The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

I do not remember that we discussed the case further. Poirot displayed no special interest in it at the time. The facts were so clear, and there was so little ambiguity about them, that discussion seemed merely futile. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and Major Rich were friends of fairly long standing. On the day in question, the tenth of March, the Claytons had accepted

an invitation to spend the evening with Major Rich. At about seven-thirty, however,

Clayton explained to another friend, a Major Cur-tiss,

with whom he was having a drink, that he had

been unexpectedly called to Scotland and was

leaving by the eight o'clock train.

"I'll just have time to drop in and explain to old

Jack," went on Clayton. "Marguerita is going, of

course. I'm sorry about it, but Jack will understand how it is."

Mr. Clayton was as good as his word. He arrived

at Major Rich's rooms about twenty to

eight. The major was out at the time, but his

manservant, who knew Mr. Clayton well, suggested

that he come in and wait. Mr. Clayton said

that he had not time, but that he would come in

and write a note. He added that he was on his way

to catch a train.

The valet accordingly showed him into the sitting

room.

About five minutes later Major Rich, who must

have let himself in without the valet hearing him,

opened the door of the sitting room, called his

man and told him to go out and get some cigarettes.

On his return the man brought them to his

master, who was then alone in the sitting room. 32

Agatha Christie

The man naturally conclnded that Mr. Clayton had left.

The guests arrived shortly afterwards. They comprised Mrs. Clayton, Major Curtiss and a Mr. and Mrs. Spence. The evening was spent dancing to the phonograph and playing poker. The guests left shortly after midnight.

The following morning, on coming to do the sit-ting room, the valet was startled to find a deep stain discoloring the carpet below and in front of a piece of furniture which Major Rich had brought from the East and which was called the Bagdad Chest.

Instinctively the valet lifted the lid of the chest and was horrified to find inside the doubled-up body of a man who had been stabbed to the heart.

Terrified, the man ran out of the flat and

fetched the nearest policeman. The dead man proved to be Mr. Clayton. The arrest of Major Rich followed very shortly afterward. The major's defense, it was understood, consisted of a sturdy denial of everything. He had not seen Mr. Clayton the preceding evening and the first he had heard of his going to Scotland had been from Mrs. Clay-ton.

Such were the bald facts of the case. Innuendoes and suggestions naturally abounded. The close friendship and intimacy of Major Rich and Mrs. Clayton were so stressed that only a fool could fail to read between the lines. The motive for the crime was plainly indicated.

Long experience has taught me to make allow-ance for baseless calumny. The motive suggested might, for all the evidence, be entirely nonexis

THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGDAD CHEST 33

tent. Some quite other reaso/a might have precipitated the issue. But one thing did stand out clearly

--that Rich was the murderer.

As I say, the matter might have rested there, had it not happened that Poirot and I were due at a party given by Lady Chatterton that night. Poirot, whilst bemoaning social engagements and declaring a passion for solitude, really enjoyed these affairs enormously. To be made a fuss of and treated as a lion suited him down to the ground. On occasions he positively purred! I have seen him blandly receiving the most outrageous compliments as no more than his due, and uttering the most blatantly conceited remarks, such as I can hardly bear to set down. Sometimes he would argue with me on the subject. "But, my friend, I am not an AngloSaxon. Why should I play the hypocrite? Si, si, that is what you do, all of you. The airman who has made a difficult flight, the tennis champion--they look down their noses, they mutter inaudibly that 'it is nothing.' But do they really think that themselves? Not for a moment. They would admire the exploit in someone else. So, being reasonable men, they admire it in themselves. But their training prevents them from saying so. Me, I am not like that. The talents that I possess--I would salute

them in another. As it happens, in my own particular

line, there is no one to touch me. C'est dornrnage,t As it is, I admit freely and without the hypocrisy that I am a great man. I have the order, the method and the psychology in an unusual de

Agatha Christie

gree. I am, ir; fact, Hercule Poirot! Why should I turn red and stammer and mutter into my chin that really I am very stupid9. It would not be true."

"There is certainly only one Hercule Poirot," I agreed--not without a spice of malice, of which, fortunately, Poirot remained quite oblivious.