trivial might suddenly assume a more serious character. The result of pretending to be a more amiable, a more forgiving, a more high-minded person than one really is, has sooner or later the effect of causing one to behave as a more disagreeable, a more ruthless and an altogether more unpleasant person than is actually the case! If you dam the stream of natural behaviour,mon ami, sooner or later the dam bursts and a cataclysm occurs!’

Colonel Johnson looked at him doubtfully.

‘Never know when you’re serious and when you’re pulling my leg,’ he grumbled.

Poirot smiled at him.

‘I am not serious! Not in the least am I serious! But all the same, it is true what I say – artificial conditions bring about their natural reaction.’

Colonel Johnson’s manservant entered the room.

‘Superintendent Sugden on the phone, sir.’

‘Right. I’ll come.’

With a word of apology the chief constable left the room.

He returned some three minutes later. His face was grave and perturbed.

‘Damn it all!’ he said. ‘Case of murder! On Christmas Eve, too!’

Poirot’s eyebrows rose.

‘It is that definitely – murder, I mean?’

‘Eh? Oh, no other solution possible! Perfectly clear case. Murder – and a brutal murder at that!’

‘Who is the victim?’ 

‘Old Simeon Lee. One of the richest men we’ve got! Made his money in South Africa originally. Gold – no, diamonds, I believe. He sunk an immense fortune in manufacturing some particular gadget of mining machinery. His own invention, I believe. Anyway, it’s paid him hand over fist! They say he’s a millionaire twice over.’

Poirot said: ‘He was well liked, yes?’

Johnson said slowly:

‘Don’t think anyone liked him. Queer sort of chap. He’s been an invalid for some years now. I don’t know very much about him myself. But of course he is one of the big figures of the county.’

‘So this case, it will make a big stir?’

‘Yes. I must get over to Longdale as fast as I can.’

He hesitated, looking at his guest. Poirot answered the unspoken question:

‘You would like that I should accompany you?’

Johnson said awkwardly:

‘Seems a shame to ask you. But, well, you know how it is! Superintendent Sugden is a good man, none better, painstaking, careful, thoroughly sound – but – well, he’s not an imaginative chap in any way. Should like very much, as you are here, benefit of your advice.’

He halted a little over the end part of his speech, making it somewhat telegraphic in style. Poirot responded quickly. 

‘I shall be delighted. You can count on me to assist you in any way I can. We must not hurt the feelings of the good superintendent. It will be his case – not mine. I am only the unofficial consultant.’

Colonel Johnson said warmly:

‘You’re a good fellow, Poirot.’

With those words of commendation, the two men started out.

VI

It was a constable who opened the front door to them and saluted. Behind him, Superintendent Sugden advanced down the hall and said:

‘Glad you’ve got here, sir. Shall we come into this room here on the left – Mr Lee’s study? I’d like to run over the main outlines. The whole thing’s a rum business.’

He ushered them into a small room on the left of the hall. There was a telephone there and a big desk covered with papers. The walls were lined with bookcases.

The chief constable said: ‘Sugden, this is M. Hercule Poirot. You may have heard of him. Just happened to be staying with me. Superintendent Sugden.’

Poirot made a little bow and looked the other man over. He saw a tall man with square shoulders and a military bearing who had an aquiline nose, a pugnacious jaw and a large flourishing chestnut-coloured moustache. Sugden stared hard at Hercule Poirot after acknowledging the introduction. Hercule Poirot stared hard at Superintendent Sugden’s moustache. Its luxuriance seemed to fascinate him.

The superintendent said:

‘Of course I have heard of you, Mr Poirot. You were in this part of the world some years ago, if I remember rightly. Death of Sir Bartholomew Strange. Poisoning case. Nicotine. Not my district, but of course I heard all about it.’

Colonel Johnson said impatiently:

‘Now, then, Sugden, let’s have the facts. A clear case, you said.’

‘Yes, sir, it’s murder right enough – not a doubt of that. Mr Lee’s throat was cut – jugular vein severed, I understand from the doctor. But there’s something very odd about the whole matter.’

‘You mean– ?’

‘I’d like you to hear my story first, sir. These are the circumstances: This afternoon, about five o’clock, I was rung up by Mr Lee at Addlesfield police station. He sounded a bit odd over the phone – asked me to come and see him at eight o’clock this evening – made a special point of the time. Moreover, he instructed me to say to the butler that I was collecting subscriptions for some police charity.’

The chief constable looked up sharply.