The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

‘And now, M. Poirot, what — what are you going to do?’

‘As far as you are concerned, Mademoiselle, nothing. I believe your story, and I accept it. The next step is to go to London and see Inspector Miller.’

‘And then?’ asked Lily.

‘And then,’ said Poirot, ‘we shall see.’

Outside the door of the study he looked once more at the little square of stained green chiffon which he held in his hand.

‘Amazing,’ he murmured to himself complacently, ‘the ingenuity of Hercule Poirot.’

Detective-Inspector Miller was not particularly fond of M. Hercule Poirot. He did not belong to that small band of inspectors at the Yard who welcomed the little Belgian's cooperation. He was wont to say that Hercule Poirot was much over-rated. In this case he felt pretty sure of himself, and greeted Poirot with high good humour in consequence.

‘Acting for Lady Astwell, are you? Well, you have taken up a mare's nest in that case.’

‘There is, then, no possible doubt about the matter?’

Miller winked. ‘Never was a clearer case, short of catching a murderer absolutely red-handed.’

‘M. Leverson has made a statement, I understand?’

‘He had better have kept his mouth shut,’ said the detective. ‘He repeats over and over again that he went straight up to his room and never went near his uncle. That's a fool story on the face of it.’

‘It is certainly against the weight of evidence,’ murmured Poirot. ‘How does he strike you, this young M. Leverson?’

‘Darned young fool.’

‘A weak character, eh?’

The inspector nodded.

‘One would hardly think a young man of that type would have the — how do you say it — the bowels to commit such a crime.’

‘On the face of it, no,’ agreed the inspector. ‘But, bless you, I have come across the same thing many times. Get a weak, dissipated young man into a corner, fill him up with a drop too much to drink, and for a limited amount of time you can turn him into a fire-eater. A weak man in a corner is more dangerous than a strong man.’

‘That is true, yes; that is true what you say.’

Miller unbent a little further.

‘Of course, it is all right for you, M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘You get your fees just the same, and naturally you have to make a pretence of examining the evidence to satisfy her ladyship. I can understand all that.’

‘You understand such interesting things,’ murmured Poirot, and took his leave.

His next call was upon the solicitor representing Charles Leverson. Mr Mayhew was a thin, dry, cautious gentleman. He received Poirot with reserve. Poirot, however, had his own ways of inducing confidence. In ten minutes' time the two were talking together amicably.

‘You will understand,’ said Poirot, ‘I am acting in this case solely on behalf of Mr Leverson. That is Lady Astwell's wish. She is convinced that he is not guilty.’

‘Yes, yes, quite so,’ said Mr Mayhew without enthusiasm.

Poirot's eyes twinkled. ‘You do not perhaps attach much importance to the opinions of Lady Astwell?’ he suggested.

‘She might be just as sure of his guilt tomorrow,’ said the lawyer dryly.

‘Her intuitions are not evidence certainly,’ agreed Poirot, ‘and on the face of it the case looks very black against this poor young man.’

‘It is a pity he said what he did to the police,’ said the lawyer; ‘it will be no good his sticking to that story.’

‘Has he stuck to it with you?’ inquired Poirot.

Mayhew nodded. ‘It never varies an iota. He repeats it like a parrot.’

‘And that is what destroys your faith in him,’ mused the other. ‘Ah, don't deny it,’ he added quickly, holding up an arresting hand. ‘I see it only too plainly. In your heart you believe him guilty. But listen now to me, to me, Hercule Poirot. I present to you a case.

‘This young man comes home, he has drunk the cocktail, the cocktail, and again the cocktail, also without doubt the English whisky and soda many times. He is full of, what you call it? the courage Dutch, and in that mood he let himself into the house with his latch-key, and he goes with unsteady steps up to the Tower room. He looks in at the door and sees in the dim light his uncle, apparently bending over the desk.

‘M. Leverson is full, as we have said, of the courage Dutch. He lets himself go, he tells his uncle just what he thinks of him. He defies him, he insults him, and the more his uncle does not answer back, the more he is encouraged to go on, to repeat himself, to say the same thing over and over again, and each time more loudly. But at last the continued silence of his uncle awakens an apprehension. He goes nearer to him, he lays his hand on his uncle's shoulder, and his uncle's figure crumples under his touch and sinks in a heap to the ground.