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Hercule Poirot’s Christmas. Agatha Christie
Читать онлайн.Название Hercule Poirot’s Christmas
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780007422371
Автор произведения Agatha Christie
Жанр Ужасы и Мистика
Серия Poirot
Издательство HarperCollins
‘Sometimes,’ said Lydia, ‘it does.’
She left the room. Simeon looked after her.
He chuckled softly and rubbed his palms together. ‘Lots of fun,’ he said. ‘Lots of fun still. I’m going to enjoy this Christmas.’
With an effort he pulled himself upright, and with the help of his stick, shuffled across the room.
He went to a big safe that stood at the corner of the room. He twirled the handle of the combination. The door came open and, with shaking fingers, he felt inside.
He lifted out a small wash-leather bag, and opening it, let a stream of uncut diamonds pass through his fingers.
‘Well, my beauties, well…Still the same—still my old friends. Those were good days—good days…They shan’t carve you and cut you about, my friends. You shan’t hang round the necks of women or sit on their fingers or hang on their ears. You’re mine! My old friends! We know a thing or two, you and I. I’m old, they say, and ill, but I’m not done for! Lots of life in the old dog yet. And there’s still some fun to be got out of life. Still some fun—’
Tressilian went to answer the doorbell. It had been an unusually aggressive peal, and now, before he could make his slow way across the hall, it pealed out again.
Tressilian flushed. An ill-mannered, impatient way of ringing the bell at a gentleman’s house! If it was a fresh lot of those carol singers he’d give them a piece of his mind.
Through the frosted glass of the upper half of the door he saw a silhouette—a big man in a slouch hat. He opened the door. As he had thought—a cheap, flashy stranger—nasty pattern of suit he was wearing—loud! Some impudent begging fellow!
‘Blessed if it isn’t Tressilian,’ said the stranger. ‘How are you, Tressilian?’
Tressilian stared—took a deep breath—stared again. That bold arrogant jaw, the high-bridged nose, the rollicking eye. Yes, they had all been there three years ago. More subdued then…
He said with a gasp:
‘Mr Harry!’
Harry Lee laughed.
‘Looks as though I’d given you quite a shock. Why? I’m expected, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, indeed, sir. Certainly, sir.’
‘Then why the surprise act?’ Harry stepped back a foot or two and looked up at the house—a good solid mass of red brick, unimaginative but solid.
‘Just the same ugly old mansion,’ he remarked. ‘Still standing, though, that’s the main thing. How’s my father, Tressilian?’
‘He’s somewhat of an invalid, sir. Keeps his room, and can’t get about much. But he’s wonderfully well, considering.’
‘The old sinner!’
Harry Lee came inside, let Tressilian remove his scarf and take the somewhat theatrical hat.
‘How’s my dear brother Alfred, Tressilian?’
‘He’s very well, sir.’
Harry grinned.
‘Looking forward to seeing me? Eh?’
‘I expect so, sir.’
‘I don’t! Quite the contrary. I bet it’s given him a nasty jolt, my turning up! Alfred and I never did get on. Ever read your Bible, Tressilian?’
‘Why, yes, sir, sometimes, sir.’
‘Remember the tale of the prodigal’s return? The good brother didn’t like it, remember? Didn’t like it at all! Good old stay-at-home Alfred doesn’t like it either, I bet.’
Tressilian remained silent looking down his nose. His stiffened back expressed protest. Harry clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Lead on, old son,’ he said. ‘The fatted calf awaits me! Lead me right to it.’
Tressilian murmured:
‘If you will come this way into the drawing-room, sir. Iam not quite sure where everyone is…They were unable to send to meet you, sir, not knowing the time of your arrival.’
Harry nodded. He followed Tressilian along the hall, turning his head to look about him as he went.
‘All the old exhibits in their place, I see,’ he remarked. ‘I don’t believe anything has changed since I went away twenty years ago.’
He followed Tressilian into the drawing-room. The old man murmured:
‘I will see if I can find Mr or Mrs Alfred,’ and hurried out.
Harry Lee had marched into the room and had then stopped, staring at the figure who was seated on one of the window-sills. His eyes roamed incredulously over the black hair and the creamy exotic pallor.
‘Good Lord!’ he said. ‘Are you my father’s seventh and most beautiful wife?’
Pilar slipped down and came towards him.
‘I am Pilar Estravados,’ she announced. ‘And you must be my Uncle Harry, my mother’s brother.’
Harry said, staring:
‘So that’s who you are! Jenny’s daughter.’
Pilar said: ‘Why did you ask me if I was your father’s seventh wife? Has he really had six wives?’
Harry laughed.
‘No, I believe he’s only had one official one. Well—Pil—what’s your name?’
‘Pilar, yes.’
‘Well, Pilar, it really gives me quite a turn to see something like you blooming in this mausoleum.’
‘This—maus—please?’
‘This museum of stuffed dummies! I always thought this house was lousy! Now I see it again I think it’s lousier than ever!’
Pilar said in a shocked voice:
‘Oh, no, it is very handsome here! The furniture is good and the carpets—thick carpets everywhere—and there are lots of ornaments. Everything is very good quality and very, very rich!’
‘You’re right there,’ said Harry, grinning. He looked at her with amusement. ‘You know, I can’t help getting a kick out of seeing you in the midst—’
He broke off as Lydia came rapidly into the room.
She came straight to him.
‘How d’you do, Harry? I’m Lydia—Alfred’s wife.’
‘How de do, Lydia.’ He shook hands, examining her intelligent mobile face in a swift glance and approving mentally of the way she walked—very few women moved well.
Lydia in her turn took quick stock of him.
She thought: ‘He looks a frightful tough—attractive though. I wouldn’t trust him an inch…’
She said smiling:
‘How does it look after all these years? Quite different, or very much the same?’
‘Pretty much the same.’ He looked round him. ‘This room’s been done over.’
‘Oh, many times.’
He said:
‘I