The Clocks (Hercule Poirot, #39)

by Agatha Christie

A rather rakish-looking brunette with the kind of hairdo that suggested she’d been out in a blizzard lately.

“She’s a perfect terror when she likes,” said Maureen. “Fairly jumps on you.

“The trouble is,” I said, “that we get to thinking that everything that everybody does is highly suspicious.”

Innumerable wives had been sure that it was a missing husband. Sisters had not been quite so anxious to claim brothers. Sisters, perhaps, were less hopeful thinkers.

He looked again at the letter on his desk. Merlina Rival. He didn’t like the Christian name very much. Nobody in their senses, he thought, could christen a child Merlina.

I believe I said in my letter to you it was about ten years ago, but it’s more than that. D’you know, I think it’s nearer fifteen. Time does go so fast. I suppose,” she added shrewdly, “that one tends to think it’s less than it is because it makes you yourself feel younger. Don’t you think so?”

Good class. Presumably, Harry had looked much better class than he was. Some men did, and it was helpful to them for their particular purposes.

Anyway, I didn’t want him investing my money for me. What money I had I could invest for myself. Always keep your money in your hands and then you’ll be sure you’ve got it!

He placed a bookmarker carefully to mark his place in the book he was reading. This time a cup of hot chocolate stood on the table by his elbow. Poirot certainly has the most terrible taste in drinks!

“You are being rather farfetched.

“Sorry you couldn’t get into the house.” “I could have got into the house with perfect ease,” I said indignantly. “You don’t know our training!” “Then why didn’t you get in?” “I wouldn’t like to lower your prestige in any way,” I explained. “A detective inspector of police would be bound to lose face if his house were entered burglariously with complete ease.”

Come on, let’s go and drink indifferent coffee in peaceful surroundings.”

You’re going to be all right, and we’re going to be married and live happily ever after on practically nothing a year.

“Will you take a piece of advice from me?” “No,” I said immediately. He paid no attention. People never do when they want to give you advice.

“I’ll tell you something, Dick. When I’ve tidied up my present assignment, I’m quitting. At least—I think I am.” “Why?” “I’m like an old-fashioned Victorian clergyman. I have Doubts.”

“Oh! if these stones could speak!” It was a favourite quotation in those days, so it seemed. But stones don’t speak, no more do bricks and mortar, nor even plaster nor stucco. Wilbraham Crescent remained silently itself. Old-fashioned, aloof, rather shabby, and not given to conversation. Disapproving, I was sure, of itinerant prowlers who didn’t even know what they were looking for.

The lame and the halt and the old didn’t live in their own houses anymore, attended by a faithful domestic or by some half-witted poor relation glad of a good home. It was a serious setback to criminal investigation.

A very old Rolls-Royce came with dignity along the road driven by a very elderly chauffeur. He looked dignified but rather disgusted with life.

She spoke with a certain satisfaction and I perceived that to a child, if her mother is dead, it reflects a certain kudos if she has been killed in a complete and devastating accident.

The man came out of the house again—are you sure it wasn’t you?” “I’m a very ordinary-looking chap,” I said modestly, “there are lots like me.” “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” said Geraldine, somewhat unflatteringly.

“Do they have women detectives? I’d quite like that. I don’t mean policewomen. I think policewomen are silly.”

“I’m no good at this job,” I said slowly. “Want me to pat you on the head and say ‘There, there?’” In spite of myself I laughed. “That’s better,” said Beck. “Now then, what’s it all about? Girl trouble, I suppose.” I shook my head. “It’s been coming on for some time.” “As a matter of fact I’ve noticed it,” said Beck unexpectedly. “The world’s in a confusing state nowadays. The issues aren’t clear as they used to be. When discouragement sets in, it’s like dry rot. Whacking great mushrooms bursting through the walls! If that’s so, your usefulness to us is over. You’ve done some first-class work, boy. Be content with that. Go back to those damned seaweeds of yours.”

“Let me tell you,” he said, “that I am not like the English, obsessed with dogs. I, personally, can live without the dog. But I accept, nevertheless, your ideal of the dog. The man loves and respects his dog. He indulges him, he boasts of the intelligence and sagacity of his dog to his friends. Now figure to yourself, the opposite may also come to pass! The dog is fond of his master. He indulges that master! He, too, boasts of his master, boasts of his master’s sagacity and intelligence. And as a man will rouse himself when he does not really want to go out, and take his dog for a walk because the dog enjoys the walk so much, so will the dog endeavour to give his master what that master pines to have.

He can repeat them accurately—that is, not transposing them, as nearly all of us do, to what the impression made on him was. To explain roughly—he would not say, ‘And at twenty past eleven the post came’ instead of describing what actually happened, namely a knock on the front door and someone coming into the room with letters in their hand.

“Well, really,” I said indignantly. “What will you say next?” “Me, I say anything!” declared Poirot grandly.

She had the gift, often possessed by those who are too occupied with their own thoughts to pay attention to what others are saying, to come to the heart of the problem. She summed up the whole crime.

“And you say this woman is unimaginative? When she concocted all this?” “But she did not concoct it. That is what is so interesting. It was all there—waiting for her.

“Well, then, why?” Hercule Poirot flew into a rage. “Eh bien, since you are too stupid to guess, I will tell you. I am human, am I not? I can be the machine if it is necessary. I can lie back and think. I can solve the problem so. But I am human, I tell you. And the problems concern human beings.” “And so?” “The explanation is as simple as the murder was simple. I came out of human curiosity,” said Hercule Poirot, with an attempt at dignity.

“I’ve resigned from the Service,” I told her. “I’m going back to my old job—marine biology. There’s a post going at a university in Australia.” “I think you are wise. You haven’t got what it takes for this job. You are like Rosemary’s father. He couldn’t understand Lenin’s dictum: ‘Away with softness.’” I thought of Hercule Poirot’s words. “I’m content,” I said, “to be human….”