I said: 'Not at all.' In effect, it was quite immaterial. As I have said, I, too, take the sleeping tablets. The only thing is that since I have been taking them every night for a considerable period, I have acquired a certain tolerance, and a dose that would send M. Norton to sleep would have very little effect upon me. The dose was in the chocolate itself. We both had the same. His portion took effect in due course, mine had little effect upon me, especially when counteracted with a dose of my strychnine tonic.
And so to the last chapter. When Norton was asleep, I got him into my wheelchair – fairly easy, it has many types of mechanism – and wheeled him back in it to its usual place in the window embrasure behind the curtains.
Curtiss then 'put me to bed.' When everything was quiet, I wheeled Norton to his room. It remained, then, to avail myself of the eyes and ears of my excellent friend Hastings.
You may not have realized it, but I wear a wig, Hastings. You will realize even less that I wear a false moustache. (Even Georges does not know that!) I pretended to burn it by accident soon after Curtiss came, and at once had my hairdresser make me a replica.
I put on Norton's dressing gown, ruffled up my grey hair on end, and came down the passage and rapped on your door. Presently you came and looked with sleepy eyes into the passage. You saw Norton leave the bathroom and limp across the passage into his own room. You heard him turn the key in the lock on the inside.
I then replaced the dressing gown on Norton, laid him on his bed, and shot him with a small pistol that I acquired abroad and which I have kept carefully locked up except for two occasions when (nobody being about) I have put it ostentatiously on Norton's dressing table, he himself being well away somewhere those mornings.
Then I left the room after putting the key in Norton's pocket. I myself locked the door from the outside with the duplicate key which I have possessed for some time. I wheeled the chair back to my room.
Since then I have been writing this explanation.
I am very tired – and the exertions I have been through have strained me a good deal. It will not, I think, be long before…
There are one or two things I would like to stress.
Norton's were the perfect crimes.
Mine was not. It was not intended to be.
The easiest way and the best way for me to have killed him was to have done so quite openly – to have had, shall we say, an accident with my little pistol. I should have professed dismay, regret – a most unfortunate accident. They would have said: 'Old ga-ga didn't realize it was loaded – ce pauvre vieux.'
I did not choose to do that.
I will tell you why.
It is because, Hastings, I chose to be 'sporting.'
Mais oui, sporting! I am doing all the things that so often you have reproached me with not doing. I am playing fair with you. I am giving you a run for your money. I am playing the game. You have every chance to discover the truth.
In case you disbelieve me, let me enumerate all the clues.
The keys.
You know, for I have told you so, that Norton arrived here after I did. You know, for you have been told, that I changed my room after I got here. You know, for again it has been told to you, that since I have been at Styles, the key of my room disappeared and I had another made.
Therefore when you ask yourself: Who could have killed Norton? Who could have shot and still have left the room (apparently) locked on the inside since the key is in Norton's pocket? The answer is: 'Hercule Poirot, who since he has been here has possessed duplicate keys of one of the rooms.'
The man you saw in the passage.
I myself asked you if you were sure the man you saw in the passage was Norton. You were startled. You asked me if I intended to suggest it was not Norton. 'I replied, truthfully, that I did not at all intend to suggest it was not Norton. (Naturally, since I had taken a good deal of trouble to suggest it was Norton.) I then brought up the question of height. All the men, I said, were much taller than Norton. But there was a man who was shorter than Norton – Hercule Poirot. And it is comparatively easy with raised heels or elevators in the shoes to add to one's height.
You were under the impression that I was a helpless invalid. But why? Only because I said so. And I had sent away Georges. That was my last indication to you, 'Go and talk to Georges.'
Othello and Clutie John show you that X was Norton.
Then who could have killed Norton?
Only Hercule Poirot.
And once you suspected that, everything would have fallen into place – the things I had said and done, my inexplicable reticence. Evidence from the doctors in Egypt, from my own doctor in London, that I was not incapable of walking about. The evidence of Georges as to my wearing a wig. The fact which I was unable to disguise, and which you ought to have noticed, that I limp much more than Norton does.
And last of all, the pistol shot. My one weakness. I should, I am aware, have shot him through the temple. I could not bring myself to produce an effect so lopsided, so haphazard. No, I shot him symmetrically, in the exact centre of the forehead…
Oh, Hastings, Hastings! That should have told you the truth.
But perhaps, after all, you have suspected the truth? Perhaps when you read this, you already know.
But somehow I do not think so…
No, you are too trusting…
You have too beautiful a nature…
What shall I say more to you? Both Franklin and Judith, I think you will find, knew the truth although they will not have told it to you. They will be happy together, those two. They will be poor, and innumerable tropical insects will bite them and strange fevers will attack them – but we all have our own ideas of the perfect life, have we not?
And you, my poor lonely Hastings? Ah, my heart bleeds for you, dear friend. Will you, for the last time, take the advice of your old Poirot?
After you have read this, take a train or a car or a series of buses and go to find Elizabeth Cole, who is also Elizabeth Litchfield. Let her read this, or tell her what is in it. Tell her that you, too, might have done what her sister Margaret did – only for Margaret Litchfield there was no watchful Poirot at hand. Take the nightmare away from her, show her that her father was killed, not by his daughter, but by that kind sympathetic family friend, that 'honest Iago,' Stephen Norton.
For it is not right, my friend, that a woman like that, still young, still attractive, should refuse life because she believes herself to be tainted. No, it is not right. Tell her so, you, my friend, who are yourself still not unattractive to women…
Eh bien, I have no more now to say. I do not know, Hastings, if what I have done is justified or not justified. No – I do not know. I do not believe that a man should take the law into his own hands…
But on the other hand, I am the law! As a young man in the Belgian police force I shot down a desperate criminal who sat on a roof and fired at people below. In a state of emergency martial law is proclaimed.
By taking Norton's life, I have saved other lives – innocent lives. But still I do not know… It is perhaps right that I should not know. I have always been so sure – too sure…
But now I am very humble and I say like a little child: 'I do not know…'
Good-bye, cher ami. I have moved the amyl nitrite ampoules away from beside my bed. I prefer to leave myself in the hands of the bon Dieu. May his punishment, or his mercy, be swift!
We shall not hunt together again, my friend.
Our first hunt was here – and our last…
They were good days.
Yes, they have been good days…
End of Hercule Poirot's manuscript.
(Final note by Captain Arthur Hastings:
