Curtain: Poirot's Last Case: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition

by Agatha Christie

It’s the ordeal bean—supposed to prove innocence or guilt. These West African tribes believe it implicitly—or did do so—they’re getting sophisticated nowadays. They’ll solemnly chew it up quite confident that it will kill them if they’re guilty and not harm them if they’re innocent.” “And so, alas, they die?” “No, they don’t all die.

There are two distinct species of this bean—only they look so much alike that you can hardly spot the difference.

It’s an idea of mine, you know, that about eighty percent of the human race ought to be eliminated. We’d get on much better without them.”

Thanos is that you?

She was, I knew, a levelheaded girl, well able to take care of herself, and I did not think that she would really be taken in by the cheap attraction of a man like Allerton. I suppose, actually, that I tackled her on the subject because I wanted to be reassured on that point.

Judith can always flurry me. I boggled rather badly. She stood looking at me, her mouth curving upwards in a slightly scornful smile.

“Yes. I’ve seen it happen so often. Marrying the wrong type of woman, I mean.” “You think she’s the wrong type for him?” “Well, don’t you? They’ve nothing at all in common.” “He seems very fond of her,” I said. “Very attentive to her wishes and all that.”

“Wretched girl. Fancy being cooped up doing stinks on a morning like this! You ought to protest, Hastings.”

I liked, too, the way Boyd Carrington spoke of my friend. He had a deep respect for him—both for his work and his character.

He Can't be trusted.

He seemed to think that a lifetime spent as Poirot’s had been was in itself a rich reward and that in his memories my friend could find satisfaction and self-respect.

By Jove, I wouldn’t care to undertake to commit a murder under Hercule Poirot’s nose—even at this time of day.” “He’d get you if you did,” I said grinning. “I bet he would. Not,” he added ruefully, “that I should be much good at doing a murder anyway. I can’t plan things, you know. Too impatient.

I’d probably leave clues trailing along behind me in every direction. Well, it’s lucky I haven’t got a criminal mind.

Knatton was mainly of Tudor date with a wing added later. It had not been modernized or altered since the installation of two primitive bathrooms in the eighteen forties or thereabouts.

Boyd Carrington and his brother had been tolerated, and had spent their holidays there as schoolboys before Sir Everard had become as much of a recluse as he afterwards became. The old man had never married, and had spent only a tenth of his large income, so that even after death duties had been paid, the present baronet had found himself a very rich man.

Her family had nearly all died of drink, and she herself fell victim to the same curse. Barely a year after their marriage she had succumbed and had died a dipsomaniac’s death. He did not blame her. He realized that heredity had been too strong for her.

Pretty woman she was—but always a bit of a Tartar. Funny the things a man will stand from a woman.

No doubt about it, that woman’s got a tongue like vinegar. Still, she’s got a head on her. If anyone can make the place pay, she will.

How little we realized that Norton’s hobby might have an important part to play in the events that were to come.

Nothing, if I may put it in such a way, actually happened. Yet there were incidents, scraps of odd conversations, sidelights upon the various inmates of Styles, elucidating remarks. They all mounted up and, if properly pieced together, could have done a lot towards enlightening me.

Always he and I had had equal knowledge—even if I had been dense and he had been astute in drawing the right conclusions from that knowledge.

For you, you occupy yourself in guessing wildly at the identity of X. It is not for that that I asked you to come here. Unnecessary for you to occupy yourself with that.

It is a question, mon vieux, not of you playing a guessing game, but of preventing a human being from dying.”

“And you really do not know who, or how?” “Ah! If I did, I should not be urging you to find out for me.”

If you see beaters walking up a moor, there will be a shoot. If you see a man stop suddenly, tear off his coat and plunge into the sea, it means that there, there will be a rescue from drowning.

if you smell a succulent smell and observe several people all walking along a corridor in the same direction you may safely assume that a meal is about to be served!”

“Certainly not. And one swallow does not make a summer. But one murderer, Hastings, does make a murder.”

X might be at Styles simply for a holiday with no lethal intent. Poirot was so worked up, however, that I dared not propound this suggestion. I merely said that the whole thing seemed to me hopeless. We must wait—

I do not say, mark you, that we shall succeed, for as I have told you before, when a killer has determined to kill, it is not easy to circumvent him. But we can at least try.

