Agatha Christie's Secret Notebooks

It has always been a minor mystery to Christie scholars why ‘The Capture of Cerberus’ did not appear in The Strand magazine after the other 11 Labours, as it seemed an inexplicable omission. The discovery of a hitherto unknown and unpublished version of the story, with a completely different setting and plot, may now allow us to solve this puzzle.

In ‘The Capture of Cerberus’ Poirot once more looks for a missing person, and in this respect his twelfth Labour resembles similar missions in ‘The Lernean Hydra’ and ‘The Girdle of Hyppolita’. But there all similarity ends, as this final task has an unprecedented aspect—his quarry is dead.

Although Collins Crime Club eventually published The Labours of Hercules on 8 September 1947, with Christie adding an introductory Foreword to explain the rationale for Poirot’s undertaking (see Chapter 11), the twelfth story’s non-appearance in The Strand remained puzzling. The magazine had always provided a ready market for Christie short stories throughout the 1930s and into the 1940s, with her name emblazoned on the cover as a selling point. Christie herself explicitly mentions this story in the Foreword to the 1953 Penguin edition of The Labours of Hercules when she explains that in the writing of the stories, ‘over the final Capture of Cerberus I gave way completely to despair’. She left it aside for six months and ‘then suddenly, one day coming up on the escalator on the Tube the idea came. Thinking excitedly about it, I went up and down on the escalator about eight times.’ But, as we shall see, while this may be the truth, it is not the entire truth…

Clue No. 1

Labours one to eleven were first published in the UK in The Strand magazine beginning in November 1939 (‘The Nemean Lion’) and culminating in September 1940 (‘The Apples of the Hesperides’). On 12 January 1940 Edmund Cork wrote to Christie about the twelfth story, explaining that he thought that The Strand would not publish it (at this stage they had already published three of them) and suggesting that she think about writing a replacement for eventual book publication. The Strand had already paid £1,200 for the stories as written and if they decided not to publish one of them, as they may have indicated to Edmund Cork, they were not entitled to look for a replacement. On 12 November 1940 (after The Strand had appeared without ‘Cerberus’) she wrote to ask for the return of ‘the Cerberus story’ in order ‘to do a new one’. But it was not until 23 January 1947 (i.e. early in the year of the book’s publication) that the second version was finally submitted.

Clue No. 2

Notebook 44 contains most of the notes for all 12 of the stories. At first glance it seems that they were all plotted and finished together, as most of the notes tally with the finished Labours as we know them. But a closer examination, in light of the discovery of the alternative version and this correspondence, shows a potentially different story. The initial notes for the last half-dozen stories all begin, and in some cases finish, on a right-hand page of Notebook 44 with the left-hand page left blank, and follow the sequence of the book. Notes for the first and hitherto unpublished version of ‘Cerberus’ follow this pattern. But the notes for the collected one are inserted, in different ink and slightly different writing, on a left-hand page, sandwiched, out of sequence, between those for ‘The Horses of Diomedes’ and ‘The Flock Of Geryon’. It is not unreasonable to suppose that, when inspiration for the revamped story struck, Christie went back to her original notes and inserted her new idea as near as she could to the original. Also, the later notes are written in biro, whereas the original notes are, like those for all the other Labours, in pencil.

There can be little doubt that the political situation of the time and the poorly disguised picture of Adolf Hitler in section iii was the main (and probably only) reason for the rejection of the story. Unusually for Christie, it is blatantly political from the first page, mentioning not just the impending war but also the previous one: ‘The world was in a very disturbed state—every nation alert and tense. At any minute the blow might fall—and Europe once more be plunged in war.’ Later in the story we are told about ‘August Hertzlein…[who] was the dictator of dictators. His warlike utterances had rallied the youth of his country and of allied countries. It was he who had set Central Europe ablaze…’ And in case there is any lingering doubt he is later described as having ‘a bullet head and a little dark moustache’.

This would have been considered much too close to the actual state of the world and one of its inhabitants in 1939 to be considered escapist reading. Why Christie chose to write this story will never be known, as there is little evidence elsewhere in her work that she was particularly political. And the rejection by The Strand may have rankled more than she cared to admit as this very assassination scenario is utilized in the ‘Good Fat Hen’ chapter of One, Two, Buckle My Shoe, published the following year while the Countess Vera is fondly recalled by Poirot in the ‘Maids Are Courting’ chapter of the same novel. The writing of novel and short story would have been contemporaneous.

Two pages showing the two sets of notes for ‘The Capture of Cerberus’. The left-hand page (Notebook 44) refers to the version published in The Labours of Hercules, and the right-hand page (Notebook 62)…

…to the newly-discovered earlier version included in the Appendix. Note the difference in handwriting over the almost 10-year period.

In an interview for her Italian publishers, Mondadori, conducted soon after the publication of Passenger to Frankfurt in 1970, she writes, ‘I have never been in the least interested in politics.’ So why did she not simply tone down the portrait and change the name? Ironically, Chapter 17 of that novel contains more than a passing reference to the main idea of the short story. Is it possible that, 30 years after it had been rejected, Agatha Christie unearthed her idea and inserted it into a very different book? And that, long after The Strand had ceased publication, she had the last laugh?

There are notes to the unpublished version of the story in Notebooks 44 and 62:

Cerberus

Does Poirot go to look for 2 friends supposedly dead

Lenin Trotsky Stalin

George II Queen Anno

Must go unarmed (like Max Carrados in room story)

Poirot and Vera Rossakoff—says to a friend—‘he brings people back from the dead’

Dr Hershaltz

Hitler made a marvellous speech—I am willing to die— and falls shot—a boy. Two men each side of him—surprise him—revolver in hand. The boy was my son—I want him brought back to life.

Father Lavallois—his convert—he planned to speak—a great meeting—to propose International Disarmament. Dr Karl Hansberg—compiles stastistics—letter of introduction from…medical authorities in Berlin—doctor in charge lured away by religion—nurse tries to prevent him. Herr Hitler—hands him a card.

While the similarities to Hitler are quite clear in the story, there is no mention of the actual name—until we read Notebook 62. But the ‘hands him a card’ at the end is mystifying; and some of the other references are equally mysterious. If, as is almost certain, this was written in 1939 why are Lenin, Trotsky and Stalin listed? Lenin died in 1924 but Trotsky lived until 1940 and Stalin until 1953; and the other two historical figures were long dead. Moreover, none of them could be considered friends. All the names are crossed out in Notebook 44 but their presence at all is inexplicable. The Max Carrados reference is to the detective created by Ernest Bramah and the story ‘The Game Played in the Dark’; this character and story had already been pastiched in the Tommy and Tuppence collection Partners in Crime, where Tommy emulates the blind detective in the story ‘Blindman’s Buff’.

This page from Notebook 62, during the original plotting of ‘The Capture of Cerberus’ (despite the reference to ‘destroy human flesh’ and its echo of ‘The Horses of Diomedes’), may represent Christie’s doodles of a variation on the Swastika.

The Capture of Cerberus (The Labours of Hercules XII)

Hercule Poirot sipped his apéritif and looked out across the Lake of Geneva.[2]

He sighed.

He had spent his morning talking to certain diplomatic personages, all in a state of high agitation, and he was tired. For he had been unable to offer them any comfort in their difficulties.

The world was in a very disturbed state—every nation alert and tense. At any minute the blow might fall—and Europe once more be plunged into war.

Hercule Poirot sighed. He remembered 1914 only too well. He had no illusions about war. It settled nothing. The peace it brought in its wake was usually only the peace of exhaustion—not a constructive peace.

He thought sadly to himself:

‘If only a man could arise who would set enthusiasm for peace flaming through the world—as men have aroused enthusiasm for victory and conquest by force.’

Then he reflected, with Latin commonsense, that these ideas of his were unprofitable. They accomplished nothing. To arouse enthusiasm was not his gift and never had been. Brains, he thought with his usual lack of modesty, were his speciality. And men with great brains were seldom great leaders or great orators. Possibly because they were too astute to be taken in by themselves.

‘Ah well, one must be a philosopher,’ said Hercule Poirot to himself. ‘The deluge, it has not yet arrived. In the meantime this apéritif is good, the sun shines, the Lake is blue, and the orchestra plays not badly. Is that not enough?’

But he felt that it was not. He thought with a sudden smile:

‘There is one little thing needed to complete the harmony of the passing moment. A woman. Une femme du monde—chic, well-dressed, sympathetic, spirituelle!’[3]

There were many beautiful and well-dressed women round him, but to Hercule Poirot they were subtly unsatisfactory. He demanded more ample curves, a richer and more flamboyant appeal.

And even as his eyes roamed in dissatisfaction round the terrace, he saw what he had been hoping to see. A woman at a table nearby, a woman so full of flamboyant form, her luxuriant henna-red hair crowned by a small round of black to which was attached a positive platoon of brilliantly feathered little birds.

The woman turned her head, her eyes rested casually on Poirot, then opened—her vivid scarlet mouth opened too. She rose to her feet, ignoring her companion at the table, and with all the impulsiveness of her Russian nature, she surged towards Hercule Poirot—a galleon in full sail. Her hands were outstretched, her rich voice boomed out.

