Hercule Poirot's Christmas: A Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot 20)

Harry threw up his head. He drew his finger along the line of his jaw. It was a gesture that was habitual with him. It expressed belligerence.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I have come’—he paused to bring out the word with greater significance—‘home…’

II

‘I’ve been, I suppose, a very wicked man,’ said Simeon Lee.

He was leaning back in his chair. His chin was raised and with one finger he was stroking his jaw reflectively. In front of him a big fire glowed and danced. Beside it sat Pilar,

a little screen of papier-mâché held in her hand. With it she shielded her face from the blaze. Occasionally she fanned herself with it, using her wrist in a supple gesture. Simeon looked at her with satisfaction.

He went on talking, perhaps more to himself than to the girl, and stimulated by the fact of her presence.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve been a wicked man. What do you say to that, Pilar?’

Pilar shrugged her shoulders. She said:

‘All men are wicked. The nuns say so. That is why one has to pray for them.’

‘Ah, but I’ve been more wicked than most.’ Simeon laughed. ‘I don’t regret it, you know. No, I don’t regret anything. I’ve enjoyed myself…every minute! They say you repent when you get old. That’s bunkum. I don’t repent. And as I tell you, I’ve done most things…all the good old sins! I’ve cheated and stolen and lied…lord, yes! And women—always women! Someone told me the other day of an Arab chief who had a bodyguard of forty of his sons—all roughly the same age! Aha! Forty! I don’t know about forty, but I bet I could produce a very fair bodyguard if I went about looking for the brats! Hey, Pilar, what do you think of that? Shocked?’

Pilar stared.

‘No, why should I be shocked? Men always desire women. My father, too. That is why wives are so often unhappy and why they go to church and pray.’

Old Simeon was frowning.

‘I made Adelaide unhappy,’ he said. He spoke almost under his breath, to himself. ‘Lord, what a woman! Pink and white and pretty as they make ’em when I married her! And afterwards? Always wailing and weeping. It rouses the devil in a man when his wife is always crying…She’d no guts, that’s what was the matter with Adelaide. If she’d stood up to me! But she never did—not once. I believed when I married her that I was going to be able to settle down, raise a family—cut loose from the old life…’

His voice died away. He stared—stared into the glowing heart of the fire.

‘Raise a family…God, what a family!’ He gave a sudden shrill pipe of angry laughter. ‘Look at ’em—look at ’em! Not a child among them—to carry on! What’s the matter with them? Haven’t they got any of my blood in their veins? Not a son among ’em, legitimate or illegitimate. Alfred, for instance—heavens above, how bored I get with Alfred! Looking at me with his dog’s eyes. Ready to do anything I ask. Lord, what a fool! His wife, now—Lydia—I like Lydia. She’s got spirit. She doesn’t like me, though. No, she doesn’t like me. But she has to put up with me for that nincompoop Alfred’s sake.’ He looked over at the girl by the fire. ‘Pilar—remember—nothing is so boring as devotion.’

She smiled at him. He went on, warmed by the presence of her youth and strong femininity.

‘George? What’s George? A stick! A stuffed codfish! a pompous windbag with no brains and no guts—and mean about money as well! David? David always was a fool—a fool and a dreamer. His mother’s boy, that was always David. Only sensible thing he ever did was to marry that solid comfortable-looking woman.’ He brought down his hand with a bang on the edge of his chair. ‘Harry’s the best of ’em! Poor old Harry, the wrong ’un! But at any rate he’s alive!’

Pilar agreed.

‘Yes, he is nice. He laughs—laughs out loud—and throws his head back. Oh, yes, I like him very much.’

The old man looked at her.

‘You do, do you, Pilar? Harry always had a way with the girls. Takes after me there.’ He began to laugh, a slow wheezy chuckle. ‘I’ve had a good life—a very good life. Plenty of everything.’

Pilar said:

‘In Spain we have a proverb. It is like this:

‘Take what you like and pay for it, says God.’

Simeon beat an appreciative hand on the arm of his chair.

‘That’s good. That’s the stuff. Take what you like…I’ve done that—all my life—taken what I wanted…’

Pilar said, her voice high and clear, and suddenly arresting:

‘And you have paid for it?’