Contents
Foreword: Who Is Hercule Poirot?
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3
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5
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7
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9
10
11
12
13
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The Affair at the Victory Ball
The Jewel Robbery at the Grand Metropolitan
The King of Clubs
The Disappearance of Mr. Davenheim
The Plymouth Express
The Adventure of “The Western Star”
The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor
The Kidnapped Prime Minister
The Million Dollar Bond Robbery
The Adventure of the Cheap Flat
The Mystery of Hunter’s Lodge
The Chocolate Box
The Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb
The Veiled Lady
The Adventure of Johnnie Waverly
The Market Basing Mystery
The Adventure of the Italian Nobleman
The Case of the Missing Will
The Incredible Theft
The Adventure of the Clapham Cook
The Lost Mine
The Cornish Mystery
The Double Clue
The Theft of the Royal Ruby
The Lemesurier Inheritance
The Under Dog
Double Sin
Wasps’ Nest
The Third Floor Flat
The Mystery of the Baghdad Chest
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32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
Dead Man’s Mirror
How Does Your Garden Grow?
Problem at Sea
Triangle at Rhodes
Murder in the Mews
Yellow Iris
The Dream
The Labors of Hercules
The Nemean Lion
The Lernean Hydra
The Arcadian Deer
The Erymanthian Boar
The Augean Stables
The Stymphalean Birds
The Cretan Bull
The Horses of Diomedes
The Girdle of Hyppolita
The Flock of Geryon
The Apples of the Hesperides
The Capture of Cerberus
Four and Twenty Blackbirds
About the Author
The Agatha Christie Collection
Credits
Related Products
Copyright
About the Publisher
Foreword: Who Is Hercule Poirot?
He was born in Agatha Christie’s fertile brain—a refugee from the German
invasion of Belgium that brought Britain into World War I, the Great War of
1914–18. Those who could flee the German onslaught did, and as a ranking
policeman in the city of Brussels, Poirot might well have been taken up and
put in prison.
Not the sort of thing Poirot would relish. No scope for ze leetle gray cells
there. And faced with the need to occupy himself, if not to earn a living while
his country was in German hands, Poirot fell back on what he did best:
solving crimes.
Later he shared lodgings with an ex-officer of that war, Captain Hastings,
who became in a sense his Watson, the man who carried the revolver in
emergencies and who was the sounding board for theories. Hastings often had
theories of his own, but just as often they were red herrings.
Poirot’s first case was The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Christie made him
a ludicrous figure, with his short, portly figure and egg-shaped head, his little
mannerisms, and the immaculate clothes of a bygone era. But she gave him as
incisive a brain as Sherlock Holmes, a man whose mind could cut through the
tangle of lies and secrets—and unerringly point to the murderer.
David Suchet portrayed Poirot to perfection in the PBS series, and even
Christie’s grandson, Mathew Pritchard, wished that she had lived to see his
portrayal. Peter Ustinov had taken the role in Death on the Nile, even dancing
a very fine tango with one of the characters. Albert Finney had portrayed
Poirot in a darker interpretation in Murder on the Orient Express. But it’s
Suchet who captured not only the outward appearance of the man but the
inner strength and intuitive intelligence that has given Poirot so many years of
life and led new generations of readers to discover him on the printed page.
Poirot appeared in novels and in a long list of short stories. And it is here
in the short stories that the Christie fan and the Poirot aficionado alike find
him at his best. Christie reserved some of her most intriguing plots for Poirot,
devising new ways of looking at how and why crimes were committed.
Indeed, she gave the mystery genre some of its finest plot twists. You need
only look at John Curran’s Agatha Christie’s Secret Notebooks or Agatha
Christie: Murder in the Making to see how brilliantly Christie’s mind worked
while creating a story. It’s a revelation to watch her fuse characters and plots
as she keeps the reader guessing.
But that’s another tale. Here before us now is a feast of Poirot, of the short
stories that made him famous throughout the world for almost a hundred
years.
If you haven’t discovered this pompous little man with the marvelously
razor-sharp mind, here’s your chance—an omnibus to savor, to dip into when
you want something fun to read that keeps you on your toes spotting clues, to
put on your shelf as a collector’s item, to carry in your bag for the next flight
or the long commute or sitting in a doctor’s office, or to use as a companion
over lunch on a rainy afternoon or at bedtime when you want to put aside the
cares of the day. Poirot is all this and more. He’s the epitome of creativity;
he’s the legacy of an extraordinary woman writer who can stand shoulder to
shoulder with Conan Doyle and give the mystery genre a character as famous
and long-lasting as Holmes.