‘Ah, but it is! It is! Mon cher Hercule Poirot! After how many years—how many years—we will not say how many! It is unlucky.’

Poirot rose to his feet, he bent his head gallantly over the Countess Vera Rossakoff’s hand. It is the misfortune of small precise men to hanker after large and flamboyant women. Poirot had never been able to rid himself of the fatal fascination the Countess had for him. Now, it was true, the Countess was far from young. Her makeup resembled a sunset, her eyelashes dripped with mascara. The original woman underneath the makeup had long been hidden from sight. Nevertheless, to Hercule Poirot, she still represented the sumptuous, the alluring. The bourgeois in him was thrilled by the aristocrat. The old fascination stole over him. He remembered the adroit way in which she had stolen jewellery on the occasion of their first meeting, and the magnificent aplomb with which she had admitted the fact when taxed with it.[4]

He said:

‘Madame, enchanté—’ and sounded as though the phrase were more than a commonplace politeness.

The Countess sat down at his table. She cried:

‘You are here in Geneva? Why? To hunt down some wretched criminal? Ah! If so, he has no chance against you—none at all. You are the man who always wins! There is no one like you—no one in the world!’

If Hercule Poirot had been a cat he would have purred. As it was he twirled his moustaches.

‘And you, Madame? What is it that you do here?’

She laughed. She said:

‘I am not afraid of you. For once I am on the side of the angels! I lead here the most virtuous of existences. I endeavour to amuse myself, but everyone is very dull. Nichevo?’

The man who had been sitting with the Countess at her table had come over and stood hesitating beside them. The countess looked up.

‘Bon Dieu!’ she exclaimed. ‘I forgot you. Let me present you. Herr Doktor Keiserbach—and this—this is the most marvellous man in the world—M. Hercule Poirot.’

The tall man with the brown beard and the keen blue eyes clicked his heels and bowed. He said:

‘I have heard of you, M. Poirot.’

Countess Vera overbore Poirot’s polite rejoinder. She cried:

‘But you cannot possibly know how wonderful he is! He knows everything! He can do anything! Murderers hang themselves to save time when they know he is on their track. He is a genius, I tell you. He never fails.’

‘No, no, Madame, do not say that.’

‘But it is true! Do not be modest. It is stupid to be modest.’ She turned to the other man. ‘I tell you, he can do miracles. He can even bring the dead back to life.’[5]

Something leaped—a startled flash—into the blue eyes behind the glasses. Herr Keiserbach said:

‘So?’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘Ah, by the way, Madame, how is your son?’

‘The beloved angel! So big now—such shoulders—so handsome! He is in America. He builds there—bridges, banks, hotels, department stores, railways—anything the Americans want.’

Poirot looked slightly puzzled. He murmured:

‘He is then an engineer, or an architect?’

‘What does it matter?’ demanded the Countess Rossakoff. ‘He is adorable. He is wrapped up in iron girders and things called stresses. The kind of things I have never understood nor cared about. But we adore each other.’[6]

Herr Keiserbach took his leave. He asked of Poirot:

‘You are staying here, M. Poirot? Good. Then we may meet again.’

Poirot asked the lady:

‘You will have an apéritif with me?’

‘Yes, yes. We will drink vodka together and be very gay.’

The idea seemed to Hercule Poirot a good one.[7]

It was on the following evening that Dr Keiserbach invited Hercule Poirot to his rooms.

They sipped a fine brandy together and indulged in a little desultory conversation together.

Then Keiserbach said:

‘I was interested, M. Poirot, by something that our charming friend said about you yesterday.’

‘Yes?’

‘She used these words. He can even bring the dead back to life.’

Hercule Poirot sat up a little in his chair. His eyebrows rose. He said:

‘That interests you?’

‘Very much.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I feel those words may have been an omen.’

Hercule Poirot said sharply:

‘Are you asking me to bring the dead to life?’

‘Perhaps. What would you say if I did?’

Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:

‘After all, death is death, Monsieur.’

‘Not always.’

Hercule Poirot’s eyes grew sharp and green. He said:

‘You want me to bring a person who is dead to life again. A man or a woman?’

‘A man.’

‘Who is it?’

‘You do not appear appalled by the task?’

Poirot smiled faintly. He said:

‘You are not mad. You are a sane and reasonable individual. Bringing the dead to life is a phrase susceptible of many meanings. It may be treated figuratively or symbolically.’

The other said:

‘In a minute you will understand. To begin with, my name is not Keiserbach. I adopted that name so that I should pass unnoticed. My own name is too well-known. That is, it has been too well-known for the last month.

‘Lutzmann.’

He spoke it significantly. His eyes searched Poirot closely. Poirot said sharply:

‘Lutzmann?’ He paused and then said in a different tone. ‘Hans Lutzmann?’

The other man said in a hard dry voice:

‘Hans Lutzmann was my son…

If, a month previously, you had asked any Englishman who was responsible for the general condition of European unrest, the reply would almost inevitably have been ‘Hertzlein’.

There was, it was true, also Bondolini,[8] but it was upon August Hertzlein that popular imagination fastened. He was the dictator of dictators. His warlike utterances had rallied the youth of his own country and of allied countries. It was he who had set central Europe ablaze and kept it ablaze.

On the occasion of his public speeches he was able to set huge crowds rocking with frenzied enthusiasm. His high strangely tuned voice had a power all its own.

People in the know explained learnedly how Hertzlein was not really the supreme power in the Central Empires. They mentioned other names—Golstamm, Von Emmen. These, they said were the executive brains. Hertzlein was only the figurehead. Nevertheless it continued to be Hertzlein who loomed in the public eye.

Hopeful rumours went about. Hertzlein had an incurable cancer. He could not live longer than six months. Hertzlein had valvular disease of the heart. He might drop down dead any day. Hertzlein had had one stroke already and might have another any moment. Hertzlein after violently persecuting the Catholic Church had been converted by the famous Bavarian monk, Father Ludwig. He would shortly enter a monastery. Hertzlein had fallen in love with a Russian Jewess, the wife of a doctor. He was going to leave the Central Empires and settle down with her in Sweden.

And in spite of all the rumours, Hertzlein neither had a stroke, nor died of cancer, nor went into a monastery, nor eloped with a Russian Jewess. He continued to make rousing speeches amidst scenes of the greatest enthusiasm and at judicious intervals he added various territories to the Central Empires. And daily the shadow of war grew darker over Europe.

Desperately people repeated all the hopeful rumours even more hopefully. Or demanded fiercely:

‘Why doesn’t someone assassinate him? If only he were out of the way…’

There came a peaceful week when Hertzlein made no public utterances and when hopes of each of the separate rumours increased tenfold.

And then, on a fateful Thursday, Herr Hertzlein addressed a monster meeting of the Brothers of Youth.

People said afterwards that his face was drawn and strained, that even his voice held a different note, that there was about him a prescience of what was to come—but there are always people who say such things afterwards.

The speech began much as usual. Salvation would come through sacrifice and through the force of arms. Men must die for their country—if not they were unworthy to live for it. The democratic nations were afraid of war—cowardly—unworthy to survive. Let them go—be swept away—by the glorious force of the Young. Fight—fight and again fight—for Victory, and to inherit the earth.

Hertzlein, in his enthusiasm stepped out from behind his bulletproof shelter. Immediately a shot rang out—and the great dictator fell, a bullet through his head.

In the third rank of the listening people, a young man was literally torn to pieces by the mob, the smoking pistol still grasped in his hand. That young man was a student named Hans Lutzmann.

For a few days the hopes of the democratic world rose high. The Dictator was dead. Now perhaps, the reign of peace would come. That hope died almost immediately. For the dead man became a symbol, a martyr, a Saint. Those moderates whom he had failed to sway living, he swayed dead. A great wave of warlike enthusiasm swept over the Central Empires. Their Leader had been killed—but his dead spirit should lead them on. The Central Empires should dominate the world—and sweep away democracy.

With dismay, the peace lovers realised that Hertzlein’s death had accomplished nothing. Rather it had hastened the evil day. Lutzmann’s act had accomplished less than nothing.

The dry middle-aged voice said:

‘Hans Lutzmann was my son.’

Poirot said:

‘I do not yet understand you. Your son killed Hertzlein—’

He stopped. The other was slowly shaking his head. He said:

‘My son did not kill Hertzlein. He and I did not think alike. I tell you he loved that man. He worshipped him. He believed in him. He would never have drawn a pistol against him. He was a Nazi[9] through and through—in all his young enthusiasm.’

‘Then if not—who did?’

The elder Lutzmann said:

‘That is what I want you to find out.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘You have an idea…

Lutzmann said hoarsely:

‘I may be wrong.’

Hercule Poirot said steadily:

‘Tell me what you think.’

Keiserbach leaned forward.

Dr Otto Schultz readjusted his tortoiseshell rimmed glasses. His thin face beamed with scientific enthusiasm. He said in pleasant nasal accents:

‘I guess, Mr Poirot, that with what you’ve told me I’ll be able to go right ahead.’

‘You have the schedule?’

‘Why, certainly, I shall work to it very carefully. As I see it, perfect timing is essential to the success of your plan.’

