Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи
the Colossus Hall, and all London at it – including your Lord Cronshaw and his party.’
‘His dossier?’ interrupted Poirot. ‘I should say his bioscope – no, how do you call it – biograph?’
‘Viscount Cronshaw was fifth viscount, twenty-five years of age, rich, unmarried, and very fond of the theatrical world. There were rumours of his being engaged to Miss Courtenay of the Albany Theatre, who was known to her friends as “Coco” and who was, by all accounts, a very fascinating young lady.’
‘Good. Continuez!’
‘Lord Cronshaw’s party consisted of six people: he himself, his uncle, the Honourable Eustace Beltane, a pretty American widow, Mrs Mallaby, a young actor, Chris Davidson, his wife, and last but not least, Miss Coco Courtenay. It was a fancy dress ball, as you know, and the Cronshaw party represented the old Italian Comedy – whatever that may be.’
‘The Commedia dell’ Arte,’ murmured Poirot. ‘I know.’
‘Anyway, the costumes were copied from a set of china figures forming part of Eustace Beltane’s collection. Lord Cronshaw was Harlequin; Beltane was Punchinello; Mrs Mallaby matched him as Pulcinella; the Davidsons were Pierrot and Pierrette; and Miss Courtenay, of course, was Columbine. Now, quite early in the evening it was apparent that there was something wrong. Lord Cronshaw was moody and strange in his manner. When the party met together for supper in a small private room engaged by the host, everyone noticed that he and Miss Courtenay were no longer on speaking terms. She had obviously been crying, and seemed on the verge of hysterics. The meal was an uncomfortable one, and as they all left the supper-room, she turned to Chris Davidson and requested him audibly to take her home, as she was “sick of the ball”. The young actor hesitated, glancing at Lord Cronshaw, and finally drew them both back to the supper-room.
‘But all his efforts to secure a reconciliation were unavailing, and he accordingly got a taxi and escorted the now weeping Miss Courtenay back to her flat. Although obviously very much upset, she did not confide in him, merely reiterating again and again that she would “make old Cronch sorry for this!” That is the only hint we have that her death might not have been accidental, and it’s precious little to go upon. By the time Davidson had quieted her down somewhat, it was too late to return to the Colossus Hall, and Davidson accordingly went straight home to his flat in Chelsea, where his wife arrived shortly afterwards, bearing the news of the terrible tragedy that had occurred after his departure.
‘Lord Cronshaw, it seems, became more and more moody as the ball went on. He kept away from his party, and they hardly saw him during the rest of the evening. It was about one-thirty a.m., just before the grand cotillion when everyone was to unmask, that Captain Digby, a brother officer who knew his disguise, noticed him standing in a box gazing down on the scene.
‘“Hullo, Cronch!” he called. “Come down and be sociable! What are you moping about up there for like a boiled owl? Come along; there’s a good old rag coming on now.”
‘“Right!” responded Cronshaw. “Wait for me, or I’ll never find you in the crowd.”
He turned and left the box as he spoke. Captain Digby, who had Mrs Davidson with him, waited. The minutes passed, but Lord Cronshaw did not appear. Finally Digby grew impatient.
‘“Does the fellow think we’re going to wait all night for him?” he exclaimed.
‘At that moment Mrs Mallaby joined them, and they explained the situation.
‘“Say, now,” cried the pretty widow vivaciously, “he’s like a bear with a sore head tonight. Let’s go right away and rout him out.”
‘The search commenced, but met with no success until it occurred to Mrs Mallaby that he might possibly be found in the room where they had supped an hour earlier. They made their way there. What a sight met their eyes! There was Harlequin, sure enough, but stretched on the ground with a table-knife in his heart!’
Japp stopped, and Poirot nodded, and said with the relish of the specialist: ‘Une belle affaire! And there was no clue as to the perpetrator of the deed? But how should there be!’
‘Well,’ continued the inspector, ‘you know the rest. The tragedy was a double one. Next day there were headlines in all the papers, and a brief statement to the effect that Miss Courtenay, the popular actress, had been discovered dead in her bed, and that her death was due to an overdose of cocaine. Now, was it accident or suicide? Her maid, who was called upon to give evidence, admitted that Miss Courtenay was a confirmed taker of the drug, and a verdict of accidental death was returned. Nevertheless we can’t leave the possibility of suicide out of account. Her death is particularly unfortunate, since it leaves us no clue now to the cause of the quarrel the preceding night. By the way, a small enamel box was found on the dead man. It had Coco written across it in diamonds, and was half full of cocaine. It was identified by Miss Courtenay’s maid as belonging to her mistress, who nearly always carried it about with her, since it contained her supply of the drug to which she was fast becoming a slave.’
‘Was Lord Cronshaw himself addicted to the drug?’
‘Very far from it. He held unusually strong views on the subject of dope.’
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
‘But since the box was in his possession, he knew that Miss Courtenay took it. Suggestive, that, is it not, my good Japp?’
‘Ah!’ said Japp rather vaguely.
I smiled.
‘Well,’ said Japp, ‘that’s the case. What do you think of it?’
‘You found no clue of any kind that has not been reported?’
‘Yes, there was this.’ Japp took a small object from his pocket and handed it over to Poirot. It was a small pompon of emerald green silk, with some ragged threads hanging from it, as though it had been wrenched violently away.
‘We found it in the dead man’s hand, which was tightly clenched over it,’ explained the inspector.
Poirot handed it back without any comment and asked: ‘Had Lord Cronshaw any enemies?’
‘None that anyone knows of. He seemed a popular young fellow.’
‘Who benefits by his death?’
‘His uncle, the Honourable Eustace Beltane, comes into the title and estates. There are one or two suspicious facts against him. Several people declare that they heard a violent altercation going on in the little supper-room, and that Eustace Beltane was one of the disputants. You see, the table-knife being snatched up off the table would fit in with the murder being done in the heat of a quarrel.’
‘What does Mr Beltane say about the matter?’
‘Declares one of the waiters was the worse for liquor, and that he was giving him a dressing down. Also that it was nearer to one than half past. You see, Captain Digby’s evidence fixes the time pretty accurately. Only about ten minutes elapsed between his speaking to Cronshaw and the finding of the body.’
‘And in any case I suppose Mr Beltane, as Punchinello, was wearing a hump and a ruffle?’
‘I don’t know the exact details of the costumes,’ said Japp, looking curiously at Poirot. ‘And anyway, I don’t quite see what that has got to do with it?’
‘No?’ There was a hint of mockery in Poirot’s smile. He continued quietly, his eyes shining with the green light I had learned to recognize so well: ‘There was a curtain in this little supper-room, was there not?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘With a space behind it sufficient to conceal a man?’
‘Yes – in fact, there’s a small recess, but how you knew about it – you haven’t been to the place, have you, Monsieur Poirot?’
‘No, my good Japp, I supplied the curtain from my brain. Without it, the drama is not