Chapter 19 Section 7

Colonel Johnson stared at Sugden for a good few minutes, then blurted out, "You mean to tell me, Superintendent, this is one of those damn cases you read about in detective novels, what kind of a man is there all by himself?" Killed by some apparently supernatural force in a locked room?" When the superintendent answered solemnly, an imperceptible smile appeared on his lips. "I don't think it's that bad, sir." Colonel Johnson said: "Suicide, it must be suicide!" "If that's the case, where's the murder weapon? No, sir, there's no suicide."

"And how did the murderer get away? Through the window?" Sugden shook his head. "I swear he didn't." "But the door is locked, from the inside, as you say." The superintendent nodded.He took a pipe key from his pocket and placed it on the table. "No fingerprints," he announced. "But look at that key again, sir, and take a good look at it with the magnifying glass there." Poirot stooped, and he and Colonel Johnson examined the key.The chief of police let out an exclamation. "Ah, I found it, those slight scratches on the top of the key-tube. Do you see that, Poirot?"

"Ah, yes, I see. That is to say, the key is turned from the outside of the door - with a special tool that goes through the keyhole and grabs the key tube - probably a pair of ordinary needle-nose pliers can do that." The superintendent nodded again. “Can do very well” Poirot said: "His idea, then, was that the death should be considered a suicide, since the door was locked and no one else was in the room." "Exactly, M. Poirot. I would say there is no doubt about it." Poirot shook his head suspiciously. "But the room is in a mess! As you say, that in itself rules out the possibility of suicide, and the murderer must have arranged the room in the first place."

Superintendent Sugden said: "But he didn't have time, M. Poirot. That's the problem, he was too late, he said he was hoping to subdue the old man without knowing it, well, it didn't go that way, and a There was a fight—a fight that would obviously be overheard by those downstairs; and, what was more, the old gentleman called for help, and everyone rushed up, before the murderer had time to scurry out of the room and start another attack from the outside. Lock the door." "That's true," admitted Poirot. "The murderer may have screwed up, but at least he should have left the weapon? For of course, if there were no weapon here, it couldn't have been a suicide! It was the worst mistake." .”

Superintendent Sugden was unimpressed: "From our experience, criminals make mistakes." Poirot sighed slightly.He whispered: "The result is still the same. Although he made a mistake, he still escaped." "I don't think he really escaped." "You mean he's still in the house?" "I don't think he could be anywhere else, it's an insider's job." "However, tout de meme (French: all the same)," Poirot pointed out mildly, "in a sense he escaped, because you don't know who he is." Superintendent Sugden's tone was soft but firm: "We'll know soon enough, I'm sure of that. We haven't had any interviews with the family yet."

Colonel Johnson broke in: "Look, Sugden, a question comes to mind. Whoever locks the door from the outside must have had a good deal of knowledge, that is to say, he has probably had criminal Such tools are not easy to find." "You mean it's a professional case, sir?" "That's what I mean." "It seems so," admitted Sugden, "from which it appears that there was a professional thief among the servants. This would explain the diamond being stolen, and the murder would therefore follow. gone." "Then, is there anything wrong with this conclusion?"

"That's what I thought at the beginning. But it's very difficult. There are eight servants in this family, six of whom are women, and among these six, five have been working here for more than four years. Still There's a butler and a valet. The butler has been here for almost forty years—a considerable record, I'd say. The valet is a native, a gardener's son, raised here, and I don't see how he could A professional thief. The last one left is Mr. Li's male nurse. Compared with the others, he is new to the house, but he was not in the house at the time-he hasn't come back yet-he just went out before eight o'clock .”

Colonel Johnson said, "Do you have a list of who was actually in the house at the time?" "Yes, sir, I got it from the butler." He produced his notebook. "May I read it to you?" "Please, Sugden." "Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Lee, Congressman George Lee and his wife, Mr. Harry Lee, Mr. and Mrs. David Lee. Pi..." The superintendent hesitated, and carefully read the The word—"Pilar"—he spelled it carefully, syllable by syllable—"Miss Estelavados, Mr. Stephen Farr. Then the servant, Edward Tresilian , butler; Walter Champion, valet; Emily Reeves, cook; Grace Best, second maid; Beatrice Moscombe, third maid; Joan Kench, the handmaid; Sidney Horberry, the nurse."