Hercule Poirot bestowed a glance of approval. He said:

‘Order and method. That is the pleasure of dealing with a scientific mind.’

Dr Schultz said:

‘You can count on me,’ and wringing him warmly by the hand he went out.

George, Poirot’s invaluable manservant, came softly in.

He inquired in a low deferential voice:

‘Will there be any more gentlemen coming, sir?’

‘No, Georges, that was the last of them.’

Hercule Poirot looked tired. He had been very busy since he had returned from Bavaria the week before. He leaned back in his chair and shaded his eyes with his hand. He said:

‘When all this is over, I shall go for a long rest.’

‘Yes, sir. I think it would be advisable, sir.’

Poirot murmured:

‘The Last Labour of Hercules.’ Do you know, Georges, what that was?’

‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure, sir. I don’t vote Labour myself.’

Poirot said:

‘Those young men that you have seen here today—I have sent them on a special mission—they have gone to the place of departed spirits. In this Labour there can be no force employed. All must be done by guile.’

‘They seemed very competent looking gentlemen, if I may say so, sir.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘I chose them very carefully.’

He sighed and shook his head. He said:

‘The world is very sick.’

George said:

‘It looks like war whichever way you turn. Everybody’s very depressed sir. And as for trade it’s just awful. We can’t go on like this.’

Hercule Poirot murmured:

‘We sit in the Twilight of the Gods.’

Dr Schultz paused before a property surrounded by a high wall. It was situated about eight miles from Strasbourg.

He rang the gate bell. In the distance he heard the deep baying of a dog and the rattle of a chain.

The gate-keeper appeared and Dr Otto Schultz presented his card.

‘I wish to see the Herr Doktor Weingartner.’

‘Alas, Monsieur, the doctor has been called away only an hour ago by telegram.’

Schultz frowned.

‘Can I then see his second in command?’

‘Dr Neumann? But certainly.’

Dr Neumann was a pleasant-faced young man, with an ingenuous open countenance.

Dr Schultz produced his credentials—a letter of introduction from one of the leading alienists in Berlin. He himself, he explained, was the author of a publication dealing with certain aspects of lunacy and mental degeneracy.

The other’s face lighted up and he replied that he knew Dr Schultz’s publications and was very much interested in his theories. What a regrettable thing that Dr Weingartner should be absent!

The two men began to talk shop, comparing conditions in America and Europe and finally becoming technical. They discussed individual patients. Schultz recounted some recent results of a new treatment for paranoia.

He said with a laugh:

‘By that means we have cured three Hertzleins, four Bondolinis, five President Roosevelts and seven Supreme Deities.’

Neumann laughed.

Presently the two men went upstairs and visited the wards. It was a small mental home for private patients. There were only about twelve occupants.

Schultz said:

‘You understand I’m principally interested in your paranoiac cases. I believe you have a case admitted quite recently which has some peculiarly interesting features.’

Poirot looked from the telegram lying on his desk to the face of his visitor.

The telegram consisted simply of an address. Villa Eugenie Strasbourg. It was followed by the words ‘Beware of the Dog’.

The visitor was an odoriferous gentleman of middle-age with a red and swollen nose, an unshaven chin and a deep husky voice which seemed to rise from his unprepossessing looking boots.[10]

He said hoarsely:

‘You can trust me, guv’nor. Do anything with dogs, I can.’

‘So I have been told. It will be necessary for you to travel to France—to Alsace.’

Mr Higgs looked interested.

‘That where them Alsatian dogs come from? Never been out of England I ‘aven’t. England’s good enough for me, that’s what I say.’

Poirot said:

‘You will need a passport.’

He produced a form.

‘Now fill this up. I will assist you.’

They went laboriously through it. Mr Higgs said:

‘I had my photo took, as you said. Not that I liked the idea of that much—might be dangerous in my profession.’

Mr Higgs’ profession was that of a dog stealer, but that fact was glossed over in the conversation.

‘Your photograph,’ said Poirot, ‘will be signed on the back by a magistrate, a clergyman, or a public official who will vouch for you as being a proper person to have a passport.’

A grin overspread Mr Higgs’ face.

‘That’s rare, that is,’ he said. ‘That’s rare. A beak saying as I’m a fit and proper person to have a passport.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘In desperate times, one must use desperate means!’

‘Meaning me?’ said Mr Higgs.

‘You and your colleague.’

They started for France two days later. Poirot, Mr Higgs, and a slim young man, in a checked suit and a bright pink shirt, who was a highly successful cat burglar.

It was not Hercule Poirot’s custom to indulge in activities in his proper person, but for once he broke through his rule. It was past one in the morning when, shivering slightly in spite of his overcoat, he was laboriously hoisted to the top of a wall by the help of his two assistants.

Mr Higgs prepared to drop from the wall into the grounds inside. There was a violent baying of a dog and suddenly an enormous creature rushed out from under the trees.[11]

Hercule Poirot ejaculated:

‘Mon Dieu, but it is a monster! Are you sure—?’

Mr Higgs patted his pocket with complete assurance.

‘Don’t you worry, guv’nor. What I’ve got here is the right stuff. Any dog’ll follow me to hell for it.’

‘In this case,’ murmured Hercule Poirot, ‘he has to follow you out of hell.’

‘Same thing,’ said Mr Higgs, and dropped off the wall into the garden.

They heard his voice.

‘Here you are, Fido. Have a sniff of this…That’s right. You come along of me…’

His voice died away into the night. The garden was dark and peaceful. The slim young man assisted Poirot down from the wall.[12] They came to the house. Poirot said:

‘That is the window there, the second to the left.’

The young man nodded. He examined the wall first, smiled in satisfaction over a convenient pipe, and then easily and seemingly without effort he disappeared up the wall. Presently, very faintly, Poirot heard the sound of a file being used on the barred window.

Time passed. Then something dropped at Poirot’s feet. It was the end of a silk ladder. Someone was coming down the ladder. A short man with a bullet head and a little dark moustache.

He came down slowly and clumsily. At last he reached the ground. Hercule Poirot stepped forward into the moonlight.

He said politely:

‘Herr Hertzlein, I presume.’

Hertzlein said:

‘How did you find me?’

They were in the compartment of a second class sleeper bound for Paris.

Poirot, as was his fashion, answered the question meticulously.

He said:

‘At Geneva, I became acquainted with a gentleman called Lutzmann. It was his son who was supposed to have fired the shot that killed you and as a result young Lutzmann was torn to death by the crowd. His father, however, was firmly convinced that his son had never fired that shot. It seemed therefore as though Herr Hertzlein had been shot by one of the two men who were on either side of Lutzmann and that the pistol was forced into his hand and those two men had fallen upon him at once crying out that he was the murderer. But there was another point. Lutzmann assured me that in these mass meetings the front ranks were always packed with ardent supporters—that is to say by thoroughly trustworthy persons.

‘Now the Central Empire administration is very good. Its organisation is so perfect that it seemed incredible that such a disaster could have occurred. Moreover there were two small but significant points. Hertzlein, at the critical moment, came out from his bulletproof shelter and his voice had sounded different that evening. Appearance is nothing. It would be easy for someone to carry out an impersonation on a public platform—but the subtle intonation of a voice is a thing more difficult to copy. That evening Herr Hertzlein’s voice had lacked its usual intoxicating quality. It was hardly noticed because he was shot only a very few minutes after he had started to speak.

‘Suppose, then, that it was not Herr Hertzlein speaking, and consequently not Herr Hertzlein who had been shot? Could there be a theory that would account for those very extraordinary happenings?

‘I thought that that was possible. Amongst all the various rumours that circulate in a time of stress, there is usually a foundation of truth beneath at least one of them. Supposing that that rumour was true that declared that Hertzlein had lately fallen under the influence of that fervent preacher, Father Ludwig.’

Poirot went on, speaking slowly:

‘I thought it possible, Excellency, that you, a man of ideals, a visionary, might have come suddenly to realise that a new vista, a vista of peace and brotherhood, was open to humanity, and that you were the man to set their feet upon that path.’

Hertzlein nodded violently. He said in his soft husky thrilling voice:

‘You are right. The scales fell from my eyes. Father Ludwig was the appointed means to show me my true destiny. Peace! Peace is what the world wants. We must lead youth forward to live in brotherhood. The youth of the world must join together, to plan a great campaign, a campaign of peace. And I shall lead them! I am the means appointed by God to give peace to the world!’

The compelling voice ceased. Hercule Poirot nodded to himself, registering with interest his own aroused emotion.

He went on drily:

‘Unfortunately, Excellency, this vast project of yours did not please certain executive authorities in the Central Empires. On the contrary it filled them with dismay.’

‘Because they knew that where I led, the people would follow.’

‘Exactly. So they kidnapped you without more ado. But they were then in a dilemma. If they gave out that you were dead, awkward questions might arise. Too many people would be in the secret. And also, with you dead, the warlike emotions you had aroused might die with you. They hit instead upon a spectacular end. A man was prevailed upon to represent you at the Monster meeting.’

‘Perhaps Schwartz. He took my place sometimes in public processions.’

