[adapted]

by
Agatha Christie

It was a stormy night. Outside, the wind howled in a mean way, and the rain beat against the windows in big gusts.

Poirot and I sat facing the fireplace, our legs stretched out toward the bright, warm fire. Between us was a small table. On my side of it there was some carefully made hot toddy; on Poirot’s side there was a cup of thick, rich chocolate that I would not drink even for a hundred pounds! Poirot drank the thick brown drink slowly from the pink china cup and sighed with happiness. “What a beautiful life!” he said softly.

“Yes, it is a good old world,” I agreed. “Here I am with a job, and a good job too! And here you are, famous — ”
“Oh, my friend!” said Poirot.
“But you are. And that is right! When I think about your many, many successes, I am truly amazed. I do not believe you know what failure is!”

“He would be a funny kind of unusual person who could say that!”
“No, but really, have you ever failed?”

“Many times, my friend. What can you do? Good luck, it cannot always be on your side. I have been asked to come too late. Very often another person, working toward the same goal, has arrived there first. Two times I became very sick just as I was about to succeed. We must take the bad times with the good times, my friend.”

“I did not really mean that,” I said. “I meant, have you ever been completely beaten in a case because it was your own fault?”
“Ah, I understand! You ask if I have ever made a complete fool of myself, as you say over here? Once, my friend — ” A slow, thoughtful smile stayed on his face. “Yes, once I made a fool of myself.”

He sat up suddenly in his chair. “Listen, my friend, I know you have kept a list of my small successes. You will add one more story to the collection, the story of a failure!”

He leaned forward and put a log on the fire. Then, after carefully wiping his hands on a small cloth that hung on a nail by the fireplace, he leaned back and started his story.

What I am telling you (said Mr. Poirot) happened in Belgium many years ago. It was at the time of the terrible fight in France between the church and the state. Mr. Paul Déroulard was a well-known French official. It was an open secret that the office of a Minister was waiting for him. He was one of the most bitter men in the anti-Catholic party, and it was sure that when he came to power, he would have to face strong hatred. In many ways, he was a strange man. Although he did not drink and he did not smoke, he was still not very strict about right and wrong in other things. You understand, Hastings, it was women — always women!

He had married some years earlier a young lady from Brussels who had brought him a large dowry. Without a doubt the money was useful to him in his career, because his family was not rich, though on the other hand he had the right to call himself Mr. the Baron if he wished. There were no children from the marriage, and his wife died after two years — the result of a fall down the stairs. Among the property that she left to him was a house on the Avenue Louise in Brussels.

It was in this house that he died suddenly, and this happened at the same time as the Minister left his job, the job he was going to take. All the newspapers printed long articles about his career. His death, which happened very suddenly in the evening after dinner, was said to be from heart failure.

At that time, my friend, I was, as you know, a member of the Belgian police force. The death of Mr. Paul Déroulard was not very interesting to me. I am, as you also know, a good Catholic, and his death seemed to me a good thing.

It was about three days afterwards, when my vacation had just begun, that I received a visitor at my own apartments — a lady, heavily veiled, but clearly quite young; and I saw at once that she was a very proper young lady in every way indeed.

“You are Mister Hercule Poirot?” she asked in a quiet, sweet voice.
I bowed.
“Are you from the detective service?”
Again, I bowed. “Please sit down, I ask you, miss,” I said.

She sat down on a chair and moved her veil to the side. Her face was pretty, though wet with tears, and looked very worried, as if with some deep fear. “Sir,” she said, “I understand that you are now on vacation. Therefore you will be free to take up a private case. You understand that I do not want to call in the police.”
I shook my head. “I am afraid what you ask is impossible, Miss. Even though I am on vacation, I still work for the police.”

She leaned forward. “Listen, sir. All that I ask of you is to look into it. You are completely free to tell the police the results of your work. If what I believe to be true is true, we will need all the help and all the power of the law.”

That made the situation seem a little different, and I said I would help her at once, without delay.

A little colour came to her cheeks. “I thank you, sir. It is the death of Mr Paul Déroulard that I ask you to look into.” “What?” I exclaimed, surprised.

“Sir, I have nothing to go on — nothing but my woman’s feeling, but I am sure — sure, I tell you — that Mr. Deroulard did not die a natural death!”

“But surely the doctors —”
“Doctors can be wrong. He was so healthy, so strong. Ah, Mister Poirot, I beg you to help me —”

The poor child was very upset. She wanted to kneel to me. I tried to calm her as much as I could. “I will help you, miss. I am almost sure that your fears are not true, but we will see. First, I will ask you to tell me about the people who live in the house.”

“There are the servants, of course, Jeannette, Félicie, and Denise the cook. She has been there many years; the others are simple country girls. Also there is François, but he is also an old servant. Then there is Mister Déroulard’s mother who lived with him, and myself. My name is Virginie Mesnard. I am a poor cousin of the late Mrs. Déroulard, Mister Paul’s wife, and I have been a member of their household for over three years. I have now described the household to you. There were also two guests staying in the house.”