Even her titles are evocative, often a play on familiar nursery rhymes. Just
skim the contents to see the variety. And yet each one is chosen with malice
aforethought. Chistie does nothing by chance.
But the mystery here, aside from the wonderful stories, is Hercule Poirot
himself. Christie leads us on a merry chase, giving us more about his
appearance than his biography. Clues abound, but you must watch for them
and eliminate the red herrings Poirot himself deliberately plants about his
past.
What cases had he already solved by the time he reached England? How
old was he? Why did he choose to live in a certain place? Why was he well
known to the Belgian royal family? Why had he never married? What was the
connection to Captain Hastings? And what was Hastings’s first name? There
was a statue of Poirot in a Belgian town—but was this his birthplace? And
look at his clothing—where did he find the money to live so well, this refugee
from war? Poirot himself is an enigma. Here’s your chance to get to know
him as a person as well as a character. Like Christie herself, Poirot keeps
secrets.
A brilliant woman who wrote mysteries, a brilliant detective who solves
them—a collection of his life and works as well as hers. A gift for friends, a
treasure for yourself, Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories is not to be
missed.
—Charles Todd
One
THE AFFAIR AT THE VICTORY BALL
“The Affair at the Victory Ball” was first published in The Sketch, March 7, 1923.
I
Pure chance led my friend Hercule Poirot, formerly chief of the Belgian
force, to be connected with the Styles Case. His success brought him
notoriety, and he decided to devote himself to the solving of problems in
crime. Having been wounded on the Somme and invalided out of the Army, I
finally took up my quarters with him in London. Since I have a firsthand
knowledge of most of his cases, it has been suggested to me that I select some
of the most interesting and place them on record. In doing so, I feel that I
cannot do better than begin with that strange tangle which aroused such
widespread public interest at the time. I refer to the affair at the Victory Ball.
Although perhaps it is not so fully demonstrative of Poirot’s peculiar
methods as some of the more obscure cases, its sensational features, the wellknown people involved, and the tremendous publicity given it by the press,
make it stand out as a cause célèbre and I have long felt that it is only fitting
that Poirot’s connection with the solution should be given to the world.
It was a fine morning in spring, and we were sitting in Poirot’s rooms. My
little friend, neat and dapper as ever, his egg-shaped head tilted on one side,
was delicately applying a new pomade to his moustache. A certain harmless
vanity was a characteristic of Poirot’s and fell into line with his general love
of order and method. The Daily Newsmonger, which I had been reading, had
slipped to the floor, and I was deep in a brown study when Poirot’s voice
recalled me.
“Of what are you thinking so deeply, mon ami?”
“To tell you the truth,” I replied, “I was puzzling over this unaccountable
affair at the Victory Ball. The papers are full of it.” I tapped the sheet with my
finger as I spoke.
“Yes?”
“The more one reads of it, the more shrouded in mystery the whole thing
becomes!” I warmed to my subject. “Who killed Lord Cronshaw? Was Coco
Courtenay’s death on the same night a mere coincidence? Was it an accident?
Or did she deliberately take an overdose of cocaine?” I stopped, and then
added dramatically: “These are the questions I ask myself.”
Poirot, somewhat to my annoyance, did not play up. He was peering into
the glass, and merely murmured: “Decidedly, this new pomade, it is a marvel
for the moustaches!” Catching my eye, however, he added hastily: “Quite so
—and how do you reply to your questions?”
But before I could answer, the door opened, and our landlady announced
Inspector Japp.
The Scotland Yard man was an old friend of ours and we greeted him
warmly.
“Ah, my good Japp,” cried Poirot, “and what brings you to see us?”
“Well, Monsieur Poirot,” said Japp, seating himself and nodding to me,
“I’m on a case that strikes me as being very much in your line, and I came
along to know whether you’d care to have a finger in the pie?”
Poirot had a good opinion of Japp’s abilities, though deploring his
lamentable lack of method, but I, for my part, considered that the detective’s
highest talent lay in the gentle art of seeking favours under the guise of
conferring them!
“It’s the Victory Ball,” said Japp persuasively. “Come, now, you’d like to
have a hand in that.”
Poirot smiled at me.
“My friend Hastings would, at all events. He was just holding forth on the
subject, n’est-ce pas, mon ami?”
“Well, sir,” said Japp condescendingly, “you shall be in it too. I can tell
you, it’s something of a feather in your cap to have inside knowledge of a
case like this. Well, here’s to business. You know the main facts of the case, I
suppose, Monsieur Poirot?”
“From the papers only—and the imagination of the journalist is
sometimes misleading. Recount the whole story to me.”
Japp crossed his legs comfortably and began.
“As all the world and his wife knows, on Tuesday last a grand Victory
Ball was held. Every twopenny-halfpenny hop calls itself that nowadays, but
this was the real thing, held at the Colossus Hall, and all London at it—
including your Lord Cronshaw and his party.”
“His dossier?” interrupted Poirot. “I should say his bioscope—no, how do
you call it—biograph?”
“Viscount Cronshaw was fifth viscount, twenty-five years of age, rich,
unmarried, and very fond of the theatrical world. There were rumours of his
being engaged to Miss Courtenay of the Albany Theatre, who was known to
her friends as ‘Coco’ and who was, by all accounts, a very fascinating young
lady.”
“Good. Continuez!”
“Lord Cronshaw’s party consisted of six people: he himself, his uncle, the
Honourable Eustace Beltane, a pretty American widow, Mrs. Mallaby, a
young actor, Chris Davidson, his wife, and last but not least, Miss Coco
Courtenay. It was a fancy dress ball, as you know, and the Cronshaw party
represented the old Italian Comedy—whatever that may be.”
“The Commedia dell’ Arte,” murmured Poirot. “I know.”
“Anyway, the costumes were copied from a set of china figures forming
part of Eustace Beltane’s collection. Lord Cronshaw was Harlequin; Beltane
was Punchinello; Mrs. Mallaby matched him as Pulcinella; the Davidsons
were Pierrot and Pierette; and Miss Courtenay, of course, was Columbine.
Now, quite early in the evening it was apparent that there was something
wrong. Lord Cronshaw was moody and strange in his manner. When the party
met together for supper in a small private room engaged by the host, everyone
noticed that he and Miss Courtenay were no longer on speaking terms. She
had obviously been crying, and seemed on the verge of hysterics. The meal
was an uncomfortable one, and as they all left the supper room, she turned to
Chris Davidson and requested him audibly to take her home, as she was ‘sick
of the ball.’ The young actor hesitated, glancing at Lord Cronshaw, and finally
drew them both back to the supper room.
“But all his efforts to secure a reconciliation were unavailing, and he
accordingly got a taxi and escorted the now weeping Miss Courtenay back to
her flat. Although obviously very much upset, she did not confide in him,
merely reiterating again and again that she would ‘make old Cronch sorry for
this!’ That is the only hint we have that her death might not have been
accidental, and it’s precious little to go upon. By the time Davidson had
quieted her down somewhat, it was too late to return to the Colossus Hall, and
Davidson accordingly went straight home to his flat in Chelsea, where his
wife arrived shortly afterwards, bearing the news of the terrible tragedy that
had occurred after his departure.
“Lord Cronshaw, it seems, became more and more moody as the ball went
on. He kept away from his party, and they hardly saw him during the rest of
the evening. It was about one-thirty a.m., just before the grand cotillion when
everyone was to unmask, that Captain Digby, a brother officer who knew his
disguise, noticed him standing in a box gazing down on the scene.
“ ‘Hullo, Cronch!’ he called. ‘Come down and be sociable! What are you
moping about up there for like a boiled owl? Come along; there’s a good old
rag coming on now.’
“ ‘Right!’ responded Cronshaw. ‘Wait for me, or I’ll never find you in the
crowd.’
“He turned and left the box as he spoke. Captain Digby, who had Mrs.
Davidson with him, waited. The minutes passed, but Lord Cronshaw did not
appear. Finally Digby grew impatient.
“ ‘Does the fellow think we’re going to wait all night for him?’ he
exclaimed.
“At that moment Mrs. Mallaby joined them, and they explained the
situation.
“ ‘Say, now,’ cried the pretty widow vivaciously, ‘he’s like a bear with a
sore head tonight. Let’s go right away and rout him out.’
“The search commenced, but met with no success until it occurred to Mrs.
Mallaby that he might possibly be found in the room where they had supped
an hour earlier. They made their way there. What a sight met their eyes! There
was Harlequin, sure enough, but stretched on the ground with a table-knife in
his heart!”
Japp stopped, and Poirot nodded, and said with the relish of the specialist:
“Une belle affaire! And there was no clue as to the perpetrator of the deed?
But how should there be!”
“Well,” continued the inspector, “you know the rest. The tragedy was a
double one. Next day there were headlines in all the papers, and a brief
statement to the effect that Miss Courtenay, the popular actress, had been
discovered dead in her bed, and that her death was due to an overdose of
cocaine. Now, was it accident or suicide? Her maid, who was called upon to
give evidence, admitted that Miss Courtenay was a confirmed taker of the
drug, and a verdict of accidental death was returned. Nevertheless we can’t
leave the possibility of suicide out of account. Her death is particularly
unfortunate, since it leaves us no clue now to the cause of the quarrel the
preceding night. By the way, a small enamel box was found on the dead man.