‘Possibly. He himself had no idea of the end planned for him. He thought only that he was to read a speech because you yourself were ill. He was instructed at a given moment to step out from the bulletproof shelter—to show how completely he trusted his people. He never suspected any danger. But the two storm troopers had their orders. One of them shot him and the two of them fell on the young man standing between them and cried out that it was his hand that had fired the shot. They knew their crowd psychology.

‘The result was as they had hoped. A frenzy of national patriotism and a rigid adherence to the programme of force by arms!’

Hertzlein said:

‘But you still do not tell me how you found me?’

Hercule Poirot smiled.

‘That was easy—for a person, that is, of my mental capacity! Granted that they had not killed you (and I did not think that they could kill you. Someday you might be useful to them alive, especially if they could prevail upon you to readopt your former views). Where could they take you? Out of the Central Empires—but not too far—and there was only one place where you could be safely hidden—in an asylum or a mental home—the place where a man might declare tirelessly all day and all night that he was Herr Hertzlein and where such a statement would be accepted as quite natural. Paranoics are always convinced that they are great men. In every mental institution there are Napoleons, Hertzleins, Julius Caesars—often many examples of le bon Dieu himself!

‘I decided that you would most probably be in a small institution in Alsace or Lorraine where German speaking patients would be natural; and probably only one person would be in the secret—the medical director himself.

‘To discover where you were I enlisted the services of some five or six bona fide medical men. These men obtained letters of introduction from an eminent alienist in Berlin. At each institution they visited the director was, by a curious coincidence, called away by telegram about an hour before the visitor’s arrival. One of my agents, an intelligent young American doctor, was allotted the Villa Eugenie and when visiting the paranoic patients he had little difficulty in recognising the genuine article when he saw you. For the rest, you know it.’

Hertzlein was silent a moment.

Then he said, and his voice held once again that moving and appealing note:

‘You have done a greater thing than you know. This is the beginning of peace—peace over Europe—peace in all the world! It is my destiny to lead mankind to Peace and Brotherhood.’

Hercule Poirot said softly:

‘Amen to that…’

Hercule Poirot sat on the terrace of a hotel at Geneva. A pile of newspapers lay beside him. Their headlines were big and black.

The amazing news had run like wildfire all over the world.

HERTZLEIN IS NOT DEAD.

There had been rumours, announcements, counterannouncements—violent denials by the Central Empire Governments.

And then, in the great public square of the capital city, Hertzlein had spoken to a vast mass of people—and there had been no doubt possible. The voice, the magnetism, the power…He had played upon them until he had them crying out in a frenzy.

They had gone home shouting their new catchwords.

Peace…Love…Brotherhood…The Young are to save the World.

There was a rustle beside Poirot and the smell of an exotic perfume.

Countess Vera Rossakoff plumped down beside him. She said:

‘Is it all real? Can it work?’

‘Why not?’

‘Can there be such a thing as brotherhood in men’s hearts?’

‘There can be the belief in it.’

She nodded thoughtfully. She said:

‘Yes, I see.’

Then, with a quick gesture she said:

‘But they won’t let him go on with it. They’ll kill him. Really kill him this time.’

Poirot said:

‘But his legend—the new legend—will live after him. Death is never an end.’

Vera Rossakoff said:

‘Poor Hans Lutzmann.’

‘His death was not useless either.’

Vera Rossakoff said:

‘You are not afraid of death, I see. I am! I do not want to talk about it. Let us be gay and sit in the sun and drink vodka.’

‘Very willingly, Madame. The more so since we have now got hope in our hearts.’

He added:

‘I have a present for you, if you will deign to accept it.’

‘A present for me? But how charming.’

‘Excuse me a moment.’

Hercule Poirot went into the hotel. He came back a few seconds later. He brought with him an enormous dog of singular ugliness.

The Countess clapped her hands.

‘What a monster! How adorable! I like everything large—immense! Never have I seen such a big dog! And he is for me?’

‘If it pleases you to accept him.’

‘I shall adore him.’ She snapped her fingers. The large hound laid a trusting muzzle in her hand. ‘See, he is as gentle as a lamb with me! He is like the big fierce dogs we had in Russia in my father’s house.’

Poirot stood back a little. His head went on one side. Artistically he was pleased. The savage dog, the flamboyant woman—yes, the tableau was perfect.

The Countess inquired:

‘What’s his name?’

Hercule Poirot replied, with the sigh of one whose labours are completed:

‘Call him Cerberus.’

In this story we have a recognisable, and in many ways, a typical Christie setting—a small village, a wealthy old lady and her avaricious relatives. It is immediately apparent, even from the title, that there are strong links to the 1937 novel Dumb Witness. She retains the basic situation and it is possible to see the germs of ideas that she expanded—the brief mention of the Pym spiritualists, the all-important accident on the stairs—into larger parts in the novel. But unlike some other occasions when she reused an earlier idea or short story (‘The Mystery of the Baghdad Chest’ for example), here she gives us a different murderer and explanation.

The plot device of Poirot receiving a plea for help from someone who dies before Poirot can talk to them is one that she had used on a few previous occasions. As early as The Murder on the Links (1923) his correspondent is already dead when Poirot arrives in France. Subsequently it is used in ‘How Does your Garden Grow?’ and ‘The Cornish Mystery’.

Of the Poirot and Hastings short stories, all with the exception of ‘Double Sin’ (September 1928) and ‘The Mystery of the Baghdad Chest’ (January 1932) were published in 1923/24. All the Poirot short stories after 1932 feature Poirot alone. No notes for any of those early stories survive and where Christie refers to them in the Notebooks, it is only as a reminder to herself of the possibility of expanding or reusing them. In many ways ‘The Incident of the Dog’s Ball’ is similar in style, setting and tone to many others dating from the early 1920s and published in Poirot Investigates and Poirot’s Early Cases. But if it was written early in Christie’s career, this in turn raises the question of why it would have lain for almost 20 years without appearing in print. It does not appear in her agent’s records of work received by them and offered for sale. I hope to show that it dates from later in her career.

In Notebook 30 it is included in a list (illustrated on the jacket of this book) which may help us to establish more accurately its date of composition:

Ideas

A. Dog’s Ball

B. Death on the Nile

C. Strychnine absorbed through skin?

D. Double Alibi e.g. A and B murder C but—A is accused of trying to murder B at same time.

E. Figurehead woman. Man back from Africa.

F. Second Gong elaborated

G. Mescaline

H. Illegitimate daughter—apomorphine idea?

Ideas to be incorporated

Brownie camera idea

Brooch with AO or OA on it AM. MA

If we apply some of Poirot’s own methods we may be able to arrive at a timetable.

This page from Notebook 30 is part-transcribed on the opposite page. Note the three intertwined fish logo in the top right-hand corner.

Clue No. 1

There are a number of immediately recognisable stories here: Dumb Witness or ‘The Incident of the Dog’s Ball’ (A), Death on the Nile (B), They Do it with Mirrors (D) and Sad Cypress (H). ‘The Second Gong’ (F) was first published in June 1932 and both Dumb Witness and Death on the Nile in 1937, the former in July and the latter in November of that year. So it is reasonable to assume that the list was written between those dates, i.e. after ‘The Second Gong’ in June 1932 and before Dumb Witness in July 1937.

Clue No. 2

Unlike Item F on the list, ‘Second Gong elaborated’, there is no mention of elaboration in connection with ‘Dog’s Ball’, lending support to the theory that it did not then exist as a short story.

Clue No. 3

In the Christie Archive there are two letters from her agent Edmund Cork. One, dated 26 June 1936, acknowledges receipt of a revised version of Dumb Witness; another, dated 29 April 1936, expresses delight at her news that Death on the Nile was finished. We now have two new limits—later than June 1932 and before April 1936. Can we do better? I think so.

Clue No. 4

It is not unreasonable to suppose that the writing of Death on the Nile and Dumb Witness, both of them among her longest books, took over a year, which would bring our latest date back to April 1935. Our new dates are now June 1932 and April 1935. And if we add two items of conjecture to the equation…

Clue No. 5

In the change from ‘The Incident of the Dog’s Ball’ to Dumb Witness, the setting moves from Little Hemel, in the county of Kent, to Market Basing, Berkshire:

General Plan P. receives letter—he and H—he writes—then he tears it up—No, we will go—Market Basing—The Lamb

Market Basing is commonly assumed to bear more than a passing resemblance to Wallingford where Agatha Christie lived. She bought her house there in 1934 and this may account for the change of setting for the novel. There is evidence for this in the reference to The Lamb, a Wallingford pub, in Notebook 63. This is, admittedly, conjecture but as Poirot would say, ‘It gives one furiously to think, does it not?’

Clue No. 6

Miss Matilda Wheeler writes to Poirot on 12 April, a Wednesday, according to Poirot’s exposition: ‘Consider the dates, Hastings’ (section v). The 12th of April fell on a Wednesday in 1933.

Conclusion?

So we may conclude that ‘The Incident of the Dog’s Ball’ was

written, in all likelihood, in 1933.

