Thirteen at Dinner (originally Lord Edgeware Dies) by Agatha Christie.
Title: Thirteen at Dinner (originally Lord Edgeware Dies).
Author: Agatha Christie.
Genre: Fiction, detective fiction, mystery, crime.
Country: U.K.
Language: English.
Publication Date: 1933.
Summary: Poirot had been present when Jane bragged of her plan to "get rid of" her estranged husband. Now the monstrous man was dead. And yet the great Belgian detective couldn’t help feeling that he was being taken for a ride. After all, how could Jane have stabbed Lord Edgware to death in his library at exactly the same time she was seen dining with friends? And what could be her motive now that the aristocrat had finally granted her a divorce?
My rating: 7.5/10.
My review:
♥ "And a fine actress too."
"Possibly."
"You don't seem convinced."
"I think it would depend on the setting, my friend. If she is the centre of the play, if all revolves round her-yes, then she could play her part. I doubt if she could play a small part adequately or even what is called a character part. The play must be written about her and for her. She appears to me of the type of women who are interested only in themselves." He paused and then added rather unexpectedly: "Such people go through life in great danger."
"Danger?" I said, surprised.
"I have used a word that surprises you, I see, mon ami. Yes, danger. Because you see, a woman like that sees only one thing-herself. Such women see nothing of the dangers and hazards that surround them-the million conflicting interests and relationships of life. No, they see only their own forward path. And so-sooner or later-disaster."
♥ "Mon cher, am I to-night the fortune-teller who reads the palm and tells the character?"
"You could do it better than not," I rejoined.
"It is a very pretty faith that you have in me, Hastings. It touches me. Do you not know, my friend, that each one of us is a dark mystery, a maze of conflicting passions and desires and aptitudes? Mais oui, c'est vrai. One makes one's little judgments-but nine times out of ten one is wrong."
"Not Hercule Poirot," I said smiling.
"Even Hercule Poirot! Oh! I know very well that you have always a little idea that I am conceited, but, indeed, I assure you, I am really a very humble person."
I laughed.
"You-humble!"
"It is so. Except-I confess it-that I am a little proud of my moustaches. Nowhere in London have I observed anything to compare with them."
"You're quite safe," I said dryly. "You won't."
♥ "Anyway, you don't consider that she walks through life in peril?"
"We all do that, my friend," said Poirot gravely. "Misfortune may always be waiting to rush out upon us."
♥ "Love of money. Love of money might lead such a one from the prudent and cautious path."
"It might do that to all of us," I said.
♥ "You have made a hit, Poirot. The fair Lady Edgeware can hardly take her eyes off you."
"Doubtless she has been informed of my identity," said Poirot, trying to look modest and failing.
"I think it is the famous moustaches," I said. "She is carried away by their beauty."
Poirot caressed them surreptitiously.
"It is true that they are unique," he admitted. "Oh, my friend, the 'toothbrush' as you call it, that you wear-it is a horror-an atrocity-a wilful stunting of the bounties of nature. Abandon it, my friend. I pray of you."
"By Jove," I said, disregarding Poirot's appeal.
♥ "But I thought that perhaps your judgment was slightly-what shall I say-influenced."
"I am not in the habit of letting my judgment be 'influenced' as you call it, Hastings. The best and driest of champagne, the most golden-haired and seductive of women-nothing influences the judgment of Hercule Poirot. No, mon ami, I am interested-that is all."
♥ "Jane Wilkinson is the most high-handed woman that ever existed."
"She has the single vision," said Poirot, smiling. "One thing at a time."
"She gets away with it, too," said Martin. "How people stand it, I don't know!"
"One will stand a good deal form a beautiful woman, my friend," said Poirot with a twinkle. "If she had the pug nose, the sallow skin, the greasy hair, then-ah! then she would not 'get away with it' as you put it."
♥ Jane paid no attention to him.
"The thing is that I'm free-at last."
"Not yet, Madame."
She looked at him impatiently.
"Well, going to be free. It's the same thing."
Poirot looked as though he did not think it was.
♥ "You observe, Hastings, she is shrewd beyond belief in the business sense, but she has absolutely no intellect. Well, well, the good God cannot give everything."
"Except to Hercule Poirot," I said slyly.
"You mock yourself at me, my friend," he replied serenely.
♥ I liked people to be straightforward. I said so, and Poirot laughed.
"You are the dog of the bulldog breed, eh, Hastings? But you must remember that the poor Japp he has to save his face. So he makes his little pretence. It is very natural."
I thought it merely foolishj and said so. Poirot did not agree.
"The outward form-it is a bagatelle-but it matters to people. It enables them to keep the amour propre."
Personally I thought a dash of inferiority complex would do Japp no harm, but there was no point in arguing the matter.
♥ "Well, why not come along with me now?"
