’s Early Cases

The Affair at the Victory Ball I

Pure chance led my friend Hercule Poirot, formerly chief of the Belgian force, to be connected with the Styles Case. His success brought him notoriety, and he decided to devote himself to the solving of problems in crime. Having been wounded on the Somme and invalided out of the Army, I finally took up my quarters with him in London. Since I have a first-hand knowledge of most of his cases, it has been suggested to me that I select some of the most interesting and place them on record. In doing so, I feel that I cannot do better than begin with that strange tangle which aroused such widespread public interest at the time. I refer to the affair at the Victory Ball.

Although perhaps it is not so fully demonstrative of Poirot’s peculiar methods as some of the more obscure cases, its sensational features, the well-known people involved, and the tremendous publicity given it by the Press, make it stand out as a cause célèbre and I have long felt that it is only fitting that Poirot’s connection with the solution should be given to the world.

It was a fine morning in spring, and we were sitting in Poirot’s rooms. My little friend, neat and dapper as ever, his egg-shaped head tilted on one side, was delicately applying a new pomade to his moustache. A certain harmless vanity was a characteristic of Poirot’s and fell into line with his general love of order and method. The Daily Newsmonger, which I had been reading, had slipped to the floor, and I was deep in a brown study when Poirot’s voice recalled me.

‘Of what are you thinking so deeply, mon ami?’

‘To tell you the truth,’ I replied, ‘I was puzzling over this unaccountable affair at the Victory Ball. The papers are full of it.’ I tapped the sheet with my finger as I spoke.

‘Yes?’

‘The more one reads of it, the more shrouded in mystery the whole thing becomes!’ I warmed to my subject. ‘Who killed Lord Cronshaw? Was Coco Courtenay’s death on the same night a mere coincidence? Was it an accident? Or did she deliberately take an overdose of cocaine?’ I stopped, and then added dramatically: ‘These are the questions I ask myself.’

Poirot, somewhat to my annoyance, did not play up. He was peering into the glass, and merely murmured: ‘Decidedly, this new pomade, it is a marvel for the moustaches!’ Catching my eye, however, he added hastily: ‘Quite so—and how do you reply to your questions?’

But before I could answer, the door opened, and our landlady announced Inspector Japp.

The Scotland Yard man was an old friend of ours and we greeted him warmly.

‘Ah, my good Japp,’ cried Poirot, ‘and what brings you to see us?’

‘Well, Monsieur Poirot,’ said Japp, seating himself and nodding to me, ‘I’m on a case that strikes me as being very much in your line, and I came along to know whether you’d care to have a finger in the pie?’

Poirot had a good opinion of Japp’s abilities, though deploring his lamentable lack of method, but I, for my part, considered that the detective’s highest talent lay in the gentle art of seeking favours under the guise of conferring them!

‘It’s the Victory Ball,’ said Japp persuasively. ‘Come, now, you’d like to have a hand in that.’

Poirot smiled at me.

‘My friend Hastings would, at all events. He was just holding forth on the subject, n’est-ce pas, mon ami?’

‘Well, sir,’ said Japp condescendingly, ‘you shall be in it too. I can tell you, it’s something of a feather in your cap to have inside knowledge of a case like this. Well, here’s to business. You know the main facts of the case, I suppose, Monsieur Poirot?’

‘From the papers only—and the imagination of the journalist is sometimes misleading. Recount the whole story to me.’

Japp crossed his legs comfortably and began.

‘As all the world and his wife knows, on Tuesday last a grand Victory Ball was held. Every twopenny-halfpenny hop calls itself that nowadays, but this was the real thing, held at the Colossus Hall, and all London at it—including your Lord Cronshaw and his party.’

‘His dossier?’ interrupted Poirot. ‘I should say his bioscope—no, how do you call it—biograph?’

‘Viscount Cronshaw was fifth viscount, twenty-five years of age, rich, unmarried, and very fond of the theatrical world. There were rumours of his being engaged to Miss Courtenay of the Albany Theatre, who was known to her friends as “Coco” and who was, by all accounts, a very fascinating young lady.’

‘Good. Continuez!’

‘Lord Cronshaw’s party consisted of six people: he himself, his uncle, the Honourable Eustace Beltane, a pretty American widow, Mrs Mallaby, a young actor, Chris Davidson, his wife, and last but not least, Miss Coco Courtenay. It was a fancy dress ball, as you know, and the Cronshaw party represented the old Italian Comedy—whatever that may be.’