“And who were they?”
“Mr. de Saint Alard, a neighbor of Mr. Deroulard’s in France. Also an English friend, Mr. John Wilson.”
“Are they still with you?”
“Mr. Wilson, yes, but Mr. de Saint Alard left yesterday.”

“And what is your plan, Miss Mesnard?”

“If you will come to the house in half an hour’s time, I will have arranged some story to explain your presence. I had better say you are connected with journalism in some way. I will say you have come from Paris, and that you have brought a card of introduction from Mister de Saint Alard. Madam Déroulard is very weak in health, and will pay little attention to details.”

Because of Miss’s clever excuse, I was let into the house, and after a short talk with the dead deputy’s mother, who was a very grand and noble lady though clearly in poor health, I was allowed to go anywhere in the house.

I wonder, my friend (said Poirot), whether you can imagine the difficulties of my job? Here was a man who had died three days earlier. If there had been a crime, only one thing was possible — poison! And I had had no chance to see the body, and there was no way to examine or to test anything by which the poison could have been given. There were no clues, real or false, to think about. Had the man been poisoned? Had he died a natural death? I, Hercule Poirot, with nothing to help me at all, had to decide.

First, I talked to the servants, and with their help, I went over the evening again. I paid special attention to the food at dinner, and to how it was served. The soup was served by Mr. Déroulard himself from a large soup bowl. Next came a dish of meat cutlets, then a chicken. Finally, a dish of stewed fruit. And all were placed on the table, and served by Mr. Déroulard himself. The coffee was brought in a big pot to the dinner table. Nothing there, my friend — it was impossible to poison one person without poisoning everyone!

After dinner Mrs. Déroulard went to her own rooms and Miss Virginie went with her. The three men went to Mr. Déroulard’s study. Here they talked in a friendly way for some time, when suddenly, with no warning, the deputy fell hard to the ground. Mr. de Saint Alard ran out and told François to get a doctor at once. He said it was without a doubt a stroke, the man explained. But when the doctor came, the patient could not be helped.

Mr. John Wilson, to whom I was introduced by Miss Virginie, was what people in those days called a regular “John Bull” Englishman, middle-aged and big and strong. His story, told in very British French, was almost the same. “Déroulard went very red in the face, and down he fell.”

There was nothing more to be found out there. Next I went to the scene of the tragedy, the study, and I was left alone there because I asked for it. So far there was nothing to support Miss Mesnard’s idea. I could not help thinking it was a mistake on her part. Clearly she had felt a romantic love for the dead man, and this did not let her take a normal view of the case. Even so, I searched the study with very great care. It was just possible that a hypodermic needle might have been put into the dead man’s chair in such a way as to allow a deadly injection. The tiny puncture it would cause was likely to remain unnoticed. But I could find no sign to support that idea.

I sat down in the chair, and I showed that I felt no hope. “Finally. I give up!” I said aloud. “There is no clue anywhere! Everything is completely normal.”

As I said these words, I saw a large box of chocolates on a table near me, and my heart jumped. It might not be a clue to Mr Déroulard’s death, but here at least there was something that was not normal. I lifted the lid. The box was full and untouched; not one chocolate was missing — but that only made the strange thing that had caught my eye more clear. For, you see, Hastings, while the box itself was pink, the lid was blue. Now, one often sees a blue ribbon on a pink box, or the other way round, but a box of one color, and a lid of another — no, certainly — one never sees that!

I did not yet see that this small event was useful to me, but I decided to look into it because it was not normal at all. I rang the bell for François, and asked him if his master who had died had liked sweets.
A small sad smile came to his lips. ‘He loved them very much, sir. He would always have a box of chocolates in the house. He did not drink any kind of wine, you see.’

“But this box has not been used?” I lifted the lid to show him.
“Excuse me, sir, but that was a new box bought on the day he died, the other being almost finished.”

“Then the other box was used up on the day he died,” I said slowly.
“Yes, sir, I found it empty in the morning and threw it away.”
“Did Mr. Déroulard eat sweets at all times of the day?”
“Usually after dinner, sir.”

I began to understand. “François,” I said, “can you keep a secret?”
“If it is needed, sir.”
“Good! Then know that I am with the police. Can you find that other box for me?”
“Without a doubt, sir. It will be in the dustbin.”

He left and came back in a few minutes with an object covered with dust. It was a copy of the box I held, except that this time the box was blue and the lid was pink. I thanked Francis, told him once more to keep quiet, and left the house in Louise Avenue without more delay.

Next I visited the doctor who had looked after Mr. Déroulard. With him I had a hard task. He hid neatly behind a wall of big words, but I thought that he was not quite as sure about the case as he wanted to be.

