But a sort of terror was gaining on us all. The parlormaid was obviously unstrung, and when the meal was over Mrs. Maltravers besought Poirot not to go at once. She was clearly terrified to be left alone. We sat in the little morning room. The wind was getting up, and moaning round the house in an eerie fashion. Twice the door of the room came unlatched and the door slowly opened, and each time she clung to me with a terrified gasp.
“Ah, but this door, it is bewitched!” cried Poirot angrily at last. He got up and shut it once more, then turned the key in the lock. “I shall lock it, so!”
“Don’t do that,” she gasped, “ifit should come open now—”
And even as she spoke the impossible happened. The locked door slowly swung open. I could not see into the passage from where I sat, but she and Poirot were facing it. She gave one long shriek as she turned to him.
“You saw him—there in the passage?” she cried.
He was staring down at her with a puzzled face, then shook his head.
“I saw him—my husband—you must have seen him too?”
"Madame, I saw nothing. You are not well—unstrung—”
“I am perfectly well, I—Oh, God!”
Suddenly, without any warning, the lights quI havered and went out. Out of the darkness came three loud raps. I could hear Mrs. Maltravers moaning.
And then一I saw!
The man I had seen on the bed upstairs stood there facing us, gleaming with a faint ghostly light. There was blood on his lips, and he held his right hand out, pointing. Suddenly a brilliant light seemed to proceed from it. It passed over Poirot and me, and fell on Mrs. Maltravers. I saw her white terrified face, and something else!
“My God, Poirot!” I cried. “Look at her hand,her right hand. It’s all red!”
Her own eyes fell on it, and she collapsed in a heap on the floor,
“Blood,” she cried hysterically. “Yes,it’s blood. I killed him, I did it. He was showing me, and then I put my hand on the trigger and pressed. Save me from him—save me! He’s come back!”
Her voice died away in a gurgle.
‘4Lights” said Poirot briskly.
The lights went on as if by magic.
“That’s it,” he continued. “You heard, Hastings? And you, Everett? Oh, by the way, this is Mr. Everett, rather a fine member of the theatrical profession. I phoned to him this afternoon. His make-up is good, isn't it? Quite like the dead man, and with a pocket torch and the necessary phosphorescence he made the proper impression. I shouldn't touch her right hand if I were you, Hastings. Red paint marks so. When the lights went out I clasped her hand, you see. By the way, we mustn’t miss our train. Inspector Japp is outside the window. A bad night—but he has been able to while away the time by tapping on the window every now and then.
“You see,” continued Poirot,as we walked briskly through the wind and rain, “there was a little discrepancy. The doctor seemed to think the deceased was a Christian Scientist, and who could have gaven him that impression but Mrs. Maltravers? But to us she represented him as being in a grave state of apprehension about his own health. Again, why was she so taken aback by the reappearance of young Black? And lastly, although I know that convention decrees that a woman must make a decent pretense of mourning for her husband, I do not care for such heavily rouged eyelids! You did not observe them, Hastings? No? As I always tell you, you see nothing!
“Well, there it was. There were the two possibilities. Did Black’s story suggest an ingenious method of commiting suicide to Mr. Maltravers, or did his other listener, the wife, see an equally ingenious method of commiting murder? I inclined to the latter view. To shoot himself in the way indicated, he would probably have had to pull the trigger with his toe—or at least so I imagine. Now if Maltravers had been found with one boot off, we should almost certainly have heard of it from someone. An odd detail like that would have been remembered.
"No, as I say, I inclined to the view that it was a case of murder, not suicide, but I realized that I had not a shadow of proof in support of my theory. Hence the elaborate little comedy you saw played to- night.”
“Even now I don’t quite see all the details of the crime,” I said.
“Let us start from the beginning. Here is a shrewd and scheming woman who, knowing of her husband s financial debacle and tired of the elderly mate she has only married for his money, induces him to insure his life for a large sum, and then seeks for the means to accomplish her purpose. An accident gaves her that—the young soldier’s strange story. The next afternoon when monsieur le capitaine, as she thinks, is on the high seas, she and her husband are strolling round the grounds. What a curious story that was last night!’ she observes. ‘Could a man shoot himself in such a way? Do show me if it is possible!’ The poor fool—he shows her. He places the end of the rifle in his mouth. She stoops down, and puts her finger on the trigger, laughing up at him. ‘And now, sir,’ she says saucily, ‘supposing I pull the trigger”
“And then—and then, Hastings—she pulls it!”
The Adventure of the Cheap Flat
SO far, in the cases which I have recorded, Poirot’s investigations have started from the central fact, whether murder or robbery, and have proceeded from thence by a process of logical deduction to the final triumphant unravelling. In the events I am now about to chronicle, a remarkable chain of circumstances led from the apparently tri\ial incidents which first attracted Poirot s attention to the sinister happenings which completed a most unusual case.
I had been spending the evening with an old friend of mine, Gerald Parker. There had been, perhaps, about half a dozen people there beside my host and myself, and the talk fell, as it was bound to do sooner or later wherever Parker found himself, on the subject of house hunting in London. Houses and flats were Parker s special hobby. Since the end of the War, he had occupied at least half a dozen different flats and maisonnettes. No sooner was he settled anywhere than he would light unexpectedly upon a new find, and would forthwith depart bag and baggage. His moves were nearly always accomplished at a slight pecuniary gain, for he had a shrewd business head, but it was sheer love of the sport that actuated him, and not a desire to make money at it. We listened to Parker for some time with the respect of the novice for the expert. Then it was our turn, and a perfect Babel of tongues was let loose. Finally the floor was left to Mrs. Robinson, a charming little bride who was there with her husband. I had never met them before, as Robinson was only a recent acquaintance of Parker's.
“Talking of flats,” she said,“have you heard of our piece of luck, Mr. Parker? WeVe got a flat—at last! In Montagu Mansions.’
“Well,” said Parker, “I’ve always said there are plenty of flats—at a price!”
“Yes,but this isn’t at a price. It’s dirt cheap. Eighty pounds a year!" “But—but Montagu Mansions is just off Knightsbridge, isn't it? Big handsome building. Or are you talking of a poor relation of the same name stuck in the slums somewhere?”
“No, it’s the Knightsbridge one. That’s what makes it so wonderful,”
“Wonderful is the word! It’s a blinking miracle. But there must be a catch somewhere. Big premium, I suppose?’
“No premium!”
“No problem—oh, hold my head, somebody!” groaned Parker.
“But we’ve got to buy the furniture,” continued Mrs. Robinson.
“Ah!” Parker brisked up. “I knew there was a catch!”
“For fifty pounds. And it’s beautifully furnished!”
“I gave it up,” said Parker. “The present occupants must be lunatics with a taste for philanthropy”