‘The Commedia dell’ Arte,’ murmured Poirot. ‘I know.’

‘Anyway, the costumes were copied from a set of china figures forming part of Eustace Beltane’s collection. Lord Cronshaw was Harlequin; Beltane was Punchinello; Mrs Mallaby matched him as Pulcinella; the Davidsons were Pierrot and Pierette; and Miss Courtenay, of course, was Columbine. Now, quite early in the evening it was apparent that there was something wrong. Lord Cronshaw was moody and strange in his manner. When the party met together for supper in a small private room engaged by the host, everyone noticed that he and Miss Courtenay were no longer on speaking terms. She had obviously been crying, and seemed on the verge of hysterics. The meal was an uncomfortable one, and as they all left the supper-room, she turned to Chris Davidson and requested him audibly to take her home, as she was “sick of the ball”. The young actor hesitated, glancing at Lord Cronshaw, and finally drew them both back to the supper-room.

‘But all his efforts to secure a reconciliation were unavailing, and he accordingly got a taxi and escorted the now weeping Miss Courtenay back to her flat. Although obviously very much upset, she did not confide in him, merely reiterating again and again that she would “make old Cronch sorry for this!” That is the only hint we have that her death might not have been accidental, and it’s precious little to go upon. By the time Davidson had quieted her down somewhat, it was too late to return to the Colossus Hall, and Davidson accordingly went straight home to his flat in Chelsea, where his wife arrived shortly afterwards, bearing the news of the terrible tragedy that had occurred after his departure.

‘Lord Cronshaw, it seems, became more and more moody as the ball went on. He kept away from his party, and they hardly saw him during the rest of the evening. It was about one-thirty a.m., just before the grand cotillion when everyone was to unmask, that Captain Digby, a brother officer who knew his disguise, noticed him standing in a box gazing down on the scene.

‘ “Hullo, Cronch!” he called. “Come down and be sociable! What are you moping about up there for like a boiled owl? Come along; there’s a good old rag coming on now.”

‘ “Right!” responded Cronshaw. “Wait for me, or I’ll never find you in the crowd.”

‘He turned and left the box as he spoke. Captain Digby, who had Mrs Davidson with him, waited. The minutes passed, but Lord Cronshaw did not appear. Finally Digby grew impatient.

‘ “Does the fellow think we’re going to wait all night for him?” he exclaimed.

‘At that moment Mrs Mallaby joined them, and they explained the situation.

‘ “Say, now,” cried the pretty widow vivaciously, “he’s like a bear with a sore head tonight. Let’s go right away and rout him out.”

‘The search commenced, but met with no success until it occurred to Mrs Mallaby that he might possibly be found in the room where they had supped an hour earlier. They made their way there. What a sight met their eyes! There was Harlequin, sure enough, but stretched on the ground with a table-knife in his heart!’

Japp stopped, and Poirot nodded, and said with the relish of the specialist: ‘Une belle affaire! And there was no clue as to the perpetrator of the deed? But how should there be!’

‘Well,’ continued the inspector, ‘you know the rest. The tragedy was a double one. Next day there were headlines in all the papers, and a brief statement to the effect that Miss Courtenay, the popular actress, had been discovered dead in her bed, and that her death was due to an overdose of cocaine. Now, was it accident or suicide? Her maid, who was called upon to give evidence, admitted that Miss Courtenay was a confirmed taker of the drug, and a verdict of accidental death was returned. Nevertheless we can’t leave the possibility of suicide out of account. Her death is particularly unfortunate, since it leaves us no clue now to the cause of the quarrel the preceding night. By the way, a small enamel box was found on the dead man. It had Coco written across it in diamonds, and was half full of cocaine. It was identified by Miss Courtenay’s maid as belonging to her mistress, who nearly always carried it about with her, since it contained her supply of the drug to which she was fast becoming a slave.’

‘Was Lord Cronshaw himself addicted to the drug?’

‘Very far from it. He held unusually strong views on the subject of dope.’

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

‘But since the box was in his possession, he knew that Miss Courtenay took it. Suggestive, that, is it not, my good Japp?’

‘Ah!’ said Japp rather vaguely.

I smiled.

‘Well,’ said Japp, ‘that’s the case. What do you think of it?’

‘You found no clue of any kind that has not been reported?’