"Thank you, mon ami, I should be delighted to do so. You include Hastings in your invitation, I hope?"
Japp grinned.
"What do you think? Where the master goes, there the dog follows," he added in what I could not think was the best of taste.
♥ "Her belief was quite unaltered, though," I argued. "And after all, a voice and a walk are just as unmistakable."
"No, no."
"Why, Poirot, I think a voice and the general gait are about the most characteristic things about a person."
"I agree. And therefore they are the most easily counterfeited."
♥ "Ah! You permit that I open it?"
Alice Bennett would have permitted anything. Like most canny and suspicious women, once she had overcome her distrust she was child's play to manipulate. She would have assented to anything Poirot suggested.
♥ "Poirot," I said, as he remained wrapt in thought. "Hadn't we better go on. Everyone is staring at us."
"Eh? Well, perhaps you are right. Though it does not incommode me that people should stare. It does not interfere in the least with my train of thought."
"People were beginning to laugh," I murmured.
"That has no importance."
I did not quite agree. I have a horror of doing anything conspicuous. The only thing that affects Poirot is the possibility of the damp or the heat affecting the set of his famous moustache.
♥ "I wasn't fond of my father. I hated him!"
"Geraldine dear."
"Why pretend? You didn't hate him because he couldn't touch you! You were one of the few people in the world that he couldn't get at. You saw him as the employer who paid you so much a year. His rages and his queernesses didn't interest you-you ignored them. I know what you'd say. 'Everyone has got to put up with something.' You were cheerful and uninterested. You're a very strong woman. You're not really human. But then you could have walked out of the house any minute. I couldn't. I belonged."
♥ "I am not in the least anxious to find his murderer. For all we know the person who killed him may have had reasons-ample reasons-justifying that action."
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.
"That is a dangerous principle to adopt, Mademoiselle."
"Will hanging someone else bring Father back to life?"
"No," said Poirot dryly. "But it may save other innocent people from being murdered."
"I don't understand."
"A person who has once killed, Mademoiselle, nearly always kills again-sometimes again and again."
"I don't believe it. Not-not a real person."
"You mean-not a homicidal maniac? But yet, it is true. One life is removed-perhaps after a terrific struggle with the murderer's conscience. Then-danger threatens-the second murder is morally easier. At the slightest threatening of suspicion a third follows. And little by little an artistic pride arises-it is a métier-to kill. It is done at last almost for pleasure."
♥ "I had a motive-oh! yes, motive admitted. And I'm going to give you a present of a very valuable and significant piece of information. I called to see my uncle yesterday morning. Why? To ask for money. Yes, lick your lips over that. To ASK FOR MONEY. And I went away without getting any. And that same evening-that very same evening-Lord Edgware dies. Good title that, by the way. Lord Edgware Dies. Look well on a bookstall."
♥ "Yes," said Poirot. "It is sad to die when you are young-when you do not want to die-when all life is open before you and you have everything to live for."
Ronald looked at him curiously.
"I don't think I quite get you, M. Poirot?"
"No?"
Poirot rose and held out his hand.
"I express my thoughts-a little strongly perhaps. For I do not like to see youth deprived of its right to live, Lord Edgware. I feel-very strongly about it."
♥ "But you see, Hastings, it is difficult to trust her evidence."
"You think she's lying?" But why? She looks a most upright person."
"That is just it. Between the deliberate falsehood and the disinterested inaccuracy it is very hard to distinguish something."
"What do you mean?"
"To deceive deliberately-that is one thing. But to be so sure of your facts, of your ideas and of their essential truth that the details do not matter-that, my friend, is a special characteristic of particularly honest persons. Already, mark you, she has told us one lie. She said she saw Kane Wilkinson's face when she could not possibly have done so. Now how did that come about? Look at it this way. She looks down and sees Jane Wilkinson in the hall. No doubt enters her head that it is Jane Wilkinson. She knows it is. She says she saw her face distinctly because-being so sure of her facts-exact details do not matter! It is pointed out to her that she could not have seen her face. Is that so? Well, what does it matter if she saw her face or not-it was Jane Wilkinson. And so with any other question. She knows. And so she answers questions in the light of her knowledge, not by reason of remembered facts. The positive witness should always be treated with suspicion, my friend. The uncertain witness who doesn't remember, isn't sure, will think a minute-ah! yes, that's how it was-is infinitely more to be depended upon!"
♥ "What do you think he flung all those facts at our head in that cynical way? Just for amusement?"
"That is always possible. You English, you have the most extraordinary notions of humour. But it may have been policy. Facts that are concealed acquire a suspicious importance. Facts that are frankly revealed tend to be regarded as less important than they really are."
♥ "We will dine first, Hastings. And until we drink our coffee, we will not discuss the case further. When engaged in eating, the brain should be the servant of the stomach."
