Hercule Poirot’s Christmas. Агата Кристи

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      ‘The prodigal son, eh? You’re right. The fatted calf! We must kill the fatted calf, Alfred. We must give him a grand welcome.’

      Alfred said:

      ‘He treated you—all of us—disgracefully. He—’

      ‘No need to recite his crimes! It’s a long list. But Christmas, you’ll remember, is the season of forgiveness! We’ll welcome the prodigal home.’

      Alfred rose. He murmured:

      ‘This has been—rather a shock. I never dreamt that Harry would ever come inside these walls again.’

      Simeon leaned forward.

      ‘You never liked Harry, did you?’ he said softly.

      ‘After the way he behaved to you—’

      Simeon cackled. He said:

      ‘Ah, but bygones must be bygones. That’s the spirit for Christmas, isn’t it, Lydia?’

      Lydia, too, had gone pale. She said dryly:

      ‘I see that you have thought a good deal about Christmas this year.’

      ‘I want my family round me. Peace and goodwill. I’m an old man. Are you going, my dear?’

      Alfred had hurried out. Lydia paused a moment before following him.

      Simeon nodded his head after the retreating figure.

      ‘It’s upset him. He and Harry never got on. Harry used to jeer at Alfred. Called him old Slow and Sure.’

      Lydia’s lips parted. She was about to speak, then, as she saw the old man’s eager expression, she checked herself. Her self-control, she saw, disappointed him. The perception of that fact enabled her to say:

      ‘The hare and the tortoise. Ah, well, the tortoise wins the race.’

      ‘Not always,’ said Simeon. ‘Not always, my dear Lydia.’

      She said, still smiling:

      ‘Excuse me, I must go after Alfred. Sudden excitements always upset him.’

      Simeon cackled.

      ‘Yes, Alfred doesn’t like changes. He always was a regular sobersides.’

      Lydia said:

      ‘Alfred is very devoted to you.’

      ‘That seems odd to you, doesn’t it?’

      ‘Sometimes,’ said Lydia, ‘it does.’

      She left the room. Simeon looked after her.

      He chuckled softly and rubbed his palms together. ‘Lots of fun,’ he said. ‘Lots of fun still. I’m going to enjoy this Christmas.’

      With an effort he pulled himself upright, and with the help of his stick, shuffled across the room.

      He went to a big safe that stood at the corner of the room. He twirled the handle of the combination. The door came open and, with shaking fingers, he felt inside.

      He lifted out a small wash-leather bag, and opening it, let a stream of uncut diamonds pass through his fingers.

      ‘Well, my beauties, well…Still the same—still my old friends. Those were good days—good days…They shan’t carve you and cut you about, my friends. You shan’t hang round the necks of women or sit on their fingers or hang on their ears. You’re mine! My old friends! We know a thing or two, you and I. I’m old, they say, and ill, but I’m not done for! Lots of life in the old dog yet. And there’s still some fun to be got out of life. Still some fun—’

Part 2

       December 23rd

      Tressilian went to answer the doorbell. It had been an unusually aggressive peal, and now, before he could make his slow way across the hall, it pealed out again.

      Tressilian flushed. An ill-mannered, impatient way of ringing the bell at a gentleman’s house! If it was a fresh lot of those carol singers he’d give them a piece of his mind.

      Through the frosted glass of the upper half of the door he saw a silhouette—a big man in a slouch hat. He opened the door. As he had thought—a cheap, flashy stranger—nasty pattern of suit he was wearing—loud! Some impudent begging fellow!

      ‘Blessed if it isn’t Tressilian,’ said the stranger. ‘How are you, Tressilian?’

      Tressilian stared—took a deep breath—stared again. That bold arrogant jaw, the high-bridged nose, the rollicking eye. Yes, they had all been there three years ago. More subdued then…

      He said with a gasp:

      ‘Mr Harry!’

      Harry Lee laughed.

      ‘Looks as though I’d given you quite a shock. Why? I’m expected, aren’t I?’

      ‘Yes, indeed, sir. Certainly, sir.’

      ‘Then why the surprise act?’ Harry stepped back a foot or two and looked up at the house—a good solid mass of red brick, unimaginative but solid.

      ‘Just the same ugly old mansion,’ he remarked. ‘Still standing, though, that’s the main thing. How’s my father, Tressilian?’

      ‘He’s somewhat of an invalid, sir. Keeps his room, and can’t get about much. But he’s wonderfully well, considering.’

      ‘The old sinner!’

      Harry Lee came inside, let Tressilian remove his scarf and take the somewhat theatrical hat.

      ‘How’s my dear brother Alfred, Tressilian?’

      ‘He’s very well, sir.’

      Harry grinned.

      ‘Looking forward to seeing me? Eh?’

      ‘I expect so, sir.’

      ‘I don’t! Quite the contrary. I bet it’s given him a nasty jolt, my turning up! Alfred and I never did get on. Ever read your Bible, Tressilian?’

      ‘Why, yes, sir, sometimes, sir.’

      ‘Remember the tale of the prodigal’s return? The good brother didn’t like it, remember? Didn’t like it at all! Good old stay-at-home Alfred doesn’t like it either, I bet.’

      Tressilian remained silent looking down his nose. His stiffened back expressed СКАЧАТЬ