Agatha Christie was now a household name. By the mid-1930s and Three Act Tragedy she was selling 10,000 hardbacks in the first year of a new title; she was one of the first writers to appear in paperback; her books had been dramatised and filmed. Why would any magazine not jump at the chance to publish a little gem of a new Poirot story, with its guarantee of increased sales? If it was offered to them…Again, we are in the realms of speculation, but I think the reason it never appeared in print is disappointingly mundane: it was never published because she never offered it to her agent. Because, in turn, she decided to turn it into a novel. Consider the evidence:

Clue No. 1

Her production of short stories had decreased from the multiple appearances of earlier years—27 in 1923 and 34 in 1924—to a mere half-dozen in 1933 and seven the following year. As she said when she refused to contribute to the Detection Club’s collaborative novels, ‘the energy to devise a series is much better employed in writing a couple of books’. She may well have thought the same about this short story and decided to turn it into a complete new Poirot book.

Clue No. 2

The Edmund Cork letter referred to above, dated 26 June 1936, acknowledges receipt of a revised version of Dumb Witness. This seems to refer to the first four chapters, a domestic English village setting, which were added to help ensure a US serialisation sale (it was serialised in the Saturday Evening Post in November/December 1936) and would lend support to the idea that it was an expansion of ‘The Incident of the Dog’s Ball’. In the novel Hastings begins his firstperson narration only at Chapter 5; up to then the story is told in the omniscient third person with the assurance from Hastings, when he begins his narrative, that he did not witness the earlier events personally but that he ‘has set them down accurately enough’. And the opening scenes of both the short story and Chapter 5 are, apart from the month of the year, identical.

Clue No. 3

This not-offered-for-sale theory may also account for the major oversight involving the dates within the story. In section i Poirot says ‘No, April the 12th is the date [on which the letter was written] assuredly’ but in section iv he refers to August as the month when Miss Wheeler wrote the letter. An agent and/or an editor would surely have noticed a mistake of this magnitude, and one so germane to the plot.

Conclusion

In conclusion, it is entirely possible that ‘The Incident of the Dog’s Ball’ was written in 1933 and never offered for publication but, instead, transformed, in 1935/36, into the novel Dumb Witness.

The story is referred to in two Notebooks, but in Notebook 30 it is mentioned only in passing as Idea A in the list above. In Notebook 66 we find more detail with resemblance to the short story rather than the novel:

Dog’s Ball People

Mrs Grant—typical old lady

Miss Lawson—twittery companion

Mollie Davidson—Niece—earns living in a beauty parlour

Her young man—a ne’er do well

Journalist—Ted Weedon—has been in prison for forgery—forged uncle’s name in City office—

owing to girl pressing him for money—some actress

James Grant—prim…respectable gentleman—

Engaged to hospital nurse—Miss O’Gorman

Ellen

Cook

The niece’s name—Mollie Davidson—remains the same, as does her occupation; and that name appears nowhere else in the notes for Dumb Witness. The nephew’s is amended only slightly to Graham, although that of the victim changes substantially from Mrs Grant to Miss Wheeler. Neither Mollie’s young man or James Grant’s fiancee features in the short story although Ted Weedon’s proclivity for forgery is transferred to Charles Arundell, the rechristened nephew in the novel.

The Incident of the Dogs Ball[13] (From the notes of Captain Arthur Hastings O.B.E.)

I always look back upon the case of Miss Matilda Wheeler with special interest simply because of the curious way it worked itself out—from nothing at all as it were!

I remember that it was a particularly hot airless day in August. I was sitting in my friend Poirot’s rooms wishing for the hundredth time that we could be in the country and not in London. The post had just been brought in. I remember the sound of each envelope in turn being opened neatly, as Poirot did everything, by means of a little paper-cutter. Then would come his murmured comment and the letter in question would be allotted to its proper pile. It was an orderly monotonous business.

And then suddenly there came a difference. A longer pause, a letter not read once but twice. A letter that was not docketed in the usual way but which remained in the recipient’s hand. I looked across at my friend. The letter now lay on his knee. He was staring thoughtfully across the room.

‘Anything of interest, Poirot?’ I asked.

‘Cela dépend. Possibly you would not think so. It is a letter from an old lady, Hastings, and it says nothing—but nothing at all.’

‘Very useful,’ I commented sarcastically.

‘N’est ce pas? It is the way of old ladies, that. Round and round the point they go! But see for yourself. I shall be interested to know what you make of it.’

He tossed me the letter. I unfolded it and made a slight grimace. It consisted of four closely written pages in a spiky and shaky handwriting with numerous alterations, erasions, and copious underlining.

‘Must I really read it?’ I asked plaintively. ‘What is it about?’

‘It is, as I told you just now, about nothing.’

Hardly encouraged by this remark I embarked unwillingly on my task. I will confess that I did not read it very carefully. The writing was difficult and I was content to take guesses on the context.

The writer seemed to be a Miss Matilda Wheeler of The Laburnums, Little Hemel. After much doubt and indecision, she wrote, she had felt herself emboldened to write to M. Poirot. At some length she went on to state exactly how and where she had heard M. Poirot’s name mentioned. The matter was such, she said, that she found it extremely difficult to consult anyone in Little Hemel—and of course there was the possibility that she might be completely mistaken—that she was attaching a most ridiculous significance to perfectly natural incidents. In fact she had chided herself unsparingly for fancifulness, but ever since the incident of the dog’s ball she had felt most uneasy. She could only hope to hear from M. Poirot if he did not think the whole thing was a mare’s nest. Also, perhaps, he would be so kind as to let her know what his fee would be? The matter, she knew, was very trivial and unimportant, but her health was bad and her nerves not what they had been and worry of this kind was very bad for her, and the more she thought of it, the more she was convinced that she was right, though, of course, she would not dream of saying anything.[14]

That was more or less the gist of the thing. I put it down with a sigh of exasperation.

‘Why can’t the woman say what she’s talking about? Of all the idiotic letters!’

‘N’est ce pas? A regrettable failure to employ order and method in the mental process.’

‘What do you think she does mean? Not that it matters much. Some upset to her pet dog, I suppose. Anyway, it’s not worth taking seriously.’

‘You think not, my friend?’

‘My dear Poirot, I cannot see why you are so intrigued by this letter.’

‘No, you have not seen. The most interesting point in that letter—you have passed it by unnoticed.’

‘What is the interesting point?’

‘The date, mon ami.’

I looked at the heading of the letter again.

‘April 12th,’ I said slowly.

‘C’est curieux, n’est ce pas?’ Nearly three months ago.’[15]

‘I don’t suppose it has any significance. She probably meant to put August 12th.’

‘No, no, Hastings. Look at the colour of the ink. That letter was written a good time ago. No, April 12th is the date assuredly. But why was it not sent? And if the writer changed her mind about sending it, why did she keep it and send it now?’

He rose.

‘Mon ami—the day is hot. In London one stifles, is it not so? Then how say you to a little expedition into the country? To be exact, to Little Hemel which is, I see, in the County of Kent.’

I was only too willing and then and there we started off on our visit of exploration.

Little Hemel we found to be a charming village, untouched in the miraculous way that villages can be when they are two miles from a main road. There was a hostelry called The George, and there we had lunch—a bad lunch I regret to say, as is the way at country inns.

An elderly waiter attended to us, a heavy breathing man, and as he brought us two cups of a doubtful fluid called coffee, Poirot started his campaign.

‘A house called The Laburnums,’ he said. ‘You know it? The house of a Miss Wheeler.’

‘That’s right, sir. Just past the church. You can’t miss it. Three Miss Wheelers there were, old-fashioned ladies, born and brought up here. Ah! well, they’re all gone now and the house is up for sale.’

He shook his head sadly.

‘So the Miss Wheelers are all dead?’ said Poirot.

‘Yes, sir. Miss Amelia and Miss Caroline twelve years ago and Miss Matilda just a month or two ago. You thinking of buying the house, sir—if I may ask?’

‘The idea had occurred to me,’ said Poirot mendaciously. ‘But I believe it is in a very bad state.’

‘It’s old-fashioned, sir. Never been modernised as the saying goes. But it’s in good condition—roof and drains and all that. Never grudged money on repairs, Miss Wheeler didn’t, and the garden was always a picture.’

‘She was well off?’

‘Oh! very comfortably off indeed, sir. A very well-to-do family.’

‘I suppose the house has been left to someone who has no use for it? A niece or nephew or some distant relative?’

‘No, sir, she left it to her companion, Miss Lawson. But Miss Lawson doesn’t fancy living in it, and so it’s up for sale. But it’s a bad time for selling houses, they say.’

‘Whenever one has to sell anything it is always a bad time,’ said Poirot smiling, as he paid the bill and added a handsome tip. ‘When exactly did you say Miss Matilda Wheeler died?’

‘Just the beginning of May, sir—thank you, sir—or was it the end of April? She’d not been in good health for a long time.’

‘You have a good doctor here?’

‘Yes, sir, Dr Lawrence. He’s getting on now, but he’s well thought of down here. Always very pleasant-spoken and careful.’

Poirot nodded and presently we strolled out into the hot August sunshine and made our way along the street in the direction of the church.

Before we got to it, however, we passed an old-fashioned house set a little way back, with a brass plate on the gate inscribed with the name of Dr Lawrence.

