Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (14 page)

He lay quite still
breathing in an even manner with occasionally a suggestion, but the faintest
suggestion, of a snore.

Someone came up to the
bed and bent over him. Then, satisfied, that someone turned away and went to
the dressing-table. By the light of a tiny torch the visitor was examining
Poirot’s belongings neatly arranged on top of the dressing-table. Fingers
explored the wallet, gently pulled open the drawers of the dressing-table, then
extended the search to the pockets of Poirot’s clothes. Finally the visitor
approached the bed and with great caution slid his hand under the pillow.
Withdrawing his hand, he stood for a moment or two as though uncertain what to
do next. He walked round the room looking inside ornaments, went into the
adjoining bathroom from whence he presently returned. Then, with a faint
exclamation of disgust, he went out of the room.

“Ah,” said Poirot, under
his breath. “You have a disappointment. Yes, yes, a serious disappointment.
Bah! To imagine, even, that Hercule Poirot would hide something where you could
find it!” Then, turning over on his other side, he went peacefully to sleep.

He was aroused next
morning by an urgent soft tapping on his door.

“Qui est là?
Come in, come in.”

“Monsieur Poirot,
Monsieur Poirot.”

“But yes?” Poirot sat up
in bed. “It is the early tea? But no. It is you, Colin. What has occurred?”

Colin was, for a moment,
speechless. He seemed to be under the grip of some strong emotion. In actual
fact it was the sight of the nightcap that Hercule Poirot wore that affected
for the moment his organs of speech. Presently he controlled himself and spoke.

“I think—M. Poirot, could
you help us? Something rather awful has happened.”

“Something has happened?
But what?”

“It’s—it’s Bridget. She’s
out there in the snow. I think—she doesn’t move or speak and—oh, you’d better come
and look for yourself. I’m terribly afraid—she may be
dead.”

“What?” Poirot cast aside
his bed covers. “Mademoiselle Bridget— dead!”

“I think—I think somebody’s
killed her. There’s—there’s blood and—oh do come!”

“But certainly. But
certainly. I come on the instant.”

With great practicality
Poirot inserted his feet into his outdoor shoes and pulled a fur-lined overcoat
over his pyjamas.

“I come,” he said. “I
come on the moment. You have aroused the house?”

“No. No, so far I haven’t
told anyone but you. I thought it would be better. Grandfather and Gran aren’t
up yet. They’re laying breakfast downstairs, but I didn’t say anything to
Peverell. She—Bridget—she’s round the other side of the house, near the terrace
and the library window.”

“I see. Lead the way. I
will follow.”

Turning away to hide his
delighted grin, Colin led the way downstairs. They went out through the side
door. It was a clear morning with the sun not yet high over the horizon. It was
not snowing now, but it had snowed heavily during the night and everywhere
around was an unbroken carpet of thick snow. The world looked very pure and
white and beautiful.

“There!” said Colin
breathlessly. “I—it’s—
there!”
He
pointed dramatically.

The scene was indeed
dramatic enough. A few yards away Bridget lay in the snow. She was wearing
scarlet pyjamas and a white wool wrap thrown round her shoulders. The white
wool wrap was stained with crimson. Her head was turned aside and hidden by the
mass of her outspread black hair. One arm was under her body, the other lay
flung out, the fingers clenched, and standing up in the centre of the crimson
stain was the hilt of a large curved Kurdish knife which Colonel Lacey had
shown to his guests only the evening before.

“Mon Dieu!”
ejaculated M. Poirot. “It is like something on the stage!”

There was a faint choking
noise from Michael. Colin thrust himself quickly into the breach.

“I know,” he said. “It—it
doesn’t seem
real
somehow, does it? Do you see those footprints—I suppose we mustn’t disturb
them?”

“Ah yes, the footprints.
No, we must be careful not to disturb those footprints.”

“That’s what I thought,” said
Colin. “That’s why I wouldn’t let anyone go near her until we got you. I
thought you’d know what to do.”

“All the same,” said
Hercule Poirot briskly, “first, we must see if she is still alive? Is not that
so?”

“Well—yes—of course,” said
Michael, a little doubtfully, “but you see, we thought—I mean, we didn’t like—”

“Ah, you have the
prudence! You have read the detective stories. It is most important that nothing
should be touched and that the body should be left as it is. But we cannot be
sure as yet if it
is
a
body, can we? After all, though prudence is admirable, common humanity comes
first. We must think of the doctor, must we not, before we think of the police?”

“Oh yes. Of course,” said
Colin, still a little taken aback.

“We only thought—I
mean—we thought we’d better get you before we did anything,” said Michael
hastily.

“Then you will both
remain here,” said Poirot. “I will approach from the other side so as not to
disturb these footprints. Such excellent footprints, are they not—so very
clear? The footprints of a man and a girl going out together to the place where
she lies. And then the man’s footsteps come back but the girl’s—do not.”

“They must be the footprints
of the murderer,” said Colin, with bated breath.

“Exactly,” said Poirot. “The
footprints of the murderer. A long narrow foot with rather a peculiar type of
shoe. Very interesting. Easy, I think, to recognise. Yes, those footprints will
be very important.”

At that moment Desmond
Lee-Wortley came out of the house with Sarah and joined them.

