‘Yes?’
‘The case will be complete.’
‘What? You don’t mean it! You know who killed Lord Cronshaw?’
‘Parfaitement.’
‘Who was it? Eustace Beltane?’
‘Ah, mon ami, you know my little weakness! Always I have a desire to keep the threads in my own hands up to the last minute. But have no fear. I will reveal all when the time comes. I want no credit – the affair shall be yours, on the condition that you permit me to play out the dénouement my own way.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ said Japp. ‘That is, if the dénouement ever comes! But I say, you are an oyster, aren’t you?’ Poirot smiled. ‘Well, so long. I’m off to the Yard.’
He strode off down the street, and Poirot hailed a passing taxi.
‘Where are we going now?’ I asked in lively curiosity.
‘To Chelsea to see the Davidsons.’
He gave the address to the driver.
‘What do you think of the new Lord Cronshaw?’ I asked.
‘What says my good friend Hastings?’
‘I distrust him instinctively.’
‘You think he is the “wicked uncle” of the story-books, eh?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Me, I think he was most amiable towards us,’ said Poirot noncommittally.
‘Because he had his reasons!’
Poirot looked at me, shook his head sadly, and murmured something that sounded like: ‘No method.’
The Davidsons lived on the third floor of a block of ‘mansion’ flats. Mr Davidson was out, we were told, but Mrs Davidson was at home. We were ushered into a long, low room with garish Oriental hangings. The air felt close and oppressive, and there was an overpowering fragrance of joss-sticks. Mrs Davidson came to us almost immediately, a small, fair creature whose fragility would have seemed pathetic and appealing had it not been for the rather shrewd and calculating gleam in her light blue eyes.
Poirot explained our connection with the case, and she shook her head sadly.
‘Poor Cronch – and poor Coco too! We were both so fond of her, and her death has been a terrible grief to us. What is it you want to ask me? Must I really go over all that dreadful evening again?’
‘Oh, madame, believe me, I would not harass your feelings unnecessarily. Indeed, Inspector Japp has told me all that is needful. I only wish to see the costume you wore at the ball that night.’
The lady looked somewhat surprised, and Poirot continued smoothly: ‘You comprehend, madame, that I work on the system of my country. There we always “reconstruct” the crime. It is possible that I may have an actual représentation, and if so, you understand, the costumes would be important.’
Mrs Davidson still looked a bit doubtful.
‘I’ve heard of reconstructing a crime, of course,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t know you were so particular about details. But I’ll fetch the dress now.’
She left the room and returned almost immediately with a dainty wisp of white satin and green. Poirot took it from her and examined it, handing it back with a bow.
‘Merci, madame! I see you have had the misfortune to lose one of your green pompons, the one on the shoulder here.’
‘Yes, it got torn off at the ball. I picked it up and gave it to poor Lord Cronshaw to keep for me.’
‘That was after supper?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not long before the tragedy, perhaps?’
A faint look of alarm came into Mrs Davidson’s pale eyes, and she replied quickly: ‘Oh no – long before that. Quite soon after supper, in fact.’
‘I see. Well, that is all. I will not derange you further. Bonjour, madame.’
‘Well,’ I said as we emerged from the building, ‘that explains the mystery of the green pompon.’
‘I wonder.’
‘Why, what do you mean?’
‘You saw me examine the dress, Hastings?’
‘Yes?’
‘Eh bien, the pompon that was missing had not been wrenched off, as the lady said. On the contrary, it had been cut off, my friend, cut off with scissors. The threads were all quite even.’
‘Dear me!’ I exclaimed. ‘This becomes more and more involved.’
‘On the contrary,’ replied Poirot placidly, ‘it becomes more and more simple.’
‘Poirot,’ I cried, ‘one day I shall murder you! Your habit of finding everything perfectly simple is aggravating to the last degree!’
‘But when I explain, mon ami, is it not always perfectly simple?’
‘Yes; that is the annoying part of it! I feel then that I could have done it myself.’
‘And so you could, Hastings, so you could. If you would but take the trouble of arranging your ideas! Without method –’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said hastily, for I knew Poirot’s eloquence when started on his favourite theme only too well. ‘Tell me, what do we do next? Are you really going to reconstruct the crime?’
‘Hardly that. Shall we say that the drama is over, but that I propose to add a – harlequinade?’
The following Tuesday was fixed upon by Poirot as the day for this mysterious performance. The preparations greatly intrigued me. A white screen was erected at one side of the room, flanked by heavy curtains at either side. A man with some lighting apparatus arrived next, and finally a group of members of the theatrical profession, who disappeared into Poirot’s bedroom, which had been rigged up as a temporary dressing-room.
Shortly before eight, Japp arrived, in no very cheerful mood. I gathered that the official detective hardly approved of Poirot’s plan.
‘Bit melodramatic, like all his ideas. But there, it can do no harm, and as he says, it might save us a good bit of trouble. He’s been very smart over the case. I was on the same scent myself, of course –’ I felt instinctively that Japp was straining the truth here – ‘but there, I promised to let him play the thing out his own way. Ah! Here is the crowd.’
His Lordship arrived first, escorting Mrs Mallaby, whom I had not as yet seen. She was a pretty, dark-haired woman, and appeared perceptibly nervous. The Davidsons followed. Chris Davidson also I saw for the first time. He