‘Yes, there was this.’ Japp took a small object from his pocket and handed it over to Poirot. It was a small pompon of emerald green silk, with some ragged threads hanging from it, as though it had been wrenched violently away.

‘We found it in the dead man’s hand, which was tightly clenched over it,’ explained the inspector.

Poirot handed it back without any comment and asked: ‘Had Lord Cronshaw any enemies?’

‘None that anyone knows of. He seemed a popular young fellow.’

‘Who benefits by his death?’

‘His uncle, the Honourable Eustace Beltane, comes into the title and estates. There are one or two suspicious facts against him. Several people declare that they heard a violent altercation going on in the little supper-room, and that Eustace Beltane was one of the disputants. You see, the table-knife being snatched up off the table would fit in with the murder being done in the heat of a quarrel.’

‘What does Mr Beltane say about the matter?’

‘Declares one of the waiters was the worse for liquor, and that he was giving him a dressing down. Also that it was nearer to one than half past. You see, Captain Digby’s evidence fixes the time pretty accurately. Only about ten minutes elapsed between his speaking to Cronshaw and the finding of the body.’

‘And in any case I suppose Mr Beltane, as Punchinello, was wearing a hump and a ruffle?’

‘I don’t know the exact details of the costumes,’ said Japp, looking curiously at Poirot. ‘And anyway, I don’t quite see what that has got to do with it?’

‘No?’ There was a hint of mockery in Poirot’s smile. He continued quietly, his eyes shining with the green light I had learned to recognize so well: ‘There was a curtain in this little supper-room, was there not?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘With a space behind it sufficient to conceal a man?’

‘Yes—in fact, there’s a small recess, but how you knew about it—you haven’t been to the place, have you, Monsieur Poirot?’

‘No, my good Japp, I supplied the curtain from my brain. Without it, the drama is not reasonable. And always one must be reasonable. But tell me, did they not send for a doctor?’

‘At once, of course. But there was nothing to be done. Death must have been instantaneous.’

Poirot nodded rather impatiently.

‘Yes, yes, I understand. This doctor, now, he gave evidence at the inquest?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he say nothing of any unusual symptom—was there nothing about the appearance of the body which struck him as being abnormal?’

Japp stared hard at the little man.

‘Yes, Monsieur Poirot. I don’t know what you’re getting at, but he did mention that there was a tension and stiffness about the limbs which he was quite at a loss to account for.’

‘Aha!’ said Poirot. ‘Aha! Mon Dieu! Japp, that gives one to think, does it not?’

I saw that it had certainly not given Japp to think.

‘If you’re thinking of poison, monsieur, who on earth would poison a man first and then stick a knife into him?’

‘In truth that would be ridiculous,’ agreed Poirot placidly.

‘Now is there anything you want to see, monsieur? If you’d like to examine the room where the body was found—’

Poirot waved his hand.

‘Not in the least. You have told me the only thing that interests me—Lord Cronshaw’s views on the subject of drug taking.’

‘Then there’s nothing you want to see?’

‘Just one thing.’

‘What is that?’

‘The set of china figures from which the costumes were copied.’

Japp stared.

‘Well, you’re a funny one!’

‘You can manage that for me?’

‘Come round to Berkeley Square now if you like. Mr Beltane—or His Lordship, as I should say now—won’t object.’

II

We set off at once in a taxi. The new Lord Cronshaw was not at home, but at Japp’s request we were shown into the ‘china room’, where the gems of the collection were kept. Japp looked round him rather helplessly.

‘I don’t see how you’ll ever find the ones you want, monsieur.’

But Poirot had already drawn a chair in front of the mantelpiece and was hopping up upon it like a nimble robin. Above the mirror, on a small shelf to themselves, stood six china figures. Poirot examined them minutely, making a few comments to us as he did so.

‘Les voilà! The old Italian Comedy. Three pairs! Harlequin and Columbine, Pierrot and Pierrette—very dainty in white and green—and Punchinello and Pulcinella in mauve and yellow. Very elaborate, the costume of Punchinello—ruffles and frills, a hump, a high hat. Yes, as I thought, very elaborate.’

He replaced the figures carefully, and jumped down.

Japp looked unsatisfied, but as Poirot had clearly no intention of explaining anything, the detective put the best face he could upon the matter. As we were preparing to leave, the master of the house came in, and Japp performed the necessary introductions.