It had Coco written across it in diamonds, and was half full of cocaine. It was
identified by Miss Courtenay’s maid as belonging to her mistress, who nearly
always carried it about with her, since it contained her supply of the drug to
which she was fast becoming a slave.”
“Was Lord Cronshaw himself addicted to the drug?”
“Very far from it. He held unusually strong views on the subject of dope.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
“But since the box was in his possession, he knew that Miss Courtenay
took it. Suggestive, that, is it not, my good Japp?”
“Ah!” said Japp rather vaguely.
I smiled.
“Well,” said Japp, “that’s the case. What do you think of it?”
“You found no clue of any kind that has not been reported?”
“Yes, there was this.” Japp took a small object from his pocket and
handed it over to Poirot. It was a small pompon of emerald green silk, with
some ragged threads hanging from it, as though it had been wrenched
violently away.
“We found it in the dead man’s hand, which was tightly clenched over it,”
explained the inspector.
Poirot handed it back without any comment and asked: “Had Lord
Cronshaw any enemies?”
“None that anyone knows of. He seemed a popular young fellow.”
“Who benefits by his death?”
“His uncle, the Honourable Eustace Beltane, comes into the title and
estates. There are one or two suspicious facts against him. Several people
declare that they heard a violent altercation going on in the little supper room,
and that Eustace Beltane was one of the disputants. You see, the table-knife
being snatched up off the table would fit in with the murder being done in the
heat of a quarrel.”
“What does Mr. Beltane say about the matter?”
“Declares one of the waiters was the worse for liquor, and that he was
giving him a dressing down. Also that it was nearer to one than half past. You
see, Captain Digby’s evidence fixes the time pretty accurately. Only about ten
minutes elapsed between his speaking to Cronshaw and the finding of the
body.”
“And in any case I suppose Mr. Beltane, as Punchinello, was wearing a
hump and a ruffle?”
“I don’t know the exact details of the costumes,” said Japp, looking
curiously at Poirot. “And anyway, I don’t quite see what that has got to do
with it?”
“No?” There was a hint of mockery in Poirot’s smile. He continued
quietly, his eyes shining with the green light I had learned to recognize so
well: “There was a curtain in this little supper room, was there not?”
“Yes, but—”
“With a space behind it sufficient to conceal a man?”
“Yes—in fact, there’s a small recess, but how you knew about it—you
haven’t been to the place, have you, Monsieur Poirot?”
“No, my good Japp, I supplied the curtain from my brain. Without it, the
drama is not reasonable. And always one must be reasonable. But tell me, did
they not send for a doctor?”
“At once, of course. But there was nothing to be done. Death must have
been instantaneous.”
Poirot nodded rather impatiently.
“Yes, yes, I understand. This doctor, now, he gave evidence at the
inquest?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say nothing of any unusual symptom—was there nothing about
the appearance of the body which struck him as being abnormal?”
Japp stared hard at the little man.
“Yes, Monsieur Poirot. I don’t know what you’re getting at, but he did
mention that there was a tension and stiffness about the limbs which he was
quite at a loss to account for.”
“Aha!” said Poirot. “Aha! Mon Dieu! Japp, that gives one to think, does it
not?”
I saw that it had certainly not given Japp to think.
“If you’re thinking of poison, monsieur, who on earth would poison a man
first and then stick a knife into him?”
“In truth that would be ridiculous,” agreed Poirot placidly.
“Now is there anything you want to see, monsieur? If you’d like to
examine the room where the body was found—”
Poirot waved his hand.
“Not in the least. You have told me the only thing that interests me—Lord
Cronshaw’s views on the subject of drug taking.”
“Then there’s nothing you want to see?”
“Just one thing.”
“What is that?”
“The set of china figures from which the costumes were copied.”
Japp stared.
“Well, you’re a funny one!”
“You can manage that for me?”
“Come round to Berkeley Square now if you like. Mr. Beltane—or His
Lordship, as I should say now—won’t object.”
II
We set off at once in a taxi. The new Lord Cronshaw was not at home, but at
Japp’s request we were shown into the “china room,” where the gems of the
collection were kept. Japp looked round him rather helplessly.
“I don’t see how you’ll ever find the ones you want, monsieur.”
But Poirot had already drawn a chair in front of the mantelpiece and was
hopping up upon it like a nimble robin. Above the mirror, on a small shelf to
themselves, stood six china figures. Poirot examined them minutely, making a
few comments to us as he did so.
