The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

‘Exquis!’ murmured Poirot, holding up hands of admiration. ‘Permit me to take it to the light a minute.’

He took the dress from Gladys, turned his back on her and hurried to the window. He bent over it, then held it out at arm's length.

‘It is perfect,’ he declared. ‘Perfectly ravishing. A thousand thanks for showing it to me.’

‘Not at ail, sir,’ said Gladys. ‘We all know that Frenchmen are interested in ladies' dresses.’

‘You are too kind,’ murmured Poirot.

He watched her hurry away again with the dress. Then he looked down at his two hands and smiled. In the right hand was a tiny pair of small nail scissors, in the left was a neatly clipped fragment of green chiffon.

‘And now,’ he murmured, ‘to be heroic.’

He returned to his own apartment and summoned George.

‘On the dressing-table, my good George, you will perceive a gold scarf pin.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘On the washstand is a solution of carbolic. Immerse, I pray you, the point of the pin in the carbolic.’

George did as he was bid. He had long ago ceased to wonder at the vagaries of his master.

‘I have done that, sir.’

‘Très bien! Now approach. I tender to you my first finger; insert the point of the pin in it.’

‘Excuse me, sir, you want me to prick you, sir?’

‘But yes, you have guessed correctly. You must draw blood, you understand, but not too much.’

George took hold of his master's finger. Poirot shut his eyes and leaned back. The valet stabbed at the finger with the scarf pin, and Poirot uttered a shrill yell.

‘Je vous remercie, George,’ he said. ‘What you have done is ample.’

Taking a small piece of green chiffon from his pocket, he dabbed his finger with it gingerly.

‘The operation has succeeded to a miracle,’ he remarked, gazing at the result. ‘You have no curiosity, George? Now, that is admirable!’

The valet had just taken a discreet look out of the window.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ he murmured, ‘a gentleman has driven up in a large car.’

‘Ah! Ah!’ said Poirot. He rose briskly to his feet. ‘The elusive Mr Victor Astwell. I go down to make his acquaintance.’

Poirot was destined to hear Mr Victor Astwell some time before he saw him. A loud voice rang out from the hall.

‘Mind what you are doing, you damned idiot! That case has got glass in it. Curse you, Parsons, get out of the way! Put it down, you fool!’

Poirot skipped nimbly down the stairs. Victor Astwell was a big man. Poirot bowed to him politely.

‘Who the devil are you?’ roared the big man.

Poirot bowed again.

‘My name is Hercule Poirot.’

‘Lord!’ said Victor Astwell. ‘So Nancy sent for you, after all, did she?’

He put a hand on Poirot's shoulder and steered him into the library.

‘So you are the fellow they make such a fuss about,’ he remarked, looking him up and down. ‘Sorry for my language just now. That chauffeur of mine is a damned ass, and Parsons always does get on my nerves, blithering old idiot.

‘I don't suffer fools gladly, you know,’ he said, half apologetically, ‘but by all accounts you are not a fool, eh, M. Poirot?’

He laughed breezily.

‘Those who have thought so have been sadly mistaken,’ said Poirot placidly.

‘Is that so? Well, so Nancy has carted you down here — got a bee in her bonnet about the secretary. There is nothing in that; Trefusis is as mild as milk — drinks milk, too, I believe. The fellow is a teetotaller. Rather waste of your time isn't it?’

‘If one has an opportunity to observe human nature, time is never wasted,’ said Poirot quietly.

‘Human nature, eh?’

Victor Astwell stared at him, then he flung himself down in a chair.

‘Anything I can do for you?’

‘Yes, you can tell me what your quarrel with your brother was about that evening.’

Victor Astwell shook his head.

‘Nothing to do with the case,’ he said decisively.

‘One can never be sure,’ said Poirot.

‘It had nothing to do with Charles Leverson.’

‘Lady Astwell thinks that Charles had nothing to do with the murder.’

‘Oh, Nancy!’

‘Parsons assumes that it was M. Charles Leverson who came in that night, but he didn't see him. Remember nobody saw him.’

‘You are wrong there,’ said Astwell. ‘I saw him.’

‘You saw him?’

‘It's very simple. Reuben had been pitching into young Charles — not without good reason, I must say. Later on he tried to bully me. I told him a few home truths and, just to annoy him, I made up my mind to back the boy. I meant to see him that night, so as to tell him how the land lay. When I went up to my room I didn't go to bed. Instead, I left the door ajar and sat on a chair smoking. My room is on the second floor, M. Poirot, and Charles's room is next to it.’

‘Pardon my interrupting you — Mr Trefusis, he, too, sleeps on that floor?’

Astwell nodded.

‘Yes, his room is just beyond mine.’

‘Nearer the stairs?’

‘No, the other way.’

A curious light came into Poirot's face, but the other didn't notice it and went on: