Hercule Poirot's Christmas

‘And when you went into his room afterwards, did he look upset?’

‘Just a bit, sir. Seemed absent-minded and worried.’

‘So much so that you got the wind up – eh?’

‘Look here, Mr Sugden, I won’t have you saying things like that. Never touched any diamonds, I didn’t, and you can’t prove I did. I’m not a thief.’

Superintendent Sugden, unimpressed, said:

‘That remains to be seen.’ He glanced questioningly at the chief constable, received a nod, and went on: ‘That’ll do for you, my lad. Shan’t want you again tonight.’

Horbury went out gratefully in haste.

Sugden said appreciatively:

‘Pretty bit of work, M. Poirot. You trapped him as neatly as I’ve ever seen it done. He may be a thief or he may not, but he’s certainly a first-class liar!’

‘An unprepossessing person,’ said Poirot.

‘Nasty bit of goods,’ agreed Johnson. ‘Question is, what do we think of his evidence?’

Sugden summarized the position neatly.

‘Seems to me there are three possibilities: (1) Horbury’s a thief and a murderer. (2) Horbury’s a thief, but not a murderer. (3) Horbury’s an innocent man. Certain amount of evidence for (1). He overheard telephone call and knew the theft had been discovered. Gathered from old man’s manner that he was suspected. Made his plans accordingly. Went out ostentatiously at eight o’clock and cooked up an alibi. Easy enough to slip out of a cinema and return there unnoticed. He’d have to be pretty sure of the girl, though, that she wouldn’t give him away. I’ll see what I can get out of her tomorrow.’

‘How, then, did he manage to re-enter the house?’ asked Poirot.

‘That’s more difficult,’ Sugden admitted. ‘But there might be ways. Say one of the women servants unlocked a side door for him.’

Poirot raised his eyebrows quizzically.

‘He places, then, his life at the mercy of two women? With one woman it would be taking a big risk; with two – eh bien, I find the risk fantastic!’

Sugden said:

‘Some criminals think they can get away with anything!’

He went on:

‘Let’s take (2). Horbury pinched those diamonds. He took ’em out of the house tonight and has possibly passed them on to some accomplice. That’s quite easy going and highly probable. Now we’ve got to admit that somebody else chose this night to murder Mr Lee. That somebody being quite unaware of the diamond complication. It’s possible, of course, but it’s a bit of a coincidence.

‘Possibility (3) – Horbury’s innocent. Somebody else both took the diamonds and murdered the old gentleman. There it is; it’s up to us to get at the truth.’

Colonel Johnson yawned. He looked again at his watch and got up.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think we’ll call it a night, eh? Better just have a look in the safe before we go. Odd thing if those wretched diamonds were there all the time.’

But the diamonds were not in the safe. They found the combination where Alfred Lee had told them, in the small note-book taken from the dressing-gown pocket of the dead man. In the safe they found an empty chamois-leather bag. Among the papers the safe contained only one was of interest.

It was a will dated some fifteen years previously. After various legacies and bequests, the provisions were simple enough. Half Simeon Lee’s fortune went to Alfred Lee. The other half was to be divided in equal shares between his remaining children: Harry, George, David and Jennifer.

Part 4. December 25th

I

In the bright sun of Christmas noon, Poirot walked in the gardens of Gorston Hall. The Hall itself was a large solidly built house with no special architectural pretensions.

Here, on the south side, was a broad terrace flanked with a hedge of clipped yew. Little plants grew in the interstices of the stone flags and at intervals along the terrace there were stone sinks arranged as miniature gardens.

Poirot surveyed them with benign approval. He murmured to himself:

‘C’est bien imaginé, ça!’

In the distance he caught sight of two figures going towards an ornamental sheet of water some three hundred yards away. Pilar was easily recognizable as one of the figures, and he thought at first the other was Stephen Farr, then he saw that the man with Pilar was Harry Lee. Harry seemed very attentive to his attractive niece. At intervals he flung his head back and laughed, then bent once more attentively towards her.

‘Assuredly, there is one who does not mourn,’ Poirot murmured to himself.

A soft sound behind him made him turn. Magdalene Lee was standing there. She, too, was looking at the retreating figures of the man and girl. She turned her head and smiled enchantingly at Poirot. She said:

‘It’s such a glorious sunny day! One can hardly believe in all the horrors of last night, can one, M. Poirot?’

‘It is difficult, truly, madame.’

Magdalene sighed.

‘I’ve never been mixed up in tragedy before. I’ve – I’ve really only just grown up. I stayed a child too long, I think – That’s not a good thing to do.’

Again she sighed. She said:

‘Pilar, now, seems so extraordinarily self-possessed – I suppose it’s the Spanish blood. It’s all very odd, isn’t it?’