“Les voilà! The old Italian Comedy. Three pairs! Harlequin and
Columbine, Pierrot and Pierrette—very dainty in white and green—and
Punchinello and Pulcinella in mauve and yellow. Very elaborate, the costume
of Punchinello—ruffles and frills, a hump, a high hat. Yes, as I thought, very
elaborate.”
He replaced the figures carefully, and jumped down.
Japp looked unsatisfied, but as Poirot had clearly no intention of
explaining anything, the detective put the best face he could upon the matter.
As we were preparing to leave, the master of the house came in, and Japp
performed the necessary introductions.
The sixth Viscount Cronshaw was a man of about fifty, suave in manner,
with a handsome, dissolute face. Evidently an elderly roué, with the languid
manner of a poseur. I took an instant dislike to him. He greeted us graciously
enough, declaring he had heard great accounts of Poirot’s skill, and placing
himself at our disposal in every way.
“The police are doing all they can, I know,” Poirot said.
“But I much fear the mystery of my nephew’s death will never be cleared
up. The whole thing seems utterly mysterious.”
Poirot was watching him keenly. “Your nephew had no enemies that you
know of?”
“None whatever. I am sure of that.” He paused, and then went on: “If
there are any questions you would like to ask—”
“Only one.” Poirot’s voice was serious. “The costumes—they were
reproduced exactly from your figurines?”
“To the smallest detail.”
“Thank you, milor’. That is all I wanted to be sure of. I wish you good
day.”
“And what next?” inquired Japp as we hurried down the street. “I’ve got
to report at the Yard, you know.”
“Bien! I will not detain you. I have one other little matter to attend to, and
then—”
“Yes?”
“The case will be complete.”
“What? You don’t mean it! You know who killed Lord Cronshaw?”
“Parfaitement.”
“Who was it? Eustace Beltane?”
“Ah, mon ami, you know my little weakness! Always I have a desire to
keep the threads in my own hands up to the last minute. But have no fear. I
will reveal all when the time comes. I want no credit—the affair shall be
yours, on the condition that you permit me to play out the dénouement my
own way.”
“That’s fair enough,” said Japp. “That is, if the dénouement ever comes!
But I say, you are an oyster, aren’t you?” Poirot smiled. “Well, so long. I’m
off to the Yard.”
He strode off down the steet, and Poirot hailed a passing taxi.
“Where are we going now?” I asked in lively curiosity.
“To Chelsea to see the Davidsons.”
He gave the address to the driver.
“What do you think of the new Lord Cronshaw?” I asked.
“What says my good friend Hastings?”
“I distrust him instinctively.”
“You think he is the ‘wicked uncle’ of the storybooks, eh?”
“Don’t you?”
“Me, I think he was most amiable towards us,” said Poirot
noncommittally.
“Because he had his reasons!”
Poirot looked at me, shook his head sadly, and murmured something that
sounded like: “No method.”
III
The Davidsons lived on the third floor of a block of “mansion” flats. Mr.
Davidson was out, we were told, but Mrs. Davidson was at home. We were
ushered into a long, low room with garish Oriental hangings. The air felt close
and oppressive, and there was an overpowering fragrance of joss sticks. Mrs.
Davidson came to us almost immediately, a small, fair creature whose
fragility would have seemed pathetic and appealing had it not been for the
rather shrewd and calculating gleam in her light blue eyes.
Poirot explained our connection with the case, and she shook her head
sadly.
“Poor Cronch—and poor Coco too! We were both so fond of her, and her
death has been a terrible grief to us. What is it you want to ask me? Must I
really go over all that dreadful evening again?”
“Oh, madame, believe me, I would not harass your feelings unnecessarily.
Indeed, Inspector Japp has told me all that is needful. I only wish to see the
costume you wore at the ball that night.”
The lady looked somewhat surprised, and Poirot continued smoothly:
“You comprehend, madame, that I work on the system of my country. There
we always ‘reconstruct’ the crime. It is possible that I may have an actual
représentation, and if so, you understand, the costumes would be important.”
Mrs. Davidson still looked a bit doubtful.
“I’ve heard of reconstructing a crime, of course,” she said. “But I didn’t
know you were so particular about details. But I’ll fetch the dress now.”
She left the room and returned almost immediately with a dainty wisp of
white satin and green. Poirot took it from her and examined it, handing it back
with a bow.
“Merci, madame! I see you have had the misfortune to lose one of your
green pompons, the one on the shoulder here.”
“Yes, it got torn off at the ball. I picked it up and gave it to poor Lord
Cronshaw to keep for me.”