The sixth Viscount Cronshaw was a man of about fifty, suave in manner, with a handsome, dissolute face. Evidently an elderly roué, with the languid manner of a poseur. I took an instant dislike to him. He greeted us graciously enough, declaring he had heard great accounts of Poirot’s skill, and placing himself at our disposal in every way.

‘The police are doing all they can, I know,’ Poirot said.

‘But I much fear the mystery of my nephew’s death will never be cleared up. The whole thing seems utterly mysterious.’

Poirot was watching him keenly. ‘Your nephew had no enemies that you know of?’

‘None whatever. I am sure of that.’ He paused, and then went on: ‘If there are any questions you would like to ask—’

‘Only one.’ Poirot’s voice was serious. ‘The costumes—they were reproduced exactly from your figurines?’

‘To the smallest detail.’

‘Thank you, milor’. That is all I wanted to be sure of. I wish you good day.’

‘And what next?’ inquired Japp as we hurried down the street. ‘I’ve got to report at the Yard, you know.’

‘Bien! I will not detain you. I have one other little matter to attend to, and then—’

‘Yes?’

‘The case will be complete.’

‘What? You don’t mean it! You know who killed Lord Cronshaw?’

‘Parfaitement.’

‘Who was it? Eustace Beltane?’

‘Ah, mon ami, you know my little weakness! Always I have a desire to keep the threads in my own hands up to the last minute. But have no fear. I will reveal all when the time comes. I want no credit—the affair shall be yours, on the condition that you permit me to play out the dénouement my own way.’

‘That’s fair enough,’ said Japp. ‘That is, if the dénouement ever comes! But I say, you are an oyster, aren’t you?’ Poirot smiled. ‘Well, so long. I’m off to the Yard.’

He strode off down the steet, and Poirot hailed a passing taxi.

‘Where are we going now?’ I asked in lively curiosity.

‘To Chelsea to see the Davidsons.’

He gave the address to the driver.

‘What do you think of the new Lord Cronshaw?’ I asked.

‘What says my good friend Hastings?’

‘I distrust him instinctively.’

‘You think he is the “wicked uncle” of the story-books, eh?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Me, I think he was most amiable towards us,’ said Poirot noncommittally.

‘Because he had his reasons!’

Poirot looked at me, shook his head sadly, and murmured something that sounded like: ‘No method.’

III

The Davidsons lived on the third floor of a block of ‘mansion’ flats. Mr Davidson was out, we were told, but Mrs Davidson was at home. We were ushered into a long, low room with garish Oriental hangings. The air felt close and oppressive, and there was an overpowering fragrance of joss-sticks. Mrs Davidson came to us almost immediately, a small, fair creature whose fragility would have seemed pathetic and appealing had it not been for the rather shrewd and calculating gleam in her light blue eyes.

Poirot explained our connection with the case, and she shook her head sadly.

‘Poor Cronch—and poor Coco too! We were both so fond of her, and her death has been a terrible grief to us. What is it you want to ask me? Must I really go over all that dreadful evening again?’

‘Oh, madame, believe me, I would not harass your feelings unnecessarily. Indeed, Inspector Japp has told me all that is needful. I only wish to see the costume you wore at the ball that night.’

The lady looked somewhat surprised, and Poirot continued smoothly: ‘You comprehend, madame, that I work on the system of my country. There we always “reconstruct” the crime. It is possible that I may have an actual représentation, and if so, you understand, the costumes would be important.’

Mrs Davidson still looked a bit doubtful.

‘I’ve heard of reconstructing a crime, of course,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t know you were so particular about details. But I’ll fetch the dress now.’

She left the room and returned almost immediately with a dainty wisp of white satin and green. Poirot took it from her and examined it, handing it back with a bow.

‘Merci, madame! I see you have had the misfortune to lose one of your green pompons, the one on the shoulder here.’

‘Yes, it got torn off at the ball. I picked it up and gave it to poor Lord Cronshaw to keep for me.’

‘That was after supper?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not long before the tragedy, perhaps?’

A faint look of alarm came into Mrs Davidson’s pale eyes, and she replied quickly: ‘Oh no—long before that. Quite soon after supper, in fact.’

‘I see. Well, that is all. I will not derange you further. Bonjour, madame.’

‘Well,’ I said as we emerged from the building, ‘that explains the mystery of the green pompon.’

‘I wonder.’

‘Why, what do you mean?’

‘You saw me examine the dress, Hastings?’

‘Yes?’

