a lunatic!’
Colonel Johnson said politely:
‘That is your theory?’
‘Yes. Yes, indeed. A homicidal maniac. Escaped, perhaps, from some mental home in the vicinity.’
Superintendent Sugden put in:
‘And how do you suggest this—er—lunatic gained admittance to the house, Mr Lee? And how did he leave it?’
George shook his head.
‘That,’ he said firmly, ‘is for the police to discover.’
Sugden said:
‘We made the round of the house at once. All windows were closed and barred. The side door was locked, so was the front door. Nobody could have left by the kitchen premises without being seen by the kitchen staff.’
George Lee cried:
‘But that’s absurd! You’ll be saying next that my father was never murdered at all!’
‘He was murdered all right,’ said Superintendent Sugden. ‘There’s no doubt about that.’
The chief constable cleared his throat and took up the questioning.
‘Just where were you, Mr Lee, at the time of the crime?’
‘I was in the dining-room. It was just after dinner. No, I was, I think, in this room. I had just finished telephoning.’
‘You had been telephoning?’
‘Yes. I had put a call through to the Conservative agent in Westeringham—my constituency. Some urgent matters.’
‘And it was after that that you heard the scream?’
George Lee gave a slight shiver.
‘Yes, very unpleasant. It—er—froze my marrow. It died away in a kind of choke or gurgle.’
He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead where the perspiration had broken out.
‘Terrible business,’ he muttered.
‘And then you hurried upstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see your brothers, Mr Alfred and Mr Harry Lee?’
‘No, they must have gone up just ahead of me, I think.’
‘When did you last see your father, Mr Lee?’
‘This afternoon. We were all up there.’
‘You did not see him after that?’
‘No.’
The chief constable paused, then he said:
‘Were you aware that your father kept a quantity of valuable uncut diamonds in the safe in his bedroom?’
George Lee nodded.
‘A most unwise procedure,’ he said pompously. ‘I often told him so. He might have been murdered for them—I mean—that is to say—’
Colonel Johnson cut in: ‘Are you aware that these stones have disappeared?’
George’s jaw dropped. His protuberant eyes stared.
‘Then he was murdered for them?’
The chief constable said slowly:
‘He was aware of their loss and reported it to the police some hours before his death.’
George said:
‘But, then—I don’t understand—I—…’
Hercule Poirot said gently:
‘We, too, do not understand…’
Hercule Poirot's Christmas
X
Harry Lee came into the room with a swagger. For a moment Poirot stared at him, frowning. He had a feeling that somewhere he had seen this man before. He noted the features: the high-bridged nose, the arrogant poise of the head, the line of the jaw; and he realized that though Harry was a big man and his father had been a man of merely middle height, yet there had been a good deal of resemblance between them.
He noted something else, too. For all his swagger, Harry Lee was nervous. He was carrying it off with a swing, but the anxiety underneath was real enough.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘What can I tell you?’
Colonel Johnson said:
‘We shall be glad of any light you can throw on the events of this evening.’
Harry Lee shook his head.
‘I don’t know anything at all. It’s all pretty horrible and utterly unexpected.’
Poirot said:
‘You have recently returned from abroad, I think, Mr Lee?’
Harry turned to him quickly.
‘Yes. Landed in England a week ago.’
Poirot said:
‘You had been away a long time?’
Harry Lee lifted up his chin and laughed.
‘You might as well hear straight away—someone will soon tell you! I’m the prodigal son, gentlemen! It’s nearly twenty years since I last set foot in this house.’
‘But you returned—now. Will you tell us
Colonel Johnson said politely:
‘That is your theory?’
‘Yes. Yes, indeed. A homicidal maniac. Escaped, perhaps, from some mental home in the vicinity.’
Superintendent Sugden put in:
‘And how do you suggest this—er—lunatic gained admittance to the house, Mr Lee? And how did he leave it?’
George shook his head.
‘That,’ he said firmly, ‘is for the police to discover.’
Sugden said:
‘We made the round of the house at once. All windows were closed and barred. The side door was locked, so was the front door. Nobody could have left by the kitchen premises without being seen by the kitchen staff.’
George Lee cried:
‘But that’s absurd! You’ll be saying next that my father was never murdered at all!’
‘He was murdered all right,’ said Superintendent Sugden. ‘There’s no doubt about that.’
The chief constable cleared his throat and took up the questioning.
‘Just where were you, Mr Lee, at the time of the crime?’
‘I was in the dining-room. It was just after dinner. No, I was, I think, in this room. I had just finished telephoning.’
‘You had been telephoning?’
‘Yes. I had put a call through to the Conservative agent in Westeringham—my constituency. Some urgent matters.’
‘And it was after that that you heard the scream?’
George Lee gave a slight shiver.
‘Yes, very unpleasant. It—er—froze my marrow. It died away in a kind of choke or gurgle.’
He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead where the perspiration had broken out.
‘Terrible business,’ he muttered.
‘And then you hurried upstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see your brothers, Mr Alfred and Mr Harry Lee?’
‘No, they must have gone up just ahead of me, I think.’
‘When did you last see your father, Mr Lee?’
‘This afternoon. We were all up there.’
‘You did not see him after that?’
‘No.’
The chief constable paused, then he said:
‘Were you aware that your father kept a quantity of valuable uncut diamonds in the safe in his bedroom?’
George Lee nodded.
‘A most unwise procedure,’ he said pompously. ‘I often told him so. He might have been murdered for them—I mean—that is to say—’
Colonel Johnson cut in: ‘Are you aware that these stones have disappeared?’
George’s jaw dropped. His protuberant eyes stared.
‘Then he was murdered for them?’
The chief constable said slowly:
‘He was aware of their loss and reported it to the police some hours before his death.’
George said:
‘But, then—I don’t understand—I—…’
Hercule Poirot said gently:
‘We, too, do not understand…’
Hercule Poirot's Christmas
X
Harry Lee came into the room with a swagger. For a moment Poirot stared at him, frowning. He had a feeling that somewhere he had seen this man before. He noted the features: the high-bridged nose, the arrogant poise of the head, the line of the jaw; and he realized that though Harry was a big man and his father had been a man of merely middle height, yet there had been a good deal of resemblance between them.
He noted something else, too. For all his swagger, Harry Lee was nervous. He was carrying it off with a swing, but the anxiety underneath was real enough.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘What can I tell you?’
Colonel Johnson said:
‘We shall be glad of any light you can throw on the events of this evening.’
Harry Lee shook his head.
‘I don’t know anything at all. It’s all pretty horrible and utterly unexpected.’
Poirot said:
‘You have recently returned from abroad, I think, Mr Lee?’
Harry turned to him quickly.
‘Yes. Landed in England a week ago.’
Poirot said:
‘You had been away a long time?’
Harry Lee lifted up his chin and laughed.
‘You might as well hear straight away—someone will soon tell you! I’m the prodigal son, gentlemen! It’s nearly twenty years since I last set foot in this house.’
‘But you returned—now. Will you tell us
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