‘Excellent,’ said Poirot. ‘We will make a call here. At this hour we shall make sure of finding the doctor at home.’

‘My dear Poirot! But what on earth are you going to say? And anyway what are you driving at?’

‘For your first question, mon ami, the answer is simple—I shall have to invent. Fortunately I have the imagination fertile. For your second question—eh bien, after we have conversed with the doctor, it may be that I shall find I am not driving at anything.’

Dr Lawrence proved to be a man of about sixty. I put him down as an unambitious kindly sort of fellow, not particularly brilliant mentally, but quite sound.

Poirot is a past master in the art of mendacity. In five minutes we were all chatting together in the most friendly fashion—it being somehow taken for granted that we were old and dear friends of Miss Matilda Wheeler.

‘Her death, it is a great shock to me. Most sad,’ said Poirot. ‘She had the stroke? No?’

‘Oh! no, my dear fellow. Yellow atrophy of the liver. Been coming on for a long time. She had a very bad attack of jaundice a year ago. She was pretty well through the winter except for digestive trouble. Then she had jaundice again the end of April and died of it. A great loss to us—one of the real oldfashioned kind.’

‘Ah! yes, indeed,’ sighed Poirot. ‘And the companion, Miss Lawson—?’

He paused and rather to our surprise the doctor responded promptly.

‘I can guess what you’re after, and I don’t mind telling you that you’ve my entire sympathy. But if you’re coming to me for any hope of “undue influence” it’s no good. Miss Wheeler was perfectly capable of making a will—not only when she did—but right up to the day of her death. It’s no good hoping that I can say anything different because I can’t.’

‘But your sympathy—’

‘My sympathy is with James Graham and Miss Mollie. I’ve always felt strongly that money shouldn’t be left away from the family to an outsider. I daresay there might be some sort of case that Miss Lawson obtained an ascendency over Miss Wheeler owing to spiritualistic tomfoolery—but I doubt if there’s anything that you could take into court. Only run yourself in for terrific expense. Avoid the law, wherever you can, is my motto. And certainly medically I can’t help you. Miss Wheeler’s mind was perfectly clear.’

He shook hands with us and we passed out into the sunlight.

‘Well!’ I said. ‘That was rather unexpected!’

‘Truly. We begin to learn a little about my correspondent. She has at least two relatives—James Graham and a girl called Mollie. They ought to have inherited her money but did not do so. By a will clearly not made very long ago, the whole amount has gone to the companion, Miss Lawson. There is also a very significant mention of spiritualism.’

‘You think that significant?’

‘Obviously. A credulous old lady—the spirits tell her to leave her money to a particular person—she obeys. Something of that kind occurs to one as a possibility, does it not?’

We had arrived at The Laburnums. It was a fair sized Georgian house, standing a little way back from the street with a large garden behind. There was a board stuck up with For Sale on it.

Poirot rang the bell. His efforts were rewarded by a fierce barking within. Presently the door was opened by a neat middle-aged woman who held a barking wire-haired terrier by the collar.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Poirot. ‘The house is for sale, I understand, so Mr James Graham told me.’

‘Oh! yes, sir. You would like to see over it?’

‘If you please.’

‘You needn’t be afraid of Bob, sir. He barks if anyone comes to the door, but he’s as gentle as a lamb really.’

True enough, as soon as we were inside, the terrier jumped up and licked our hands. We were shown over the house—pathetic as an empty house always is, with the marks of pictures showing on the walls, and the bare uncarpeted floors. We found the woman only too ready and willing to talk to friends of the family as she supposed us to be. By his mention of James Graham, Poirot created this impression very cleverly.

Ellen, for such was our guide’s name, had clearly been very attached to her late mistress. She entered with the gusto of her class into a description of her illness and death.

‘Taken sudden she was. And suffered! Poor dear! Delirious at the end. All sorts of queer things she’d say. How long was it? Well, it must have been three days from the time she was took bad. But poor dear, she’d suffered for many years on and off. Jaundice last year she had—and her food never agreed with her well. She’d take digestion tablets after nearly every meal. Oh! yes, she suffered a good deal one way or another. Sleeplessness for one thing. Used to get up and walk about the house at night, she did, her eyesight being too bad for much reading.’

It was at this point that Poirot produced from his pocket the letter. He held it out to her.

‘Do you recognise this by any chance?’ he asked.

He was watching her narrowly. She gave an exclamation of surprise.

‘Well, now, I do declare! And is it you that’s the gentleman it’s written to?’

Poirot nodded.

‘Tell me how you came to post it to me?’ he said.

‘Well, sir, I didn’t know what to do—and that’s the truth. When the furniture was all cleared out, Miss Lawson she gave me several little odds and ends that had been the mistress’s. And among them was a mother of pearl blotter that I’d always admired. I put it by in a drawer, and it was only yesterday that I took it out and was putting new blotting paper in it when I found this letter slipped inside the pocket. It was the mistress’s handwriting and I saw as she’d meant to post it and slipped it in there and forgot—which was the kind of thing she did many a time, poor dear. Absentminded as you might say. Well, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t like to put it in the fire and I couldn’t take it upon myself to open it and I didn’t see as it was any business of Miss Lawson’s, so I just put a stamp on it and ran out to the post box and posted it.’

Ellen paused for breath and the terrier uttered a sharp staccato bark. It was so peremptory in sound that Poirot’s attention was momentarily diverted. He looked down at the dog who was sitting with his nose lifted entreatingly towards the empty mantelpiece of the drawing-room where we were at the time.

‘But what is it that he regards so fixedly?’ asked Poirot.

Ellen laughed.

‘It’s his ball, sir. It used to be put in ajar on the mantelpiece and he thinks it ought somehow or other to be there still.’

‘I see,’ said Poirot. ‘His ball…’ He remained thoughtful for a moment or two.

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Did your mistress ever mention to you something about the dog and his ball? Something that perturbed her greatly?’

‘Now it’s odd your saying that, sir. She never said anything about a ball, but I do believe there was something about Bob here that was on her mind—for she tried to say something just as she was dying. “The dog,” she said. “The dog—” and then something about a picture ajar—nothing that made sense but there, poor soul, she was delirious and didn’t know what she was saying.’

‘You will comprehend,’ said Poirot, ‘that this letter not reaching me when it should have done, I am greatly intrigued about many things and much in the dark. There are several questions that I should wish to ask.’

By this time Ellen would have taken for granted any statement that Poirot had chosen to make. We adjourned to her somewhat overcrowded sitting-room and having pacified Bob by giving him the desired ball which he retired under a table to chew, Poirot began his interrogations.

‘First of all,’ he said, ‘I comprehend that Miss Wheeler’s nearest relations were only two in number?’

‘That’s right, sir. Mr James—Mr James Graham whom you mentioned just now—and Miss Davidson. They were first cousins and niece and nephew to Miss Wheeler. There were five Miss Wheelers, you see, and only two of them married.’

‘And Miss Lawson was no relation at all?’

‘No, indeed—nothing but a paid companion.’

Scorn was uppermost in Ellen’s voice.

‘Did you like Miss Lawson, Ellen?’

‘Well, sir, she wasn’t one you could dislike, so to speak. Neither one thing nor the other, she wasn’t, a poor sort of creature, and full of nonsense about spirits. Used to sit in the dark, they did, she and Miss Wheeler and the two Miss Pyms. A sayance, they called it. Why they were at it the very night she was taken bad. And if you ask me, it was that wicked nonsense that made Miss Wheeler leave her money away from her own flesh and blood.’

‘When exactly did she make the new will? But perhaps you do not know that.’

‘Oh! yes, I do. Sent for the lawyer she did while she was still laid up.’

‘Laid up?’

‘Yes, sir—from a fall she had. Down the stairs. Bob here had left his ball on top of the stairs and she slipped on it and fell. In the night it was. As I tell you, she used to get up and walk about.’

‘Who was in the house at the time?’

‘Mr James and Miss Mollie were here for the weekend. Easter it was, and it was the night of Bank Holiday. There was cook and me and Miss Lawson and Mr James and Miss Mollie and what with the fall and the scream we all came out. Cut her head, she did, and strained her back. She had to lie up for nearly a week. Yes, she was still in bed—it was the following Friday—when she sent for Mr Halliday. And the gardener had to come in and witness it, because for some reason I couldn’t on account of her having remembered me in it, and cook alone wasn’t enough.’

‘Bank holiday was the 10th of August,’[16] said Poirot. He looked at me meaningfully. ‘Friday would be the 14th. And what next? Did Miss Wheeler get up again?’

‘Oh! yes, sir. She got up on the Saturday, and Miss Mollie and Mr James they came down again, being anxious about her, you see. Mr James he even came down the weekend after that.’

‘The weekend of the 22nd?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And when was Miss Wheeler finally taken ill?’

‘It was the 25th, sir. Mr James had left the day before. And Miss Wheeler seemed as well as she’d ever been—bar her indigestion, of course, but that was chronic. Taken sudden after the sayance, she was. They had a sayance after dinner, you know, so the Miss Pyms went home and Miss Lawson and I got her to bed and sent for Dr Lawrence.’

Poirot sat frowning for a moment or two, then he asked Ellen for the address of Miss Davidson and Mr Graham and also for that of Miss Lawson.

