She left the room and returned almost immediately with a dainty wisp of white satin and green. Poirot took it from her and examined it, handing it back with a bow.
‘Merci, madame! I see you have had the misfortune to lose one of your green pompons, the one on the shoulder here.’
‘Yes, it got torn off at the ball. I picked it up and gave it to poor Lord Cronshaw to keep for me.’
‘That was after supper?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not long before the tragedy, perhaps?’
A faint look of alarm came into Mrs Davidson’s pale eyes, and she replied quickly: ‘Oh no—long before that. Quite soon after supper, in fact.’
‘I see. Well, that is all. I will not derange you further. Bonjour, madame.’
‘Well,’ I said as we emerged from the building, ‘that explains the mystery of the green pompon.’
‘I wonder.’
‘Why, what do you mean?’
‘You saw me examine the dress, Hastings?’
‘Yes?’
‘Eh bien, the pompon that was missing had not been wrenched off, as the lady said. On the contrary, it had been cut off, my friend, cut off with scissors. The threads were all quite even.’
‘Dear me!’ I exclaimed. ‘This becomes more and more involved.’
‘On the contrary,’ replied Poirot placidly, ‘it becomes more and more simple.’
‘Poirot,’ I cried, ‘one day I shall murder you! Your habit of finding everything perfectly simple is aggravating to the last degree!’
‘But when I explain, mon ami, is it not always perfectly simple?’
‘Yes; that is the annoying part of it! I feel then that I could have done it myself.’
‘And so you could, Hastings, so you could. If you would but take the trouble of arranging your ideas! Without method—’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said hastily, for I knew Poirot’s eloquence when started on his favourite theme only too well. ‘Tell me, what do we do next? Are you really going to reconstruct the crime?’
‘Hardly that. Shall we say that the drama is over, but that I propose to add a—harlequinade?’
IV
The following Tuesday was fixed upon by Poirot as the day for this mysterious performance. The preparations greatly intrigued me. A white screen was erected at one side of the room, flanked by heavy curtains at either side. A man with some lighting apparatus arrived next, and finally a group of members of the theatrical profession, who disappeared into Poirot’s bedroom, which had been rigged up as a temporary dressing-room.
Shortly before eight, Japp arrived, in no very cheerful mood. I gathered that the official detective hardly approved of Poirot’s plan.
‘Bit melodramatic, like all his ideas. But there, it can do no harm, and as he says, it might save us a good bit of trouble. He’s been very smart over the case. I was on the same scent myself, of course—’ I felt instinctively that Japp was straining the truth here—‘but there, I promised to let him play the thing out his own way. Ah! Here is the crowd.’
His Lordship arrived first, escorting Mrs Mallaby, whom I had not as yet seen. She was a pretty, dark-haired woman, and appeared perceptibly nervous. The Davidsons followed. Chris Davidson also I saw for the first time. He was handsome enough in a rather obvious style, tall and dark, with the easy grace of the actor.
Poirot had arranged seats for the party facing the screen. This was illuminated by a bright light. Poirot switched out the other lights so that the room was in darkness except for the screen. Poirot’s voice rose out of the gloom.
‘Messieurs, mesdames, a word of explanation. Six figures in turn will pass across the screen. They are familiar to you. Pierrot and his Pierrette; Punchinello the buffoon, and elegant Pulcinella; beautiful Columbine, lightly dancing, Harlequin, the sprite, invisible to man!’
With these words of introduction, the show began. In turn each figure that Poirot had mentioned bounded before the screen, stayed there a moment poised, and then vanished. The lights went up, and a sigh of relief went round. Everyone had been nervous, fearing they knew not what. It seemed to me that the proceedings had gone singularly flat. If the criminal was among us, and Poirot expected him to break down at the mere sight of a familiar figure the device had failed signally—as it was almost bound to do. Poirot, however, appeared not a whit discomposed. He stepped forward, beaming.
‘Now, messieurs and mesdames, will you be so good as to tell me, one at a time, what it is that we have just seen? Will you begin, milor’?’
The gentleman looked rather puzzled. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.’
‘Just tell me what we have been seeing.’
‘I—er—well, I should say we have seen six figures passing in front of a screen and dressed to represent the personages in the old Italian Comedy, or—er—ourselves the other night.’
‘Never mind the other night, milor’,’ broke in Poirot. ‘The first part of your speech was what I wanted. Madame, you agree with Milor’ Cronshaw?’
He had turned as he spoke to Mrs Mallaby.
‘I—er—yes, of course.’
‘You agree that you have seen six figures representing the Italian Comedy?’
‘Why, certainly.’
‘Monsieur Davidson? You too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Madame?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hastings? Japp? Yes? You are all in accord?’
He looked around upon us; his face grew rather pale, and his eyes were green as any cat’s.
‘And yet—you are all wrong! Your eyes have lied to you—as they lied to you on the night of the Victory Ball. To “see” things with your eyes, as they say, is not always to see the truth. One must see with the eyes of the mind; one must employ the little cells of grey! Know, then, that tonight and on the night of the Victory Ball, you saw not six figures but five! See!’
The lights went out again. A figure bounded in front of the screen—Pierrot!
‘Who is that?’ demanded Poirot. ‘Is it Pierrot?’
‘Yes,’ we all cried.
‘Look again!’
With a swift movement the man divested himself of his loose Pierrot garb. There in the limelight stood glittering Harlequin! At the same moment there was a cry and an overturned chair.
‘Curse you,’ snarled Davidson’s voice. ‘Curse you! How did you guess?’
Then came the clink of handcuffs and Japp’s calm official voice. ‘I arrest you, Christopher Davidson—charge of murdering Viscount Cronshaw—anything you say will be used in evidence against you.’
V
It was a quarter of an hour later. A recherché little supper had appeared; and Poirot, beaming all over his face, was dispensing hospitality and answering our eager questions.
‘It was all very simple. The circumstances in which the green pompon was found suggested at once that it had been torn from the costume of the murderer. I dismissed Pierrette from my mind (since it takes considerable strength to drive a table-knife home) and fixed upon Pierrot as the criminal. But Pierrot