The Under Dog: A Hercule Poirot Short Story. Agatha Christie
began smoothing her gloves again.
‘It is rather difficult for me, M. Poirot. I have my loyalty to Lady Astwell to consider. Strictly speaking, I am only her paid companion, but she has treated me more as though I were a daughter or a niece. She has been extraordinarily kind and, whatever her faults, I should not like to appear to criticize her actions, or – well, to prejudice you against taking up the case.’
‘Impossible to prejudice Hercule Poirot, cela ne ce fait pas,’ declared the little man cheerily. ‘I perceive that you think Lady Astwell has in her bonnet the buzzing bee. Come now, is it not so?’
‘If I must say –’
‘Speak, Mademoiselle.’
‘I think the whole thing is simply silly.’
‘It strikes you like that, eh?’
‘I don’t want to say anything against Lady Astwell –’
‘I comprehend,’ murmured Poirot gently. ‘I comprehend perfectly.’ His eyes invited her to go on.
‘She really is a very good sort, and frightfully kind, but she isn’t – how can I put it? She isn’t an educated woman. You know she was an actress when Sir Reuben married her, and she has all sorts of prejudices and superstitions. If she says a thing, it must be so, and she simply won’t listen to reason. The inspector was not very tactful with her, and it put her back up. She says it is nonsense to suspect Mr Leverson and just the sort of stupid, pig-headed mistake the police would make, and that, of course, dear Charles did not do it.’
‘But she has no reasons, eh?’
‘None whatever.’
‘Ha! Is that so? Really, now.’
‘I told her,’ said Lily, ‘that it would be no good coming to you with a mere statement like that and nothing to go on.’
‘You told her that,’ said Poirot, ‘did you really? That is interesting.’
His eyes swept over Lily Margrave in a quick comprehensive survey, taking in the details of her neat black suit, the touch of white at her throat and the smart little black hat. He saw the elegance of her, the pretty face with its slightly pointed chin, and the dark-blue, long-lashed eyes. Insensibly his attitude changed; he was interested now, not so much in the case as in the girl sitting opposite him.
‘Lady Astwell is, I should imagine, Mademoiselle, just a trifle inclined to be unbalanced and hysterical?’
Lily Margrave nodded eagerly.
‘That describes her exactly. She is, as I told you, very kind, but it is impossible to argue with her or to make her see things logically.’
‘Possibly she suspects someone on her own account,’ suggested Poirot, ‘someone quite absurd.’
‘That is exactly what she does do,’ cried Lily. ‘She has taken a great dislike to Sir Reuben’s secretary, poor man. She says she knows he did it, and yet it has been proved quite conclusively that poor Owen Trefusis cannot possibly have done it.’
‘And she has no reasons?’
‘Of course not; it is all intuition with her.’
Lily Margrave’s voice was very scornful.
‘I perceive, Mademoiselle,’ said Poirot, smiling, ‘that you do not believe in intuition?’
‘I think it is nonsense,’ replied Lily.
Poirot leaned back in his chair.
‘Les femmes,’ he murmured, ‘they like to think that it is a special weapon that the good God has given them, and for every once that it shows them the truth, at least nine times it leads them astray.’
‘I know,’ said Lily, ‘but I have told you what Lady Astwell is like. You simply cannot argue with her.’
‘So you, Mademoiselle, being wise and discreet, came along to me as you were bidden, and have managed to put me au courant of the situation.’
Something in the tone of his voice made the girl look up sharply.
‘Of course, I know,’ said Lily apologetically, ‘how very valuable your time is.’
‘You are too flattering, Mademoiselle,’ said Poirot, ‘but indeed – yes, it is true, at this present time I have many cases of moment on hand.’
‘I was afraid that might be so,’ said Lily, rising. ‘I will tell Lady Astwell –’
But Poirot did not rise also. Instead he lay back in his chair and looked steadily up at the girl.
‘You are in haste to be gone, Mademoiselle? Sit down one more little moment, I pray of you.’
He saw the colour flood into her face and ebb out again. She sat down once more slowly and unwillingly.
‘Mademoiselle is quick and decisive,’ said Poirot. ‘She must make allowances for an old man like myself, who comes to his decisions slowly. You mistook me, Mademoiselle. I did not say that I would not go down to Lady Astwell.’
‘You will come, then?’
The girl’s tone was flat. She did not look at Poirot, but down at the ground, and so was unaware of the keen scrutiny with which he regarded her.
‘Tell Lady Astwell, Mademoiselle, that I am entirely at her service. I will be at – Mon Repos, is it not? – this afternoon.’
He rose. The girl followed suit.
‘I – I will tell her. It is very good of you to come, M. Poirot. I am afraid, though, you will find you have been brought on a wild goose chase.’
‘Very likely, but – who knows?’
He saw her out with punctilious courtesy to the door. Then he returned to the sitting-room, frowning, deep in thought. Once or twice he nodded his head, then he opened the door and called to his valet.
‘My good George, prepare me, I pray of you, a little valise. I go down to the country this afternoon.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said George.
He was an extremely English-looking person. Tall, cadaverous and unemotional.
‘A young girl is a very interesting phenomenon, George,’ said Poirot, as he dropped once more into his arm-chair and lighted a tiny cigarette. ‘Especially, you understand, when she has brains. To ask someone to do a thing and at the same time to put them against doing it, that is a delicate operation. It requires finesse. She was very adroit – oh, very adroit – but Hercule Poirot, my good George, is of a cleverness quite exceptional.’
‘I have heard you say so, sir.’
‘It is not the secretary she has in mind,’ mused Poirot. ‘Lady Astwell’s accusation of him she treats with contempt. Just the same she is anxious that no one should disturb the sleeping dogs. I, my good George, I go to disturb them, I go to make the dog fight! There is a drama there, at Mon Repos. A human drama, and it excites me. She was adroit, the little one, but not adroit enough. I wonder – I wonder what I shall find there?’
Into the dramatic pause which succeeded these words George’s voice broke apologetically:
‘Shall I pack dress clothes, sir?’
Poirot looked at him sadly.
‘Always the concentration, the attention to your own job. You are very good for me, George.’
When the 4.55 drew up at Abbots Cross station, there descended from it M. Hercule Poirot, very neatly and foppishly attired, his moustaches waxed to a stiff point. He gave up his ticket, passed through the barrier, and was accosted by a tall chauffeur.
‘M. Poirot?’
The little man beamed upon him.
‘That