‘Eh bien, the pompon that was missing had not been wrenched off, as the lady said. On the contrary, it had been cut off, my friend, cut off with scissors. The threads were all quite even.’

‘Dear me!’ I exclaimed. ‘This becomes more and more involved.’

‘On the contrary,’ replied Poirot placidly, ‘it becomes more and more simple.’

‘Poirot,’ I cried, ‘one day I shall murder you! Your habit of finding everything perfectly simple is aggravating to the last degree!’

‘But when I explain, mon ami, is it not always perfectly simple?’

‘Yes; that is the annoying part of it! I feel then that I could have done it myself.’

‘And so you could, Hastings, so you could. If you would but take the trouble of arranging your ideas! Without method—’

‘Yes, yes,’ I said hastily, for I knew Poirot’s eloquence when started on his favourite theme only too well. ‘Tell me, what do we do next? Are you really going to reconstruct the crime?’

‘Hardly that. Shall we say that the drama is over, but that I propose to add a—harlequinade?’

IV

The following Tuesday was fixed upon by Poirot as the day for this mysterious performance. The preparations greatly intrigued me. A white screen was erected at one side of the room, flanked by heavy curtains at either side. A man with some lighting apparatus arrived next, and finally a group of members of the theatrical profession, who disappeared into Poirot’s bedroom, which had been rigged up as a temporary dressing-room.

Shortly before eight, Japp arrived, in no very cheerful mood. I gathered that the official detective hardly approved of Poirot’s plan.

‘Bit melodramatic, like all his ideas. But there, it can do no harm, and as he says, it might save us a good bit of trouble. He’s been very smart over the case. I was on the same scent myself, of course—’ I felt instinctively that Japp was straining the truth here—‘but there, I promised to let him play the thing out his own way. Ah! Here is the crowd.’

His Lordship arrived first, escorting Mrs Mallaby, whom I had not as yet seen. She was a pretty, dark-haired woman, and appeared perceptibly nervous. The Davidsons followed. Chris Davidson also I saw for the first time. He was handsome enough in a rather obvious style, tall and dark, with the easy grace of the actor.

Poirot had arranged seats for the party facing the screen. This was illuminated by a bright light. Poirot switched out the other lights so that the room was in darkness except for the screen. Poirot’s voice rose out of the gloom.

‘Messieurs, mesdames, a word of explanation. Six figures in turn will pass across the screen. They are familiar to you. Pierrot and his Pierrette; Punchinello the buffoon, and elegant Pulcinella; beautiful Columbine, lightly dancing, Harlequin, the sprite, invisible to man!’

With these words of introduction, the show began. In turn each figure that Poirot had mentioned bounded before the screen, stayed there a moment poised, and then vanished. The lights went up, and a sigh of relief went round. Everyone had been nervous, fearing they knew not what. It seemed to me that the proceedings had gone singularly flat. If the criminal was among us, and Poirot expected him to break down at the mere sight of a familiar figure the device had failed signally—as it was almost bound to do. Poirot, however, appeared not a whit discomposed. He stepped forward, beaming.

‘Now, messieurs and mesdames, will you be so good as to tell me, one at a time, what it is that we have just seen? Will you begin, milor’?’

The gentleman looked rather puzzled. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.’

‘Just tell me what we have been seeing.’

‘I—er—well, I should say we have seen six figures passing in front of a screen and dressed to represent the personages in the old Italian Comedy, or—er—ourselves the other night.’

‘Never mind the other night, milor’,’ broke in Poirot. ‘The first part of your speech was what I wanted. Madame, you agree with Milor’ Cronshaw?’

He had turned as he spoke to Mrs Mallaby.

‘I—er—yes, of course.’

‘You agree that you have seen six figures representing the Italian Comedy?’

‘Why, certainly.’

‘Monsieur Davidson? You too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Madame?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hastings? Japp? Yes? You are all in accord?’

He looked around upon us; his face grew rather pale, and his eyes were green as any cat’s.

‘And yet—you are all wrong! Your eyes have lied to you—as they lied to you on the night of the Victory Ball. To “see” things with your eyes, as they say, is not always to see the truth. One must see with the eyes of the mind; one must employ the little cells of grey! Know, then, that tonight and on the night of the Victory Ball, you saw not six figures but five! See!’

The lights went out again. A figure bounded in front of the screen—Pierrot!

‘Who is that?’ demanded Poirot. ‘Is it Pierrot?’

‘Yes,’ we all cried.

‘Look again!’