♥ Then, as we sipped our coffee, Poirot smiled affectionately across the table at me.
"My food friend," he said. "I depend upon you more than you know."
I was confused and delighted by these unexpected words. He had never said anything of the kind to me before. Sometimes, secretly, I had felt slightly hurt. He seemed almost to go out of his way to disparage my mental powers.
Although I did not think his own powers were flagging, I did realise suddenly that perhaps he had come to depend on my aid more than he knew.
"Yes," he said dreamily. "You may not always comprehend just how it is so-but you do often and often point the way."
I could hardly believe my ears.
"Really, Poirot," I stammered. "I'm awfully glad. I suppose I've learnt a good deal from you one way or another-"
He shook his head.
"Mais non, ce n'est pas ça. You have learnt nothing."
"Oh!" I said, rather taken aback.
"That is as it should be. No human being should learn from another. Each individual should develop his own powers to the uttermost, not try to imitate those of someone else. I do not wish you to be a second and inferior Poirot. I wish you to be the supreme Hastings. And you are the supreme Hastings. In you, Hastings, I find the normal mind almost perfectly illustrated."
"I'm not abnormal, I hope," I said.
"No, no. You are beautifully and perfectly balanced. In you sanity is personified. Do you realise what that means to me? When the criminal sets out to do a crime his first effort is to deceive. Who does he seek to deceive? The image in his mind is that of the normal man. There is probably no such thing actually-it is a mathematical abstraction. But you come as near to realising it as is possible. There are moment when you have flashes of brilliance when you rise above average, moments (I hope you will pardon me) when you descend to curious depths of obtuseness, but take it all for all, you are amazingly normal. Eh bien, how does this profit me? Simply in this way. As in a mirror I see reflected in your mind exactly what the criminal wishes me to believe. That is terrifically helpful and suggestive."
I did not quite understand. It seemed to me that what Poirot was saying was hardly complimentary. However, he disabused me of that impression.
"I have expressed myself badly," he said quickly. "You have an insight into the criminal mind, which I myself lack. You show me what the criminal wishes me to believe. It is a great gift."
"Insight," I said thoughtfully. "Yes, perhaps I have got insight."
I looked across the table at him. He was smoking his tiny cigarettes and regarding me with great kindliness.
"Ce cher Hastings," he murmured. "I have indeed much affection for you."
I was pleased but embarrassed and hastened to change the subject.
♥ "I was favourably impressed by her," said Sir Montagu graciously. "She made several most intelligent remarks about Greek art."
I smiled to myself picturing Jane saying, "Yes" and "No," "Really how wonderful," in her magical husky voice. Sir Montagu was the type of man to whom intelligence consisted of the faculty of listening to his own remarks with suitable attention.
♥ "She was a smart wide-awake bit of goods. She couldn't help me, though. Not that that surprised me. The amount of missing girls I've had to trace and their family and their friends always say the same things. 'She was a bright and affectionate disposition and had no men friends.' That's never true. It's unnatural. Girls ought to have men friends. If not there's something wrong about them. It's the muddle-headed loyalty of friends and relations that makes a detective's life so difficult."
♥ "Then you must know who this mysterious girl is that he had to consult?"
He smiled.
"I have a little idea, my friend. As I told you, it started from the mention of the gold tooth, and if my little idea is correct, I know who the girl is, I know why she will not let M. Martin consult me, I know the truth of the whole affair. And so could you know it if you would only use the brains the good God has given you. Sometimes I really am tempted to believe that by inadvertence He passed you by."
♥ "Eh bien, in my early days in the police force in Belgium I learned that it was very useful to read handwriting upside down. Shall I tell you what he was saying in that letter? 'My dearest, I can hardly bear to wait through the long months. Jane, my adored, my beautiful angel, how can I tell you what you are to me? You who have suffered so much! Your beautiful nature-"
"Poirot!" I cried, scandalised, stopping him.
"This was as far as he had got. 'Your beautiful nature-only I know it.'"
I felt very upset. He was so naïvely pleased with his performance.
"Poirot," I cried. "You can't do a thing like that. Overlook a private letter."
"You say the imbecilities, Hastings. Absurd to say I 'cannot do' a thing which I have just done!"
"It's not-not playing the game."
"I do not play games. You know that. Murder is not a game. It is serious. And anyway, Hastings, you should not use that phrase-playing the game. It is not said any more. I have discovered that. It is dead. Young people laugh when they hear it. Mais oui, young beautiful girls will laugh at you if you say 'playing the game' and 'not cricket.'"
♥ "Will you think me impertinent if I give you advice?"
"What advice?"
"Do not antagonise your son! He is of an age to choose for himself. Because this choice is not your choice, do not assume that you must be right. If it is a misfortune-then accept misfortune. Be at hand to aid him when he needs aid. But do not turn him against you."