“That was after supper?”
“Yes.”
“Not long before the tragedy, perhaps?”
A faint look of alarm came into Mrs. Davidson’s pale eyes, and she
replied quickly: “Oh no—long before that. Quite soon after supper, in fact.”
“I see. Well, that is all. I will not derange you further. Bonjour, madame.”
“Well,” I said as we emerged from the building, “that explains the mystery
of the green pompon.”
“I wonder.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“You saw me examine the dress, Hastings?”
“Yes?”
“Eh bien, the pompon that was missing had not been wrenched off, as the
lady said. On the contrary, it had been cut off, my friend, cut off with scissors.
The threads were all quite even.”
“Dear me!” I exclaimed. “This becomes more and more involved.”
“On the contrary,” replied Poirot placidly, “it becomes more and more
simple.”
“Poirot,” I cried, “one day I shall murder you! Your habit of finding
everything perfectly simple is aggravating to the last degree!”
“But when I explain, mon ami, is it not always perfectly simple?”
“Yes; that is the annoying part of it! I feel then that I could have done it
myself.”
“And so you could, Hastings, so you could. If you would but take the
trouble of arranging your ideas! Without method—”
“Yes, yes,” I said hastily, for I knew Poirot’s eloquence when started on
his favourite theme only too well. “Tell me, what do we do next? Are you
really going to reconstruct the crime?”
“Hardly that. Shall we say that the drama is over, but that I propose to add
a—harlequinade?”
IV
The following Tuesday was fixed upon by Poirot as the day for this
mysterious performance. The preparations greatly intrigued me. A white
screen was erected at one side of the room, flanked by heavy curtains at either
side. A man with some lighting apparatus arrived next, and finally a group of
members of the theatrical profession, who disappeared into Poirot’s bedroom,
which had been rigged up as a temporary dressing room.
Shortly before eight, Japp arrived, in no very cheerful mood. I gathered
that the official detective hardly approved of Poirot’s plan.
“Bit melodramatic, like all his ideas. But there, it can do no harm, and as
he says, it might save us a good bit of trouble. He’s been very smart over the
case. I was on the same scent myself, of course—” I felt instinctively that
Japp was straining the truth here—“but there, I promised to let him play the
thing out his own way. Ah! Here is the crowd.”
His Lordship arrived first, escorting Mrs. Mallaby, whom I had not as yet
seen. She was a pretty, dark-haired woman, and appeared perceptibly nervous.
The Davidsons followed. Chris Davidson also I saw for the first time. He was
handsome enough in a rather obvious style, tall and dark, with the easy grace
of the actor.
Poirot had arranged seats for the party facing the screen. This was
illuminated by a bright light. Poirot switched out the other lights so that the
room was in darkness except for the screen. Poirot’s voice rose out of the
gloom.
“Messieurs, mesdames, a word of explanation. Six figures in turn will
pass across the screen. They are familiar to you. Pierrot and his Pierrette;
Punchinello the buffoon, and elegant Pulcinella; beautiful Columbine, lightly
dancing, Harlequin, the sprite, invisible to man!”
With these words of introduction, the show began. In turn each figure that
Poirot had mentioned bounded before the screen, stayed there a moment
poised, and then vanished. The lights went up, and a sigh of relief went round.
Everyone had been nervous, fearing they knew not what. It seemed to me that
the proceedings had gone singularly flat. If the criminal was among us, and
Poirot expected him to break down at the mere sight of a familiar figure the
device had failed signally—as it was almost bound to do. Poirot, however,
appeared not a whit discomposed. He stepped forward, beaming.
“Now, messieurs and mesdames, will you be so good as to tell me, one at
a time, what it is that we have just seen? Will you begin, milor’?”
The gentleman looked rather puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t quite
understand.”
“Just tell me what we have been seeing.”
“I—er—well, I should say we have seen six figures passing in front of a
screen and dressed to represent the personages in the old Italian Comedy, or—
er—ourselves the other night.”
“Never mind the other night, milor’,” broke in Poirot. “The first part of
your speech was what I wanted. Madame, you agree with Milor’ Cronshaw?”
He had turned as he spoke to Mrs. Mallaby.
“I—er—yes, of course.”
“You agree that you have seen six figures representing the Italian
Comedy?”
“Why, certainly.”
“Monsieur Davidson? You too?”
“Yes.”
“Madame?”
“Yes.”
“Hastings? Japp? Yes? You are all in accord?”
He looked around upon us; his face grew rather pale, and his eyes were
green as any cat’s.