“There have been many strange events of this kind,” he said, when I had managed to calm him a little. “A sudden burst of anger, a strong feeling — after a heavy dinner, of course — then, with another wave of rage, the blood goes to the head, and pst! — there you are!”

“But Mr. Déroulard did not have any strong emotion.
“No? I was sure that he was having an angry argument with Mr. de Saint Alard.”
“Why should he?”

“It is obvious!” The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “Was not Mr. de Saint Alard a very strict Catholic? Their friendship was being ruined by this question about church and state. Not a day passed without discussions. To Mr. de Saint Alard, Déroulard seemed almost like the Antichrist.”

This was a surprise, and it made me think. “One more question, Doctor: is it possible to put a deadly amount of poison in a chocolate?”

“It would be possible, I suppose,” said the doctor slowly. “Pure prussic acid would do if there was no chance of it disappearing into the air, and a tiny drop of anything might be swallowed without being noticed — but it does not seem a very likely idea. A chocolate full of morphine or strychnine —” He pulled a face. “You understand, Mr. Poirot — one bite would be enough! The person who is not careful would not think about manners.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”

I went away. Next I asked questions at the chemists, especially those in the neighborhood of Louise Avenue. It is good to be with the police. I got the information I wanted without any trouble. Only in one case did I hear of any poison sent to the house we spoke about. This was some eye drops of atropine sulfate for Mrs. Deroulard. Atropine is a strong poison, and for a moment I was glad, but the symptoms of atropine poisoning are very close to those of ptomaine, and are not like the symptoms I was studying. Besides, the prescription was an old one. Mrs. Deroulard had had cataracts in both eyes for many years.

I was turning away, feeling sad, when I heard the chemist call me back. “One moment, Mr. Poirot. I remember. The girl who brought that prescription said something about having to go to the English chemist. You might try there.”

I did. Once more, I used my official position, and I got the information I wanted. On the day before Mr. Deroulard’s death, they had filled a prescription for Mr. John Wilson. But there was nothing to make. They were just little tablets of trinitrin. I asked if I could see some. He showed them to me, and my heart beat faster, because the tiny tablets were made of chocolate.

“It is a poison?” I asked.
“No, sir.”
“Can you tell me what it does?”
“It lowers the blood pressure. It is given for some kinds of heart trouble — chest pain from the heart, for example. It eases the pressure in the arteries. In hardening of the arteries —”
I interrupted him. “My faith! This long talk means nothing to me. Does it make the face go red?”

“Yes, it does.”
“And suppose I ate ten — twenty of your small pills. What then?”
“I would not advise you to try it,” he said in a dry voice.
“And still you say it is not poison?”
“There are many things not called poison that can kill a man,” he said as before.

I left the shop very happy. At last, things had started to happen! I now knew that John Wilson had the way to do the crime — but what about the reason? He had come to Belgium on business, and had asked Mr. Deroulard, whom he knew a little, to give him a place to stay. It seemed there was no way that Deroulard’s death could help him. Also, I found out by asking questions in England that he had suffered for some years from a painful kind of heart disease called angina.

So he had a real right to keep those pills. But I was sure that someone had gone to the chocolate box, opened the full one first by mistake, and had taken out what was inside the last chocolate, pushing in instead as many small trinitrin pills as it could hold. The chocolates were big. I felt sure that between twenty and thirty pills could have been put in. But who had done this?

There were two guests in the house. John Wilson had the way to do it. Saint Alard had the reason. Remember, he was a fanatic, and there is no fanatic like a religious fanatic. Could he, in any way, have got hold of John Wilson’s trinitrin?

Another little idea came to me. Ah! You smile at my little ideas! Why had Wilson run out of trinitrin? Surely he would bring enough from England. I went once more to the house in Louise Avenue. Wilson was out, but I saw the maid who cleaned his room, Felicie. I asked her at once if it was true that Mr. Wilson had lost a bottle from his washstand some time ago. The girl answered quickly. It was quite true. She, Felicie, had been blamed for it. The English gentleman, it seemed, thought that she had broken it, and did not want to say so. But she had never even touched it. Without doubt it was Jeannette — always nosing around where she had no business to be —

I stopped talking, and I left. Now I knew all that I wanted to know. I still had to show I was right. That, I felt, would not be easy. I could be sure that Saint Alard had taken the bottle of nitroglycerin from John Wilson’s wash-stand, but to make others believe it, I would have to show proof. And I had no proof to show! Never mind. I knew — that was the important thing. Do you remember our trouble in the Styles case, Hastings? There again, I knew — but it took me a long time to find the last link that made my chain of proof against the killer complete.

I asked for a meeting with Miss Mesnard. She came right away. I asked her for the address of Mr. de Saint Alard. A worried look came over her face.
“Why do you want it, sir?”
“Miss, it is necessary.”
She seemed unsure — worried.