All three proved to be in London. James Graham was junior partner in some chemical dye works,[17] Miss Davidson worked in a beauty parlour in Dover Street. Miss Lawson had taken a flat near High Street, Kensington.

As we left, Bob, the dog, rushed up to the top of the staircase, lay down and carefully nosed his ball over the edge so that it bumped down the stairs. He remained, wagging his tail, until it was thrown up to him again.

‘The incident of the dog’s ball,’ murmured Poirot under his breath.

A minute or two later we were out in the sunshine again.

‘Well,’ I said with a laugh. ‘The dog’s ball incident did not amount to much after all. We now know exactly what it was. The dog left his ball at the top of the stairs and the old lady tripped over it and fell. So much for that!’

‘Yes, Hastings, as you say—the incident is simple enough. What we do not know—and what I should like to know—and what I mean to know—is why the old lady was so perturbed by it?’

‘Do you think there is anything in that?’

‘Consider the dates, Hastings. On Monday night, the fall. On Wednesday the letter written to me. On Friday the altered will. There is something curious there. Something that I should like to know. And ten days afterwards Miss Wheeler dies. If it had been a sudden death, one of these mysterious deaths due to “heart failure”—I confess I should have been suspicious. But her death appears to have been perfectly natural and due to disease of long standing. Tout de même—’

He went off into a brown study. Finally he said unexpectedly:

‘If you really wished to kill someone, Hastings, how would you set about it?’

‘Well—I don’t know. I can’t imagine myself—’

‘One can always imagine. Think, for instance, of a particularly repellent money-lender, of an innocent girl in his clutches.’

‘Yes,’ I said slowly. ‘I suppose one might always see red and knock a fellow out.’

Poirot sighed.

‘Mais oui, it would be that way with you! But I seek to imagine the mind of someone very different. A cold-blooded but cautious murderer, reasonably intelligent. What would he try first? Well, there is accident. A well staged accident— that is very difficult for the police to bring home to the perpetrator. But it has its disadvantages—it may disable but not kill. And then, possibly, the victim might be suspicious. Accident cannot be tried again. Suicide? Unless a convenient piece of writing with an ambiguous meaning can be obtained from the victim, suicide would be very uncertain. Then murder—recognised as such. For that you want a scapegoat or an alibi.’

‘But Miss Wheeler wasn’t murdered. Really, Poirot—’

‘I know. I know. But she died, Hastings. Do not forget—she died. She makes a will—and ten days later she dies. And the only two people in the house with her (for I except the cook) both benefit by her death.’

‘I think,’ I said, ‘that you have a bee in your bonnet.’

‘Very possibly. Coincidences do happen. But she wrote to me, mon ami, she wrote to me, and until I know what made her write I cannot rest in peace.’

It was about a week later that we had three interviews.

Exactly what Poirot wrote to them I do not know, but Mollie Davidson and James Graham came together by appointment, and certainly displayed no resentment. The letter from Miss Wheeler lay on the table in a conspicuous position. From the conversation that followed, I gathered that Poirot had taken considerable liberties in his account of the subject matter.

‘We have come here in answer to your request, but I am sorry to say that I do not understand in the least what you are driving at, M. Poirot,’ said Graham with some irritation as he laid down his hat and stick.

He was a tall thin man, looking older than his years, with pinched lips and deep-set grey eyes. Miss Davidson was a handsome fair-haired girl of twenty-nine or so. She seemed puzzled, but unresentful.

‘It is that I seek to aid you,’ said Poirot. ‘Your inheritance it has been wrested from you! It has gone to a stranger!’

‘Well, that’s over and done with,’ said Graham. ‘I’ve taken legal advice and it seems there’s nothing to be done. And I really cannot see where it concerns you, M. Poirot.’

‘I think James, that that is not very fair to M. Poirot,’ said Mollie Davidson. ‘He is a busy man, but he is going out of his way to help us. I wish he could. All the same, I’m afraid nothing can be done. We simply can’t afford to go to law.’

‘Can’t afford. Can’t afford. We haven’t got a leg to stand upon,’ said her cousin irritably.

‘That is where I come in,’ said Poirot. ‘This letter’—he tapped it with a finger-nail—has suggested a possible idea to me. Your aunt, I understand, had originally made a will leaving her property to be divided between you. Suddenly, on the 14th April she makes another will. Did you know of that will, by the way?’

It was to Graham he put the question.

Graham flushed and hesitated a moment.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I knew of it. My aunt told me of it.’

‘What?’ A cry of astonishment came from the girl.

Poirot wheeled round upon her.

‘You did not know of it, Mademoiselle?’

‘No, it came as a great shock to me. I thought it did to my cousin also. When did Auntie tell you, James?’

‘That next weekend—the one after Easter.’

‘And I was there and you never told me?’

‘No—I—well, I thought it better to keep it to myself.’

‘How extraordinary of you!’

‘What exactly did your aunt say to you, Mr Graham?’ asked Poirot in his most silky tone.

Graham clearly disliked answering the question. He spoke stiffly.

‘She said that she thought it only fair to let me know that she had made a new will leaving everything to Miss Lawson.’

‘Did she give any reason?’

‘None whatever.’

‘I think you ought to have told me,’ said Miss Davidson.

‘I thought better not,’ said her cousin stiffly.

‘Eh bien,’ said Poirot. ‘It is all very curious. I am not at liberty to tell you what was written to me in this letter, but I will give you some advice. I would apply, if I were you, for an order of exhumation.’

They both stared at him without speaking for a minute or two.

‘Oh! no,’ cried Mollie Davidson.

‘This is outrageous,’ cried Graham. ‘I shall certainly not do anything of the sort. The suggestion is preposterous.’

‘You refuse?’

‘Absolutely.’

Poirot turned to the girl.

‘And you, Mademoiselle? Do you refuse?’

‘I—No, I would not say I refused. But I do not like the idea.’

‘Well, I do refuse,’ said Graham angrily. ‘Come on, Mollie. We’ve had enough of this charlatan.’

He fumbled for the door. Poirot sprang forward to help him. As he did so a rubber ball fell out of his pocket and bounced on the floor.

‘Ah!’ cried Poirot. ‘The ball!’

He blushed and appeared uncomfortable. I guessed that he had not meant the ball to be seen.

‘Come on, Mollie,’ shouted Graham now in a towering passion.

The girl had retrieved the ball and handed it to Poirot.

‘I did not know that you kept a dog, M. Poirot,’ she said.

‘I do not, Mademoiselle,’ said Poirot.

The girl followed her cousin out of the room. Poirot turned to me.

‘Quick, mon ami,’ he said. ‘Let us visit the companion, the now rich Miss Lawson. I wish to see her before she is in any way put upon her guard.’

‘If it wasn’t for the fact that James Graham knew about the new will, I should be inclined to suspect him of having a hand in this business. He was down that last weekend. However, since he knew that the old lady’s death would not benefit him—well, that puts him out of court.’

‘Since he knew—’ murmured Poirot thoughtfully.

‘Why, yes, he admitted as much,’ I said impatiently.

‘Mademoiselle was quite surprised at his knowing. Strange that he should not tell her at the time. Unfortunate. Yes, unfortunate.’

Exactly what Poirot was getting at I did not quite know, but knew from his tone that there was something. However, soon after, we arrived at Clanroyden Mansions.

Miss Lawson was very much as I had pictured her. A middleaged woman, rather stout, with an eager but somewhat foolish face. Her hair was untidy and she wore pince-nez. Her conversation consisted of gasps and was distinctly spasmodic. ‘So good of you to come,’ she said. ‘Sit here, won’t you? A cushion. Oh! dear, I’m afraid that chair isn’t comfortable. That table’s in your way. We’re just a little crowded here.’ (This was undeniable. There was twice as much furniture in the room as there should have been, and the walls were covered with photographs and pictures.) ‘This flat is really too small. But so central. I’ve always longed to have a little place of my own. But there, I never thought I should. So good of dear Miss Wheeler. Not that I feel at all comfortable about it. No, indeed I don’t. My conscience, M. Poirot. Is it right? I ask myself. And really I don’t know what to say. Sometimes I think that Miss Wheeler meant me to have the money and so it must be all right. And other times—well, flesh and blood is flesh and blood—I feel very badly when I think of Mollie Davidson. Very badly indeed!’

‘And when you think of Mr James Graham?’

Miss Lawson flushed and drew herself up.

‘That is very different. Mr Graham has been very rude—most insulting. I can assure you, M. Poirot—there was no undue influence. I had no idea of anything of the kind. A complete shock to me.’

‘Miss Wheeler did not tell you of her intentions?’

‘No, indeed. A complete shock.’

‘You had not, in any way, found it necessary to—shall we say, open the eyes—of Miss Wheeler in regard to her nephew’s shortcomings?’

‘What an idea, M. Poirot! Certainly not. What put that idea into your head, if I may ask?’

‘Mademoiselle, I have many curious ideas in my head.’

Miss Lawson looked at him uncertainly. Her face, I reflected, was really singularly foolish. The way the mouth hung open for instance. And yet the eyes behind the glasses seemed more intelligent than one would have suspected.

