The Dead Man’s Mirror
A Hercule Poirot Short Story
by Agatha Christie
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Copyright © 2008 Agatha Christie Ltd.
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Ebook Edition © JUNE 2014 ISBN 9780007560165
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Contents
Copyright
‘Dead Man’s Mirror’ is an expanded version of the story ‘The Second Gong’ which was first published in the USA in Ladies’ Home Journal, June 1932, then in The Strand, July 1932.
The flat was a modern one. The furnishings of the room were modern, too. The armchairs were squarely built, the upright chairs were angular. A modern writing-table was set squarely in front of the window, and at it sat a small, elderly man. His head was practically the only thing in the room that was not square. It was egg-shaped.
M. Hercule Poirot was reading a letter:
Station: Whimperley.
Telegrams: Hamborough St John.
Hamborough Close,
Hamborough St Mary, Westshire. September 24th, 1936.
M. Hercule Poirot.
Dear Sir, – A matter has arisen which requires handling with great delicacy and discretion. I have heard good accounts of you, and have decided to entrust the matter to you. I have reason to believe that I am the victim of fraud, but for family reasons I do not wish to call in the police. I am taking certain measures of my own to deal with the business, but you must be prepared to come down here immediately on receipt of a telegram. I should be obliged if you will not answer this letter.
Yours faithfully,
GERVASE CHEVENIX-GORE.
The eyebrows of M. Hercule Poirot climbed slowly up his forehead until they nearly disappeared into his hair.
‘And who, then,’ he demanded of space, ‘is this Gervase Chevenix-Gore?’
He crossed to a bookcase and took out a large, fat book.
He found what he wanted easily enough.
Chevenix-Gore, Sir Gervase Francis Xavier, 10th Bt. cr. 1694; formerly Captain 17th Lancers; b. 18th May, 1878; e.s. of Sir Guy Chevenix-Gore, 9th Bt., and Lady Claudia Bretherton, 2nd. d. of 8th Earl of Wallingford. S. father, 1911; m. 1912, Vanda Elizabeth, e.d. of Colonel Frederick Arbuthnot, q.v.; educ. Eton. Served European War, 1914–18. Recreations: travelling, big-game hunting. Address: Hamborough St Mary, Westshire, and 218 Lowndes Square, S.W.1. Clubs: Cavalry. Travellers.
Poirot shook his head in a slightly dissatisfied manner. For a moment or two he remained lost in thought, then he went to the desk, pulled open a drawer and took out a little pile of invitation cards.
His face brightened.
‘A la bonne heure! Exactly my affair! He will certainly be there.’
A duchess greeted M. Hercule Poirot in fulsome tones.
‘So you could manage to come after all, M. Poirot! Why, that’s splendid.’
‘The pleasure is mine, madame,’ murmured Poirot, bowing.
He escaped from several important and splendid beings – a famous diplomat, an equally famous actress and a well-known sporting peer – and found at last the person he had come to seek, that invariably ‘also present’ guest, Mr Satterthwaite.
Mr Satterthwaite twittered amiably.
‘The dear duchess – I always enjoy her parties … Such a personality, if you know what I mean. I saw a lot of her in Corsica some years ago …’
Mr Satterthwaite’s conversation was apt to be unduly burdened by mentions of his titled acquaintances. It is possible that he may sometimes have found pleasure in the company of Messrs. Jones, Brown or Robinson, but, if so, he did not mention the fact. And yet, to describe Mr Satterthwaite as a mere snob and leave it at that would have been to do him an injustice. He was a keen observer of human nature, and if it is true that the looker-on knows most of the game, Mr Satterthwaite knew a good deal.
‘You know, my dear fellow, it is really ages since I saw you. I always feel myself privileged to have seen you work at close quarters in the Crow’s Nest business. I feel since then that I am in the know, so to speak. I saw Lady Mary only last week, by the way. A charming creature – pot-pourri and lavender!’
After passing lightly on one or two scandals of the moment – the indiscretions of an earl’s daughter, and the lamentable conduct of a viscount – Poirot succeeded in introducing the name of Gervase Chevenix-Gore.
Mr Satterthwaite responded immediately.
‘Ah, now, there is a character, if you like! The Last of the Baronets – that’s his nickname.’
‘Pardon, I do not quite comprehend.’
Mr Satterthwaite unbent indulgently to the lower comprehension of a foreigner.
‘It’s a joke, you know – a joke. Naturally, he’s not really the last baronet in England – but he does represent the end of an era. The Bold Bad Baronet – the mad harum-scarum baronet so popular in the novels of the last century – the kind of fellow who laid impossible wagers and won ’em.’
He went on to expound what he meant in more detail. In younger years, Gervase Chevenix-Gore had sailed round the world in a windjammer. He had been on an expedition to the Pole. He