The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

Trefusis began to stammer.

‘I — I never —’

‘Ah! Let us finish this. For two weeks now I have played the comedy. I have showed you the net closing slowly around you. The fingerprints, footprints, the search of your room with the things artistically replaced. I have struck terror into you with all of this; you have lain awake at night fearing and wondering; did you leave a fingerprint in the room or a footprint somewhere?

‘Again and again you have gone over the events of that night wondering what you have done or left undone, and so I brought you to the state where you made a slip. I saw the fear leap into your eyes today when I picked up something from the stairs where you had stood hidden that night. Then I made a great parade, the little box, the entrusting of it to George, and I go out.’

Poirot turned towards the door.

‘George?’

‘I am here, sir.’

The valet came forward.

‘Will you tell these ladies and gentlemen what my instructions were?’

‘I was to remain concealed in the wardrobe in your room, sir, having placed the cardboard box where you told me to. At half-past three this afternoon, sir, Mr Trefusis entered the room; he went to the drawer and took out the box in question.’

‘And in that box,’ continued Poirot, ‘was a common pin. Me, I speak always the truth. I did pick up something on the stairs this morning. That is your English saying, is it not? “See a pin and pick it up, all the day you'll have good luck.” Me, I have had good luck, I have found the murderer.’

He turned to the secretary.

‘You see?’ he said gently. ‘You betrayed yourself.’

Suddenly Trefusis broke down. He sank into a chair sobbing, his face buried in his hands.

‘I was mad,’ he groaned. ‘I was mad. But, oh, my God, he badgered and bullied me beyond bearing. For years I had hated and loathed him.’

‘I knew!’ cried Lady Astwell.

She sprang forward, her face irradiated with savage triumph.

‘I knew that man had done it.’

She stood there, savage and triumphant.

‘And you were right,’ said Poirot. ‘One may call things by different names, but the fact remains. Your “intuition”, Lady Astwell, proved correct. I felicitate you.’

Four-and-Twenty Blackbirds

Hercule Poirot was dining with his friend, Henry Bonnington at the Gallant Endeavour in the King's Road, Chelsea.

Mr Bonnington was fond of the Gallant Endeavour. He liked the leisurely atmosphere, he liked the food which was ‘plain’ and ‘English’ and ‘not a lot of made up messes.’ He liked to tell people who dined with him there just exactly where Augustus John had been wont to sit and draw the attention to the famous artists' names in the visitors' book. Mr Bonnington was himself the least artistic of men — but he took a certain pride in the artistic activities of others.

Molly, the sympathetic waitress, greeted Mr Bonnington as an old friend. She prided herself on remembering her customers' likes and dislikes in the way of food.

‘Good evening, sir,’ she said, as the two men took their seats at a corner table. ‘You're in luck today — turkey stuffed with chestnuts — that's your favourite, isn't it? And ever such a nice Stilton we've got! Will you have soup first or fish?’

Mr Bonnington deliberated the point. He said to Poirot warningly as the latter studied the menu:

‘None of your French kickshaws now. Good well-cooked English food.’

‘My friend,’ Hercule Poirot waved his hand, ‘I ask no better! I put myself in your hands unreservedly.’

‘Ah — hruup — er — hm,’ replied Mr Bonnington and gave careful attention to the matter.

These weighty matters, and the question of wine, settled, Mr Bonnington leaned back with a sigh and unfolded his napkin as Molly sped away.

‘Good girl, that,’ he said approvingly. ‘Was quite a beauty once — artists used to paint her. She knows about food, too — and that's a great deal more important. Women are very unsound on food as a rule. There's many a woman if she goes out with a fellow she fancies — won't even notice what she eats. She'll just order the first thing she sees.’

Hercule Poirot shook his head.

‘C'est terrible.’

‘Men aren't like that, thank God!’ said Mr Bonnington complacently.

‘Never?’ There was a twinkle in Hercule Poirot's eye.

‘Well, perhaps when they're very young,’ conceded Mr Bonnington. ‘Young puppies! Young fellows nowadays are all the same — no guts — no stamina. I've no use for the young — and they,’ he added with strict impartiality, ‘have no use for me. Perhaps they're right! But to hear some of these young fellows talk you'd think no man had a right to be alive after sixty! From the way they go on, you'd wonder more of them didn't help their elderly relations out of the world.’

‘It is possible,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘that they do.’

‘Nice mind you've got, Poirot, I must say. All this police work saps your ideals.’

Hercule Poirot smiled.