“And yet—you are all wrong! Your eyes have lied to you—as they lied to
you on the night of the Victory Ball. To ‘see’ things with your eyes, as they
say, is not always to see the truth. One must see with the eyes of the mind;
one must employ the little cells of grey! Know, then, that tonight and on the
night of the Victory Ball, you saw not six figures but five! See!”
The lights went out again. A figure bounded in front of the screen—
Pierrot!
“Who is that?” demanded Poirot. “Is it Pierrot?”
“Yes,” we all cried.
“Look again!”
With a swift movement the man divested himself of his loose Pierrot garb.
There in the limelight stood glittering Harlequin! At the same moment there
was a cry and an overturned chair.
“Curse you,” snarled Davidson’s voice. “Curse you! How did you guess?”
Then came the clink of handcuffs and Japp’s calm official voice. “I arrest
you, Christopher Davidson—charge of murdering Viscount Cronshaw—
anything you say will be used in evidence against you.”
V
It was a quarter of an hour later. A recherché little supper had appeared; and
Poirot, beaming all over his face, was dispensing hospitality and answering
our eager questions.
“It was all very simple. The circumstances in which the green pompon
was found suggested at once that it had been torn from the costume of the
murderer. I dismissed Pierrette from my mind (since it takes considerable
strength to drive a table-knife home) and fixed upon Pierrot as the criminal.
But Pierrot left the ball nearly two hours before the murder was committed.
So he must either have returned to the ball later to kill Lord Cronshaw, or—eh
bien, he must have killed him before he left! Was that impossible? Who had
seen Lord Cronshaw after supper that evening? Only Mrs. Davidson, whose
statement, I suspected, was a deliberate fabrication uttered with the object of
accounting for the missing pompon, which, of course, she cut from her own
dress to replace the one missing on her husband’s costume. But then,
Harlequin, who was seen in the box at one-thirty, must have been an
impersonation. For a moment, earlier, I had considered the possibility of Mr.
Beltane being the guilty party. But with his elaborate costume, it was clearly
impossible that he could have doubled the roles of Punchinello and Harlequin.
On the other hand, to Davidson, a young man of about the same height as the
murdered man and an actor by profession, the thing was simplicity itself.
“But one thing worried me. Surely a doctor could not fail to perceive the
difference between a man who had been dead two hours and one who had
been dead ten minutes! Eh bien, the doctor did perceive it! But he was not
taken to the body and asked, ‘How long has this man been dead?’ On the
contrary, he was informed that the man had been seen alive ten minutes ago,
and so he merely commented at the inquest on the abnormal stiffening of the
limbs for which he was quite unable to account!
“All was now marching famously for my theory. Davidson had killed
Lord Cronshaw immediately after supper, when, as you remember, he was
seen to draw him back into the supper room. Then he departed with Miss
Courtenay, left her at the door of her flat (instead of going in and trying to
pacify her as he affirmed) and returned posthaste to the Colossus—but as
Harlequin, not Pierrot—a simple transformation effected by removing his
outer costume.”
VI
The uncle of the dead man leaned forward, his eyes perplexed.
“But if so, he must have come to the ball prepared to kill his victim. What
earthly motive could he have had? The motive, that’s what I can’t get.”
“Ah! There we come to the second tragedy—that of Miss Courtenay.
There was one simple point which everyone overlooked. Miss Courtenay died
of cocaine poisoning—but her supply of the drug was in the enamel box
which was found on Lord Cronshaw’s body. Where, then, did she obtain the
dose which killed her? Only one person could have supplied her with it—
Davidson. And that explains everything. It accounts for her friendship with
the Davidsons and her demand that Davidson should escort her home. Lord
Cronshaw, who was almost fanatically opposed to drug taking, discovered
that she was addicted to cocaine, and suspected that Davidson supplied her
with it. Davidson doubtless denied this, but Lord Cronshaw determined to get
the truth from Miss Courtenay at the ball. He could forgive the wretched girl,
but he would certainly have no mercy on the man who made a living by
trafficking in drugs. Exposure and ruin confronted Davidson. He went to the
ball determined that Cronshaw’s silence must be obtained at any cost.”
“Was Coco’s death an accident, then?”
“I suspect that it was an accident cleverly engineered by Davidson. She
was furiously angry with Cronshaw, first for his reproaches, and secondly for
taking her cocaine from her. Davidson supplied her with more, and probably
suggested her augmenting the dose as a defiance to ‘old Cronch!’ ”
“One other thing,” I said. “The recess and the curtain? How did you know
about them?”