"You hardly understand."
She rose to her feet. Her lips were trembling.
"But yes, Madame la Duchesse, I understand very well. I comprehend the mother's heart. No one comprehends it better than I, Hercule Poirot. And I say to you with authority-be patient. Be patient and calm, and disguise your feelings. There is yet a chance that the matter may break itself. Opposition will merely increase your son's obstinacy."
♥ "Why, you don't think she is really in love with him?"
"Probably not. Almost certainly not. But she is very much in love with his position. She will play her part carefully. She is an extremely beautiful woman and very ambitious. It is not such a catastrophe. The Duke might very easily have married a young girl of his own class who would have accepted him from the same reasons-but no one would have made the song and the dance about that."
"That is quite true, but-"
"And suppose he marries a girl who loves him passionately, is there such a great advantage in that? Often I have observed that it is a great misfortune for a man to have a wife who loves him. She creates the scenes of jealousy, she makes him look ridiculous, she insists on having all his time and attention. Ah! non, it is not the bed of roses."
"Poirot," I said. "You're an incurable old cynic."
♥ We were in our rooms.
"What on earth-" I began.
Poirot stopped me with a gesture more extravagant than any gesture I had ever seen him make. Both arms whirled in the air.
"I implore you, Hastings! Not now. Not now."
And upon that he seized his hat, clapped it on his head as though he had never heard of order and method, and rushed headlong from the room.
♥ Suddenly, at Poirot's expression of extreme melancholy, Japp shouted with laughed. Poirot looked affronted.
"Sorry, M. Poirot." He wiped his eyes. "But you did look for all the world like a dying duck in a thunderstorm. Now look here, let's forget all this. I'm willing to shoulder the credit or the blame of this affair. It will make a big noise-you're right there. Well, I'm going all out to get a conviction. It may be that a clever Counsel will get his lordship off-you never know with a jury. But even so, it won't do me any harm. It will be known that we caught the right man even if we couldn't get a conviction. And if, by any chance, the third housemaid had hysterics and owns up she did it-well, I'll take my medicine and I won't complain you led me up the garden. That's fair enough."
Poirot gazed at him mildly and sadly.
"You have the confidence-always the confidence! You never stop and say to yourself-Can it be so? You never doubt-or wonder. You never think: This is too easy!"
"You bet your life I don't. And that's just where, if you'll excuse me saying so, you go off the rails every time. Why shouldn't a thing be easy? What's the harm, in a thing being easy?"
Poirot looked at him, sighed, half threw up his arms, then shook his head.
"C'est fini! I will say no more."
♥ "..Carlotta was speaking in a general sort of way one day. About a man having hard luck, and how it might affect character. That a man might be a decent sort really and yet go down the hill. More sinned against than sinning-you know the idea. The first thing a woman kids herself with when she's getting soft about a man. I've heard the old wheeze so often! Carlotta had plenty of sense, yet here she was coming out with this stuff just like a complete ass who knew nothing of life."
♥ "See you, as I have reasoned it out, certain things must be-they follow each other with method and order in an understandable fashion. But then comes this letter. It does not accord. Who, then, is wrong? Hercule Poirot or the letter?"
"You don't think it possible that it could be Hercule Poirot?" I suggested as delicately as I was able.
Poirot threw me a glance of reproof.
"There are times when I have been in error-but this is not one of them."
♥ "So often is that the case. The more in haste, the less the speed."
♥ "To say I have the head of the pig is not pretty. Tout de même, oblige me in this matter, I pray of you."
♥ The company in which he found himself was, so I should imagine, little to his liking. He was a strictly conservative and somewhat reactionary young man-the kind of character that seemed to have stepped out of the Middle Ages by some regrettable mistake. His infatuation for the extremely modern Jane Wilkinson was one of those anachronistic jokes that Nature so loves to play.
♥ "No, no, do not blame yourself. How could you have suspected? The good God has not given you a suspicious nature to begin with."
"You would have suspected?"
"That is different. All my life, you see, I have tracked down murderers. I know how, each time, the impulse to kill becomes stronger, till, at last, for a trivial cause-"
♥ "But I don't suppose you came here to talk about people being practical or impractical. What can I do for you, M. Poirot?"
I do not think Poirot quite liked to be recalled to the point in this fashion. He was somewhat addicted to the oblique approach.
♥ "At the same time I would go about talking of killing my husband, because I've always noticed that if you speak the truth in a rather silly way nobody believes you. I've often done it over contracts. And it's also a good thing to seem stupider than you are."
♥ "I just felt it was no good. You can't fight against luck. It was bad luck, wasn't it? I wonder if you are ever sorry for what you did. After all, I only wanted to be happy in my own way. And if it hadn't been for me you would never have had anything to do with the case. I never thought you'd be so horribly clever. You didn't look clever."