With a swift movement the man divested himself of his loose Pierrot garb. There in the limelight stood glittering Harlequin! At the same moment there was a cry and an overturned chair.

‘Curse you,’ snarled Davidson’s voice. ‘Curse you! How did you guess?’

Then came the clink of handcuffs and Japp’s calm official voice. ‘I arrest you, Christopher Davidson—charge of murdering Viscount Cronshaw—anything you say will be used in evidence against you.’

V

It was a quarter of an hour later. A recherché little supper had appeared; and Poirot, beaming all over his face, was dispensing hospitality and answering our eager questions.

‘It was all very simple. The circumstances in which the green pompon was found suggested at once that it had been torn from the costume of the murderer. I dismissed Pierrette from my mind (since it takes considerable strength to drive a table-knife home) and fixed upon Pierrot as the criminal. But Pierrot left the ball nearly two hours before the murder was committed. So he must either have returned to the ball later to kill Lord Cronshaw, or—eh bien, he must have killed him before he left! Was that impossible? Who had seen Lord Cronshaw after supper that evening? Only Mrs Davidson, whose statement, I suspected, was a deliberate fabrication uttered with the object of accounting for the missing pompon, which, of course, she cut from her own dress to replace the one missing on her husband’s costume. But then, Harlequin, who was seen in the box at one-thirty, must have been an impersonation. For a moment, earlier, I had considered the possibility of Mr Beltane being the guilty party. But with his elaborate costume, it was clearly impossible that he could have doubled the roles of Punchinello and Harlequin. On the other hand, to Davidson, a young man of about the same height as the murdered man and an actor by profession, the thing was simplicity itself.

‘But one thing worried me. Surely a doctor could not fail to perceive the difference between a man who had been dead two hours and one who had been dead ten minutes! Eh bien, the doctor did perceive it! But he was not taken to the body and asked, ‘How long has this man been dead?’ On the contrary, he was informed that the man had been seen alive ten minutes ago, and so he merely commented at the inquest on the abnormal stiffening of the limbs for which he was quite unable to account!

‘All was now marching famously for my theory. Davidson had killed Lord Cronshaw immediately after supper, when, as you remember, he was seen to draw him back into the supper–room. Then he departed with Miss Courtenay, left her at the door of her flat (instead of going in and trying to pacify her as he affirmed) and returned post-haste to the Colossus—but as Harlequin, not Pierrot—a simple transformation effected by removing his outer costume.’

VI

The uncle of the dead man leaned forward, his eyes perplexed.

‘But if so, he must have come to the ball prepared to kill his victim. What earthly motive could he have had? The motive, that’s what I can’t get.’

‘Ah! There we come to the second tragedy—that of Miss Courtenay. There was one simple point which everyone overlooked. Miss Courtenay died of cocaine poisoning—but her supply of the drug was in the enamel box which was found on Lord Cronshaw’s body. Where, then, did she obtain the dose which killed her? Only one person could have supplied her with it—Davidson. And that explains everything. It accounts for her friendship with the Davidsons and her demand that Davidson should escort her home. Lord Cronshaw, who was almost fanatically opposed to drug-taking, discovered that she was addicted to cocaine, and suspected that Davidson supplied her with it. Davidson doubtless denied this, but Lord Cronshaw determined to get the truth from Miss Courtenay at the ball. He could forgive the wretched girl, but he would certainly have no mercy on the man who made a living by trafficking in drugs. Exposure and ruin confronted Davidson. He went to the ball determined that Cronshaw’s silence must be obtained at any cost.’

‘Was Coco’s death an accident, then?’

‘I suspect that it was an accident cleverly engineered by Davidson. She was furiously angry with Cronshaw, first for his reproaches, and secondly for taking her cocaine from her. Davidson supplied her with more, and probably suggested her augmenting the dose as a defiance to “old Cronch”!’

‘One other thing,’ I said. ‘The recess and the curtain? How did you know about them?’

‘Why, mon ami, that was the most simple of all. Waiters had been in and out of that little room, so, obviously, the body could not have been lying where it was found on the floor. There must be some place in the room where it could be hidden. I deduced a curtain and a recess behind it. Davidson dragged the body there, and later, after drawing attention to himself in the box, he dragged it out again before finally leaving the Hall. It was one of his best moves. He is a clever fellow!’

But in Poirot’s green eyes I read unmistakably the unspoken remark: ‘But not quite so clever as Hercule Poirot!’