“What on earth are you
all doing here?” he demanded in a somewhat theatrical manner. “I saw you from
my bedroom window. What’s up? Good lord, what’s this? It—it looks like—”

“Exactly,” said Hercule
Poirot. “It looks like murder, does it not?”

Sarah gave a gasp, then
shot a quick suspicious glance at the two boys.

“You mean someone’s
killed the girl—what’s-her-name—Bridget?” demanded Desmond. “Who on earth would
want to kill her? It’s unbelievable!”

“There are many things
that are unbelievable,” said Poirot. “Especially before breakfast, is it not?
That is what one of your classics says. Six impossible things before breakfast.”
He added: “Please wait here, all of you.”

Carefully making a
circuit, he approached Bridget and bent for a moment down over the body. Colin
and Michael were now both shaking with suppressed laughter. Sarah joined them,
murmuring, “What have you two been up to?”

“Good old Bridget,” whispered
Colin. “Isn’t she wonderful? Not a twitch!”

“I’ve never seen anything
look so dead as Bridget does,” whispered Michael.

Hercule Poirot
straightened up again.

“This is a terrible thing,”
he said. His voice held an emotion it had not held before.

Overcome by mirth,
Michael and Colin both turned away. In a choked voice Michael said:

“What—what must we do?”

“There is only one thing
to do,” said Poirot. “We must send for the police. Will one of you telephone or
would you prefer me to do it?”

“I think,” said Colin, “I
think—what about it, Michael?”

“Yes,” said Michael, “I
think the jig’s up now.” He stepped forward. For the First time he seemed a
little unsure of himself. “I’m awfully sorry,” he said, “I hope you won’t mind
too much. It—er—it was a sort of joke for Christmas and all that, you know. We
thought we’d—well, lay on a murder for you.”

“You thought you would
lay on a murder for me? Then this—then this—”

“It’s just a show we put
on,” explained Colin, “to—to make you feel at home, you know.”

“Aha,” said Hercule
Poirot. “I understand. You make of me the April fool, is that it? But to-day is
not April the first, it is December the twenty-sixth.”

“I suppose we oughtn’t to
have done it really,” said Colin, “but—but— you don’t mind very much, do you,
M. Poirot? Come on, Bridget,” he called, “get up. You must be half-frozen to
death already.”

The figure in the snow,
however, did not stir.

“It is odd,” said Hercule
Poirot, “she does not seem to hear you.” He looked thoughtfully at them. “It is
a joke, you say? You are sure this is a joke?”

“Why yes.” Colin spoke
uncomfortably. “We—we didn’t mean any harm.”

“But why then does
Mademoiselle Bridget not get up?”

“I can’t imagine,” said
Colin.

“Come on, Bridget,” said
Sarah impatiently. “Don’t go on lying there playing the fool.”

“We really are very
sorry, M. Poirot,” said Colin apprehensively. “We do really apologise.”

“You need not apologise,”
said Poirot, in a peculiar tone.

“What do you mean?” Colin
stared at him. He turned again. “Bridget! Bridget! What’s the matter? Why doesn’t
she get up? Why does she go on lying there?”

Poirot beckoned to
Desmond..”
You,
Mr. Lee-Wortley. Come here—”

Desmond joined him.

“Feel her pulse,” said
Poirot.

Desmond Lee-Wortley bent
down. He touched the arm—the wrist.

“There’s no pulse...” he
stared at Poirot. “Her arm’s stiff. Good God, she really
is
dead!”

Poirot nodded. “Yes, she
is dead,” he said. “Someone has turned the comedy into a tragedy.”

“Someone—who?”

“There is a set of
footprints going and returning. A set of footprints that bears a strong
resemblance to the footprints
you
have just made, Mr. Lee-Wortley, coming from the path to this spot.”

Desmond Lee-Wortley
wheeled round.

“What on earth—Are you
accusing me?
ME?
You’re crazy! Why on earth should I want to kill the girl?”

“Ah—why? I wonder... Let
us see....”

He bent down and very
gently prised open the stiff fingers of the girl’s clenched hand.

Desmond drew a sharp
breath. He gazed down unbelievingly. In the palm of the dead girl’s hand was
what appeared to be a large ruby.

“It’s that damn’ thing
out of the pudding!” he cried.

“Is it?” said Poirot. “Are
you sure?”

“Of course it is.”

With a swift movement
Desmond bent down and plucked the red stone out of Bridget’s hand.

“You should not do that,”
said Poirot reproachfully. “Nothing should have been disturbed.”

“I haven’t disturbed the
body, have I? But this thing might—might get lost and it’s evidence. The great
thing is to get the police here as soon as possible. I’ll go at once and
telephone.”

He wheeled round and ran
sharply towards the house. Sarah came swiftly to Poirot’s side.

“I don’t understand,” she
whispered. Her face was dead white. “I don’t
understand.”
She
caught at Poirot’s arm. “What did you mean about— about the footprints?”

“Look for yourself,
Mademoiselle.”

The footprints that led
to the body and back again were the same as the ones just made accompanying
Poirot to the girl’s body and back.

“You mean—that it was
Desmond? Nonsense!”

Suddenly the noise of a
car came through the clear air. They wheeled round. They saw the car clearly
enough driving at a furious pace down the drive and Sarah recognised what car
it was.