Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 90, May 1951
- Автор: Кристи Агата, Куин (Квин) Эллери
- Год: 1951
- Язык: английский
- Год: Mercury Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 90, May 1951». Краткое содержание книги:
He found Parsons in the butler’s pantry, polishing silver. Poirot opened the proceedings with one of his funny little bows.
“I must explain myself,” he said. “I am a detective agent.”
“Yes, sir,” said Parsons, “we gathered as much.”
His tone was respectful but aloof.
“Lady Astwell sent for me,” continued Poirot. “She is not satisfied; no, she is not satisfied at all.”
“I have heard her Ladyship say so on several occasions,” said Parsons.
“In fact,” said Poirot, “I recount to you the things you already know? Eh? Let us then not waste time on these bagatelles. Take me, if you will be so good, to your bedroom and tell me exactly what it was you heard there on the night of the murder.”
The butler’s room was on the ground floor, adjoining the servant’s hall. It had barred windows, and the strong room was in one corner of it. Parsons indicated the narrow bed.
“I had retired, sir, at 11 o’clock. Miss Margrave had gone to bed, and Lady Astwell was with Sir Reuben in the Tower room.”
“Lady Astwell was with Sir Reuben? Ah, proceed.”
“The Tower room, sir, is directly over this. If people are talking in it one can hear the murmur of voices, but naturally not anything that is said. I must have fallen asleep about half-past eleven. It was just 12 o’clock when I was awakened by the sound of the front door being slammed to and knew Mr. Leverson had returned. Presently I heard footsteps overhead, and a minute or two later Mr. Leverson’s voice talking to Sir Reuben.
“It was my fancy at the time, sir, that Mr. Leverson was — I should not exactly like to say drunk, but inclined to be a little indiscreet and noisy. He was shouting at his uncle at the top of his voice. I caught a word or two here or there, but not enough to understand what it was all about, and then there was a sharp cry and a heavy thud.”
There was a pause, and Parsons repeated the last words.
“A heavy thud,” he said impressively.
“If I mistake not, it is a dull thud in most works of romance,” murmured Poirot.
“Maybe, sir,” said Parsons severely. “It was a heavy thud I heard.”
“A thousand pardons,” said Poirot.
“Do not mention it, sir. After the thud, in the silence, I heard Mr. Leverson’s voice as plain as plain can be, raised high. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘My God,’ just like that, sir.”
Parsons, from his first reluctance to tell the tale, had now progressed to a thorough enjoyment of it. He fancied himself mightily as a narrator. Poirot played up to him.
“Mon Dieu,” he murmured. “What emotion you must have experienced!”
“Yes, indeed, sir,” said Parsons, “as you say, sir. Not that I thought very much of it at the time. But it did occur to me to wonder if anything was amiss, and whether I had better go up and see. I went to turn the electric light on, and was unfortunate enough to knock over a chair.
“I opened the door, and went through the servants’ hall, and opened the other door which gives on a passage. The back stairs lead up from there, and as I stood at the bottom of them, hesitating, I heard Mr. Leverson’s voice from up above, speaking hearty and cheery-like. ‘No harm done, luckily,’ he says. ‘Good night,’ and I heard him move off along the passage to his own room, whistling.
“Of course I went back to bed at once. Just something knocked over, that’s all I thought it was. I ask you, sir, was I to think Sir Reuben was murdered, with Mr. Leverson saying good night and all?”
“You are sure it was Mr. Leverson’s voice you heard?”
Parsons looked at the little Belgian pityingly, and Poirot saw clearly enough that, right or wrong, Parsons’ mind was made up on this point.
“Is there anything further you would like to ask me, sir?”
“There is one thing,” said Poirot, “do you like Mr. Leverson?”
“I... I beg your pardon, sir?”
“It is a simple question. Do you like Mr. Leverson?”
Parsons, from being startled at first, now seemed embarrassed.
“The general opinion in the servants’ hall, sir,” he said, and paused.
“By all means,” said Poirot, “put it that way if it pleases you.”
“The opinion is, sir, that Mr. Leverson is an open-handed young gentleman, but not, if I may say so, particularly intelligent, sir.”
“Ah!” said Poirot. “Do you know, Parsons, that without having seen him, that is also precisely my opinion of Mr. Leverson.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“What is your opinion — I beg your pardon — the opinion of the servants’ hall of the secretary?”
“He is a very quiet, patient gentleman, sir. Anxious to give no trouble.”
“Vraiment,” said Poirot.
The butler coughed.
“Her Ladyship, sir,” he murmured, “is apt to be a little hasty in her judgments.”
“Then, in the opinion of the servants’ hall, Mr. Leverson committed the crime?”
“We none of us wish to think it was Mr. Leverson,” said Parsons. “We... well, plainly we didn’t think he had it in him, sir.”
“But he has a somewhat violent temper, has he not?” asked Poirot.
Parsons came nearer to him.
“If you are asking me who had the most violent temper in the house—”
Poirot held up a hand.
“Ah! But that is not the question I should ask,” he said softly. “My question would be, who has the best temper?”
Parsons stared at him open-mouthed.
Poirot wasted no further time on him. With an amiable little bow — he was always amiable — he left the room and wandered out into the big square hall of Mon Repos. There he stood a minute or two in thought, then, at a slight sound that came to him, cocked his head on one side in the manner of a perky robin, and finally, with noiseless steps, crossed to one of the doors that led out of the hall.
He stood in the doorway, looking into the room; a small room furnished as a library. At a big desk at the further end of it sat a thin, pale young man busily writing. He had a receding chin, and wore pince-nez.
Poirot watched him for some minutes, and then he broke the silence by giving a completely artificial and theatrical cough.
“Ahem!” coughed M. Hercule Poirot.
The young man at the desk stopped writing and turned his head. He did not appear unduly startled, but an expression of perplexity gathered on his face as he eyed Poirot.
The latter came forward with a little bow.
“I have the honor of speaking to M. Trefusis, yes? Ah! my name is Poirot, Hercule Poirot. You may perhaps have heard of me.”
“Oh — er — yes, certainly,” said the young man.
Poirot eyed him attentively.
Owen Trefusis was about thirty-three years of age, and the detective saw at once why nobody was inclined to treat Lady Astwell’s accusation seriously. Mr. Owen Trefusis was a prim, proper young man, disarmingly meek, the type of man who can be, and is, systematically bullied. One could feel quite sure that he would never display resentment.
“Lady Astwell sent for you, of course,” said the secretary. “She mentioned that she was going to do so. Is there any way in which I can help you?”
His manner was polite without being effusive. Poirot accepted a chair, and murmured gently:
“Has Lady Astwell said anything to you of her beliefs and suspicions?”
Owen Trefusis smiled a little.
“As far as that goes,” he said, “I believe she suspects me. It is absurd, but there it is. She has hardly spoken a civil word to me since, and she shrinks against the wall as I pass by.”
His maimer was perfectly natural, and there was more amusement than resentment in his voice. Poirot nodded with an air of engaging frankness.