Agatha Christie Hercule Poirot The Complete Short Stories Contents Cover Title Page Introduction - Enter Hercule Poirot 1 - The Affair at the Victory Ball 2 - The Jewel Robbery at the Grand Metropolitan 3 - The King of Clubs 4 - The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim 5 - The Plymouth Express 6 - The Adventure of the Western Star 7 - The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor 8 - The Kidnapped Prime Minister 9 - The Million Dollar Bond Robbery 10 - The Adventure of the Cheap Flat 11 - The Mystery of Hunter’s Lodge 12 - The Chocolate Box 13 - The Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb 14 - The Veiled Lady 15 - The Adventure of Johnnie Waverly 16 - The Market Basing Mystery 17 - The Adventure of the Italian Nobleman 18 - The Case of the Missing Will 19 - The Incredible Theft 20 - The Adventure of the Clapham Cook 21 - The Lost Mine 22 - The Cornish Mystery 23 - The Double Clue 24 - The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding 25 - The Lemesurier Inheritance 26 - The Under Dog 27 - Double Sin 28 - Wasps’ Nest 29 - The Third-Floor Flat 30 - The Mystery of the Spanish Chest 31 - Dead Man’s Mirror 32 - How Does Your Garden Grow? 33 - Problem at Sea 34 - Triangle at Rhodes 35 - Murder in the Mews 36 - Yellow Iris 37 - The Dream 38 - Four-and-Twenty Blackbirds 39 - The Labours of Hercules 40 - The Nemean Lion 41 - The Lernean Hydra 42 - The Arcadian Deer 43 - The Erymanthian Boar 44 - The Augean Stables 45 - The Stymphalean Birds 46 - The Cretan Bull 47 - The Horses of Diomedes 48 - The Girdle of Hyppolita 49 - The Flock of Geryon 50 - The Apples of the Hesperides 51 - The Capture of Cerberus Postscript - Poirot and the Regatta Mystery Appendix - Short Story Chronology Also in this Series - Agatha Christie Poirot in the Orient Poirot: The French Collection Poirot: The War Years Poirot: The Complete Battles of Hastings - Volume 1 Poirot: The Complete Battles of Hastings - Volume 2 Miss Marple Omnibus - Volume I Miss Marple Omnibus - Volume II Miss Marple Omnibus - Volume III Also Available - Agatha Christie The Mary Westmacott Collection - Volume One The Mary Westmacott Collection - Volume Two Also in this Series - Agatha Christie The Complete Quin & Satterthwaite Love Detectives Also Available - Agatha Christie Come, Tell Me How You Live Books by Agatha Christie Copyright About the Publisher Introduction Enter Hercule Poirot Who could I have as a detective? I reviewed such detectives as I had met and admired in books. There was Sherlock Holmes, the one and only – I should never be able to emulate him. There was Arsene Lupin – was he a criminal or a detective? Anyway, not my kind. There was the young journalist Rouletabille in The Mystery of the Yellow Room – that was the sort of person whom I would like to invent: someone who hadn’t been used before. Who could I have? A schoolboy? Rather difficult. A scientist? What did I know of scientists? Then I remembered our Belgian refugees. We had quite a colony of Belgian refugees living in the parish of Tor. Why not make my detective a Belgian? I thought. There were all types of refugees. How about a refugee police officer? A retired police officer. Not too young a one. What a mistake I made there. The result is that my fictional detective must really be well over a hundred by now. Anyway, I settled on a Belgian detective. I allowed him slowly to grow into his part. He should have been an inspector, so that he would have a certain knowledge of crime. He would be meticulous, very tidy, I thought to myself, as I cleared away a good many untidy odds and ends in my own bedroom. A tidy little man. I could see him as a tidy little man, always arranging things, liking things in pairs, liking things square instead of round. And he should be very brainy – he should have little grey cells of the mind – that was a good phrase: I must remember that – yes, he would have little grey cells. He would have rather a grand name – one of those names that Sherlock Holmes and his family had. Who was it his brother had been? Mycroft Holmes. How about calling my little man Hercules? He would be a small man – Hercules: a good name. His last name was more difficult. I don’t know why I settled on the name Poirot, whether it just came into my head or whether I saw it in some newspaper or written on something – anyway it came. It went well not with Hercules but Hercule – Hercule Poirot. That was all right – settled, thank goodness. Hercule Poirot had been quite a success in The Mysterious Affair at Styles, so it was suggested that I should continue to employ him. One of the people who liked Poirot was Bruce Ingram, editor at the time of The Sketch. He got in touch with me, and suggested that I should write a series of Poirot stories for The Sketch. This excited me very much indeed. At last I was becoming a success. To be in The Sketch – wonderful! He also had a fancy drawing made of Hercule Poirot which was not unlike my idea of him, though he was depicted as a little smarter and more aristocratic than I had envisaged him.* Bruce Ingram wanted a series of twelve stories. I produced eight before long, and at first it was thought that that would be enough, but in the end it was decided to increase them to twelve, and I had to write another four rather more hastily than I wanted. It had escaped my notice that not only was I now tied to the detective story, I was also tied to two people: Hercule Poirot and his Watson, Captain Hastings. I quite enjoyed Captain Hastings. He was a stereotyped creation, but he and Poirot represented my idea of a detective team. I was still writing in the Sherlock Holmes tradition – eccentric detective, stooge assistant, with a Lestrade-type Scotland Yard detective, Inspector Japp. Now I saw what a terrible mistake I had made in starting with Hercule Poirot so old – I ought to have abandoned him after the first three or four books, and begun again with someone much younger. People never stop writing to me nowadays to suggest that Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot should meet – but why should they? I am sure they would not enjoy it at all. Hercule Poirot, the complete egoist, would not like being taught his business by an elderly spinster lady. He was a professional sleuth, he would not be at home at all in Miss Marple’s world. No, they are both stars, and stars in their own right. I shall not let them meet unless I feel a sudden and unexpected urge to do so. AGATHA CHRISTIE from An Autobiography 1 The Affair at the Victory Ball ‘The Affair at the Victory Ball’ was first published in The Sketch, 7 March 1923. 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 Pierrette; 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.