Poirot took something from his pocket.

‘You recognise this, Mademoiselle?’

‘Why, it’s Bob’s ball!’

‘No,’ said Poirot. ‘It is a ball I bought at Woolworth’s.’

‘Well, of course, that’s where Bob’s balls do come from. Dear Bob.’

‘You are fond of him?’

‘Oh! yes, indeed, dear little doggie. He always slept in my room. I’d like to have him in London, but dogs aren’t really happy in town, are they, M. Poirot?’

‘Me, I have seen some very happy ones in the Park,’ returned my friend gravely.

‘Oh! yes, of course, the Park,’ said Miss Lawson vaguely. ‘But it’s very difficult to exercise them properly. He’s much happier with Ellen, I feel sure, at the dear Laburnums. Ah! what a tragedy it all was!’

‘Will you recount to me, Mademoiselle, just what happened on that evening when Miss Wheeler was taken ill?’

‘Nothing out of the usual. At least, oh! of course, we held a séance—with distinct phenomena—distinct phenomena. You will laugh, M. Poirot. I feel you are a sceptic. But oh! the joy of hearing the voices of those who have passed over.’

‘No, I do not laugh,’ said Poirot gently.

He was watching her flushed excited face.

‘You know, it was most curious—really most curious. There was a kind of halo—a luminous haze—all round dear Miss Wheeler’s head. We all saw it distinctly.’

‘A luminous haze?’ said Poirot sharply.

‘Yes. Really most remarkable. In view of what happened, I felt, M. Poirot, that already she was marked, so to speak, for the other world.’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘I think she was—marked for the other world.’ He added, completely incongruously it seemed to me, ‘Has Dr Lawrence got a keen sense of smell?’

‘Now it’s curious you should say that. “Smell this, doctor,” I said, and held up a great bunch of lilies of the valley to him. And would you believe it, he couldn’t smell a thing. Ever since influenza three years ago, he said. Ah! me—physician, heal thyself is so true, isn’t it?’

Poirot had risen and was prowling round the room. He stopped and stared at a picture on the wall. I joined him.

It was rather an ugly needlework picture done in drab wools, and represented a bulldog sitting on the steps of a house. Below it, in crooked letters, were the words ‘Out all night and no key!’[18]

Poirot drew a deep breath.

‘This picture, it comes from The Laburnums?’

‘Yes. It used to hang over the mantelpiece in the drawingroom. Dear Miss Wheeler did it when she was a girl.’

‘Ah!’ said Poirot. His voice was entirely changed. It held a note that I knew well.

He crossed to Miss Lawson.

‘You remember Bank Holiday? Easter Monday. The night that Miss Wheeler fell down the stairs? Eh bien, the little Bob, he was out that night, was he not? He did not come in.’

‘Why, yes, M. Poirot, however did you know that? Yes, Bob was very naughty. He was let out at nine o’clock as usual, and he never came back. I didn’t tell Miss Wheeler—she would have been anxious. That is to say, I told her the next day, of course. When he was safely back. Five in the morning it was. He came and barked underneath my window and I went down and let him in.’

‘So that was it! Enfin!’ He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Mademoiselle. Ah! Just one more little point. Miss Wheeler took digestive tablets after meals always, did she not? What make were they?’

‘Dr Carlton’s After Dinner Tablets. Very efficacious, M. Poirot.’

‘Efficacious! Mon Dieu!’ murmured Poirot, as we left. ‘No, do not question me, Hastings. Not yet. There are still one or two little matters to see to.’

He dived into a chemist’s and reappeared holding a white wrapped bottle.

He unwrapped it when we got home. It was a bottle of Dr Carlton’s After Dinner Tablets.

‘You see, Hastings. There are at least fifty tablets in that bottle—perhaps more.’

He went to the bookshelf and pulled out a very large volume. For ten minutes he did not speak, then he looked up and shut the book with a bang.

‘But yes, my friend, now you may question. Now I know—everything.’

‘She was poisoned?’

‘Yes, my friend. Phosphorus poisoning.’

‘Phosphorus?’

‘Ah! mais oui—that is where the diabolical cleverness came in! Miss Wheeler had already suffered from jaundice. The symptoms of phosphorus poisoning would only look like another attack of the same complaint. Now listen, very often the symptoms of phosphorus poisoning are delayed from one to six hours. It says here’ (he opened the book again) ‘“The person’s breath may be phosphorescent before he feels in any way affected.” That is what Miss Lawson saw in the dark—Miss Wheeler’s phosphorescent breath—“a luminous haze”. And here I will read you again. “The jaundice having thoroughly pronounced itself the system may be considered as not only under the influence of the toxic action of phosphorus, but as suffering in addition from all the accidents incidental to the retention of the biliary secretion in the blood, nor is there from this point any special difference between phosphorus poisoning and certain affections of the liver—such, for example as yellow atrophy.”[19]

‘Oh! it was well planned, Hastings! Foreign matches—vermin paste. It is not difficult to get hold of phosphorus, and a very small dose will kill. The medicinal dose is from 1/100 to 1/30 grain. Even .116 of a grain has been known to kill. To make a tablet resembling one of these in the bottle—that too would not be too difficult. One can buy a tabletmaking machine, and Miss Wheeler she would not observe closely. A tablet placed at the bottom of this bottle—one day, sooner or later, Miss Wheeler will take it, and the person who put it there will have a perfect alibi, for she will not have been near the house for ten days.’

‘She?’

‘Mollie Davidson. Ah! mon ami, you did not see her eyes when that ball bounced from my pocket. The irate M. Graham, it meant nothing to him—but to her. “I did not know you kept a dog, M. Poirot.” Why a dog? Why not a child? A child, too, plays with balls. But that—it is not evidence, you say. It is only the impression of Hercule Poirot. Yes, but everything fits in. M. Graham is furious at the idea of an exhumation—he shows it. But she is more careful. She is afraid to seem unwilling. And the surprise and indignation she cannot conceal when she learns that her cousin has known of the will all along! He knew—and he did not tell her. Her crime had been in vain. Do you remember my saying it was unfortunate he didn’t tell her? Unfortunate for the poor Miss Wheeler. It meant her death sentence and all the good precautions she had taken, such as the will, were in vain.’

‘You mean the will—no, I don’t see.’

‘Why did she make that will? The incident of the dog’s ball, mon ami.

‘Imagine, Hastings, that you wish to cause the death of an old lady. You devise a simple accident. The old lady, before now, has slipped over the dog’s ball. She moves about the house in the night. Bien, you place the dog’s ball on the top of the stairs and perhaps also you place a strong thread or fine string. The old lady trips and goes headlong with a scream. Everyone rushes out. You detach your broken string while everyone else is crowding round the old lady. When they come to look for the cause of the fall, they find—the dog’s ball where he so often left it.

‘But, Hastings, now we come to something else. Suppose the old lady earlier in the evening after playing with the dog, puts the ball away in its usual place, and the dog goes out— and stays out. That is what she learns from Miss Lawson on the following day. She realises that it cannot be the dog who left the ball at the top of the stairs. She suspects the truth—but she suspects the wrong person. She suspects her nephew, James Graham, whose personality is not of the most charming. What does she do? First she writes to me—to investigate the matter. Then she changes her will and tells James Graham that she has done so. She counts on his telling Mollie though it is James she suspects. They will know that her death will bring them nothing! C’est bien imaginé for an old lady.

‘And that, mon ami, was the meaning of her dying words. I comprehend well enough the English to know that it is a door that is ajar, not a picture. The old lady is trying to tell Ellen of her suspicions. The dog—the picture above the jar on the mantelpiece with its subject—‘Out all night’ and the ball put away in the jar. That is the only ground for suspicion she has. She probably thinks her illness is natural—but at the last minute has an intuition that it is not.’

He was silent for a moment or two.

‘Ah! if only she had posted that letter. I could have saved her. Now—’

He took up a pen and drew some notepaper towards him.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I am going to write a full and explicit account of what happened and post it to Miss Mollie Davidson with a hint that an exhumation will be applied for.’

‘And then?’

‘If she is innocent—nothing—’ said Poirot gravely. ‘If she is not innocent—we shall see.’

Two days later there was a notice in the paper stating that a Miss Mollie Davidson had died of an overdose of sleeping draught. I was rather horrified.[20] Poirot was quite composed.

‘But no, it has all arranged itself very happily. No ugly scandal and trial for murder—Miss Wheeler she would not want that. She would have desired the privacy. On the other hand one must not leave a murderess—what do you say?—at loose. Or sooner or later, there will be another murder. Always a murderer repeats his crime. No,’ he went on dreamily ‘it has all arranged itself very well. It only remains to work upon the feelings of Miss Lawson—a task which Miss Davidson was attempting very successfully—until she reaches the pitch of handing over half her fortune to Mr James Graham who is, after all, entitled to the money. Since he was deprived of it under a misapprehension.’

He drew from his pocket the brightly coloured rubber ball.

‘Shall we send this to our friend Bob? Or shall we keep it on the mantelpiece? It is a reminder, n’est ce pas, mon ami, that nothing is too trivial to be neglected? At one end, Murder, at the other only—the incident of the dog’s ball…’