The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

‘Everything! It is impossible that a man of your ability should commit a murder in the way this one was committed. Very well. You are innocent. Tell me now about your manservant Burgess.’

‘Burgess?’

‘Yes. If you didn't kill Clayton, Burgess must have done so. The conclusion seems inescapable. But why? There must be a “why?” You are the only person who knows Burgess well enough to make a guess at it. Why, Major Rich, why?’

‘I can't imagine. I simply can't see it. Oh, I've followed the same line of reasoning as you have. Yes, Burgess had opportunity — the only person who had except myself. The trouble is, I just can't believe it. Burgess is not the sort of man you can imagine murdering anybody.’

‘What do your legal advisers think?’

Rich's lips set in a grim line.

‘My legal advisers spend their time asking me, in a persuasive way, if it isn't true that I have suffered all my life from blackouts when I don't really know what I am doing!’

‘As bad as that,’ said Poirot. ‘Well, perhaps we shall find it is Burgess who is subject to blackouts. It is always an idea. The weapon now. They showed it to you and asked you if it was yours?’

‘It was not mine. I had never seen it before.’

‘It was not yours, no. But are you quite sure you had never seen it before?’

‘No.’ Was there a faint hesitation. ‘It's a kind of ornamental toy — really — one sees things like that lying about in people's houses.’

‘In a woman's drawing-room, perhaps. Perhaps in Mrs Clayton's drawing-room?’

‘Certainly NOT!’

The last word came out loudly and the warder looked up.

‘Très bien. Certainly not — and there is no need to shout. But somewhere, at some time, you have seen something very like it. Eh? I am right?’

‘I do not think so… In some curio shop… perhaps.’

‘Ah, very likely.’ Poirot rose. ‘I take my leave.’

VII

‘And now,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘for Burgess. Yes, at long last, for Burgess.’

He had learned something about the people in the case, from themselves and from each other. But nobody had given him any knowledge of Burgess. No clue, no hint, of what kind of a man he was.

When he saw Burgess he realized why.

The valet was waiting for him at Major Rich's flat, apprised of his arrival by a telephone call from Commander McLaren.

‘I am M. Hercule Poirot.’

‘Yes, sir, I was expecting you.’

Burgess held back the door with a deferential hand and Poirot entered. A small square entrance hall, a door on the left, open, leading into the sitting room. Burgess relieved Poirot of his hat and coat and followed him into the sitting room.

‘Ah,’ said Poirot looking round. ‘It was here, then, that it happened?’

‘Yes, sir.’

A quiet fellow, Burgess, white-faced, a little weedy. Awkward shoulders and elbows. A flat voice with a provincial accent that Poirot did not know. From the east coast, perhaps. Rather a nervous man, perhaps — but otherwise no definite characteristics. It was hard to associate him with positive action of any kind. Could one postulate a negative killer?

He had those pale blue, rather shifty eyes, that observant people often equate with dishonesty. Yet a liar can look you in the face with a bold and confident eye.

‘What is happening to the flat?’ Poirot inquired.

‘I'm still looking after it, sir. Major Rich arranged for my pay and to keep it nice until — until —’

The eyes shifted uncomfortably.

‘Until —’ agreed Poirot.

He added in a matter-of-fact manner: ‘I should say that Major Rich will almost certainly be committed for trial. The case will come up probably within three months.’

Burgess shook his head, not in denial, simply in perplexity.

‘It really doesn't seem possible,’ he said.

‘That Major Rich should be a murderer?’

‘The whole thing. That chest —’

His eyes went across the room.

‘Ah, so that is the famous chest?’

It was a mammoth piece of furniture of very dark polished wood, studded with brass, with a great brass hasp and antique lock.

‘A handsome affair.’ Poirot went over to it.

It stood against the wall near the window, next to a modern cabinet for holding records. On the other side of it was a door, half ajar. The door was partly masked by a big painted leather screen.

‘That leads into Major Rich's bedroom,’ said Burgess.

Poirot nodded. His eyes travelled to the other side of the room. There were two stereophonic record players, each on a low table, trailing cord of snake-like flex. There were easy chairs — a big table. On the walls were a set of Japanese prints. It was a handsome room, comfortable, but not luxurious.

He looked back at William Burgess.

‘The discovery,’ he said kindly, ‘must have been a great shock to you.’

‘Oh it was, sir. I'll never forget it.’ The valet rushed into speech. Words poured from him. He felt, perhaps, that by telling the story often enough, he might at last expunge it from his mind.