“Come, Hastings, you are not so stupid as you like to pretend. You have studied those cases I gave you to read.

The trouble with you is that you are mentally lazy. You like to play games and guess. You do not like to work with your head. What is the essential element of X’s technique? Is it not that the crime, when committed, is complete?

You understand your job now. You are active, you can get about, you can follow people about, talk to them, spy upon them unobserved—” (I nearly uttered an indignant protest, but quelled it. It was too old an argument)—“You can listen to conversations, you have knees that will bend and permit you to kneel and look through keyholes—”

Go away. You are obstinate and extremely stupid and I wish that there were someone else whom I could trust, but I suppose I shall have to put up with you and your absurd ideas of fair play. Since you cannot use your grey cells as you do not possess them, at any rate use your eyes, your ears and your nose if need be in so far as the dictates of honour allow.”

Ooooo

I’m talking of Boyd Carrington. He’s the man we want, Poirot. Take him into your confidence. Put the whole thing before him.”

We take no one into our confidence. That is understood—hein? You comprehend, I forbid you to speak of this matter.”

But he is not so wonderful, your Boyd Carrington. He repeats himself, he tells the same story twice—and what is more, his memory is so bad that he tells back to you the story that you have told to him! A man of outstanding ability? Not at all. An old bore, a windbag—enfin—the stuffed shirt!”

Tell him!!!

I studied Miss Cole covertly as I brushed away cobwebs. She was a woman of between thirty and forty, slightly haggard, with a clear-cut profile and really very beautiful eyes. There was about her an air of reserve, more—of suspicion. It came to me suddenly that this was a woman who had suffered and who was, in consequence, deeply distrustful of life.

“Last autumn Dr. Franklin was offered the chance of going out to Africa and continuing his research work there. He’s tremendously keen, as you know, and has really done first-class work already in the realm of tropical medicine.”

His wife protested. She herself wasn’t well enough to stand the climate and she kicked against the idea of being left behind, especially as it would have meant very economical living for her. The pay offered was not high.”

“She certainly enjoys bad health,” said Miss Cole drily. I looked at her doubtfully.

“I suppose,” I said slowly, “that women who are—delicate are apt to be selfish?” “Yes, I think invalids—chronic invalids—usually are very selfish. One can’t blame them perhaps. It’s so easy.”

Oooo

“No, what I have just told you I learnt from your daughter Judith.”

“Judith is terrifically loyal to her employer and very much up in arms on his behalf. Her condemnation of Mrs. Franklin’s selfishness is sweeping.”

Simping.

It doesn’t seem natural, if you know what I mean. I feel she ought to be—more human—more keen on having a good time. Amuse herself—fall in love with a nice boy or two. After all, youth is the time to have one’s fling—not to sit poring over test tubes. It isn’t natural. In our young days we were having fun—flirting—enjoying ourselves—you know.”

Bro.

I was never what you meant by ‘young.’ I never had what is called ‘a good time.’” Something in her voice, a bitterness, a deep resentment, left me at a loss. I said, rather lamely, but with sincerity: “I’m sorry.”

It’s having had to pinch and scrape all her life that has made her rather—well—predatory. If you’re always on the make, it does tell in the end.

“Tell me something about Mr. Norton.” “There isn’t really much to tell. He’s very nice—rather shy—just a little stupid, perhaps. He’s always been rather delicate.

He’s a very kind person—and he’s the sort of person who sees a lot.”

I meant more that he notices a good deal. Those quiet people often do.

Here we were, a collection of twilit people. Grey heads, grey hearts, grey dreams. Myself, sad and lonely, the woman beside me also a bitter and disillusioned creature. Dr. Franklin, eager, ambitious, curbed and thwarted, his wife a prey to ill health. Quiet little Norton limping about looking at birds. Even Poirot, the once brilliant Poirot, now a broken old man.

Curious, sometimes, how one’s thoughts seemed to swing in a kaleidoscope. It happened to me now. A bewildering shuffling and reshuffling of memories, of events. Then the mosaic settled into its true pattern. My regret had been for the past as the past, not for the reality.

No, none of them had been happy. And now, again, no one here was happy. Styles was not a lucky house.