"That's all, eh?" "That's all there is to it, sir." "Do you know where each of them was when the murder took place?" "Only general. As I told you, I haven't questioned anyone yet. According to Tracylian, the gentlemen are still in the dining room, while the ladies are in the drawing room. Tracylian served the coffee , according to his testimony, he had just returned to his pantry when he heard the commotion overhead, and he ran out into the hall, and ran upstairs after the others." Colonel Johnson said, "Who's in this house? Who's just here?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Lee live here, and the others are visiting." Johnson nodded. "Where are they all now?" "I asked them to stay in the living room until I was ready to hear their testimony." "I see. Well, we'd better go upstairs and see the scene first." The superintendent led them up the wide staircase and down the corridor. As Johnson walked into the crime scene, he took a deep breath. "It's horrible!" he commented. He stood for a moment, examining the overturned chairs, the broken china, and the bloodstained shards.

A thin, elderly man was kneeling beside the corpse when he stood up and nodded to them. "Good evening, Johnson," he said, "it's a mess, huh?" "I would say yes, have you found anything for us, Doctor?" The doctor shrugged.He grinned. "I'll give you the scientific terms of the autopsy, nothing complicated, the throat was slit, like butchering a pig, he bled to death in less than a minute, no trace of the murder weapon." Poirot crossed the room to the windows, one closed and bolted as the superintendent had said, the other open about four inches from the bottom.It's held securely in that position by a thick, prominent screw of the kind that was used as a tamper-proof bolt years ago. Sugden said: "According to the housekeeper, the window is never closed in good or bad weather. A small piece of linoleum was laid under the window to allow the rain to come in, but because of the overhanging lattice, it didn't do much. rain." Poirot nodded. He walked back to the body and looked down at the old man. The dead grinned, his face was hideous, and his crooked fingers were like claws. "He doesn't look like a strong man," said Poirot. The doctor said: "I believe he is very strong, and he can withstand some very serious diseases, which may kill most people." Poirot said: "I don't mean that, I mean, he Not very big, not very physically strong." "Yes, he is very thin." Poirot walked away from the dead man.He bent down to examine an overturned chair, a large mahogany chair, and beside it was a round mahogany table and the fragment of a large china lamp.Two other smaller chairs were lying aside, and there were small fragments of a wine decanter and two glasses, a large glass paperweight intact, various books, a large Japanese vase shattered, Add to that a bronze statuette of a naked woman, and that's the whole wreck. Poirot stooped gravely before these wrecks, not touching them, but observing them carefully.He frowned, as if confused. "Have you thought of anything, Poirot?" said the Prefect. Hercule Poirot sighed.He muttered, "Such a frail old man—yet—all these things." Looking puzzled, Johnson turned away and said to the busy police officer, "How about the fingerprints?" "Lots of fingerprints, sir, all over the room." "What about the safe?" "Nothing, only the old gentleman's own fingerprints." Johnson turned to the doctor. "How about the blood?" he asked. "The man who killed him must have blood on himself." The doctor said suspiciously: "Not necessarily, the blood almost all flows out from the neck veins, and will not spurt out like arterial blood." "Yes, but anyway, there seems to be a lot of blood around here." Poirot said: "Yes. There's a lot of blood here—it would give the impression, a lot of blood." Inspector Sugden said politely: "Did you—er—did it remind you of anything, M. Poirot?" Poirot looked at him, who shook his head puzzled. He said: "There's definitely something here—violence..." He paused for a moment, then went on: "Yes, it's this—violence...and blood—a special emphasis on blood ... There's—how shall I put it? There's so much blood here, on the chairs, on the table, on the carpet... Blood sacrifice? Sacrificial blood? Is that so? Maybe. Such a frail old man, such a Thin, so wrinkled, so shriveled—and yet—in death—so much blood..." His voice died away, and Superintendent Sugden fixed his round, startled eyes on Poirot, and said in a tone of awe: "Strange—that's what she said—the lady..." Poirot said sternly, "Which lady? What did she say?" Sugden replied: "Mrs. Lee—Mrs. Alfred. She was standing there at the door and said it in a voice so low that it was almost inaudible. I didn't understand what it meant." "What did she say?" "Who would have thought that this old man would have so much blood..." Said Poirot softly, "'Who thought the old man had so much blood?' Lady Macbeth's line. That's what she said. . . . Ah, that's very interesting . . . "