“Why, mon ami, that was the most simple of all. Waiters had been in and
out of that little room, so, obviously, the body could not have been lying
where it was found on the floor. There must be some place in the room where
it could be hidden. I deduced a curtain and a recess behind it. Davidson
dragged the body there, and later, after drawing attention to himself in the
box, he dragged it out again before finally leaving the Hall. It was one of his
best moves. He is a clever fellow!”
But in Poirot’s green eyes I read unmistakably the unspoken remark: “But
not quite so clever as Hercule Poirot!”
Two
THE JEWEL ROBBERY AT THE GRAND METROPOLITAN
“The Jewel Robbery at the Grand Metropolitan” was first published as “The Curious
Disappearance of the Opalsen Pearls” in The Sketch, March 14, 1923.
Poirot,” I said, “a change of air would do you good.”
“You think so, mon ami?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Eh—eh?” said my friend, smiling. “It is all arranged, then?”
“You will come?”
“Where do you propose to take me?”
“Brighton. As a matter of fact, a friend of mine in the City put me on to a
very good thing, and—well, I have money to burn, as the saying goes. I think
a weekend at the Grand Metropolitan would do us all the good in the world.”
“Thank you, I accept most gratefully. You have the good heart to think of
an old man. And the good heart, it is in the end worth all the little grey cells.
Yes, yes, I who speak to you am in danger of forgetting that sometimes.”
I did not relish the implication. I fancy that Poirot is sometimes a little
inclined to underestimate my mental capacities. But his pleasure was so
evident that I put my slight annoyance aside.
“Then, that’s all right,” I said hastily.
Saturday evening saw us dining at the Grand Metropolitan in the midst of
a gay throng. All the world and his wife seemed to be at Brighton. The
dresses were marvellous, and the jewels—worn sometimes with more love of
display than good taste—were something magnificent.
“Hein, it is a good sight, this!” murmured Poirot. “This is the home of the
Profiteer, is it not so, Hastings?”
“Supposed to be,” I replied. “But we’ll hope they aren’t all tarred with the
Profiteering brush.”
Poirot gazed round him placidly.
“The sight of so many jewels makes me wish I had turned my brains to
crime, instead of to its detection. What a magnificent opportunity for some
thief of distinction! Regard, Hastings, that stout woman by the pillar. She is,
as you would say, plastered with gems.”
I followed his eyes.
“Why,” I exclaimed, “it’s Mrs. Opalsen.”
“You know her?”
“Slightly. Her husband is a rich stockbroker who made a fortune in the
recent oil boom.”
After dinner we ran across the Opalsens in the lounge, and I introduced
Poirot to them. We chatted for a few minutes, and ended by having our coffee
together.
Poirot said a few words in praise of some of the costlier gems displayed
on the lady’s ample bosom, and she brightened up at once.
“It’s a perfect hobby of mine, Mr. Poirot. I just love jewellery. Ed knows
my weakness, and every time things go well he brings me something new.
You are interested in precious stones?”
“I have had a good deal to do with them one time and another, madame.
My profession has brought me into contact with some of the most famous
jewels in the world.”
He went on to narrate, with discreet pseudonyms, the story of the historic
jewels of a reigning house, and Mrs. Opalsen listened with bated breath.
“There now,” she exclaimed, as he ended. “If it isn’t just like a play! You
know, I’ve got some pearls of my own that have a history attached to them. I
believe it’s supposed to be one of the finest necklaces in the world—the pearls
are so beautifully matched and so perfect in colour. I declare I really must run
up and get it!”
“Oh, madame,” protested Poirot, “you are too amiable. Pray do not
derange yourself!”
“Oh, but I’d like to show it to you.”
The buxom dame waddled across to the lift briskly enough. Her husband,
who had been talking to me, looked at Poirot inquiringly.
“Madame your wife is so amiable as to insist on showing me her pearl
necklace,” explained the latter.
“Oh, the pearls!” Opalsen smiled in a satisfied fashion. “Well, they are
worth seeing. Cost a pretty penny too! Still, the money’s there all right; I
could get what I paid for them any day—perhaps more. May have to, too, if
things go on as they are now. Money’s confoundedly tight in the City. All this
infernal EPD.” He rambled on, launching into technicalities where I could not
follow him.
He was interrupted by a small page boy who approached him and
murmured something in his ear.
“Eh—what? I’ll come at once. Not taken ill, is she? Excuse me,
gentlemen.”
He left us abruptly. Poirot leaned back and lit one of his tiny Russian
cigarettes. Then, carefully and meticulously, he arranged the empty coffee
cups in a neat row, and beamed happily on the result.
The minutes passed. The Opalsens did not return.
“Curious,” I remarked, at length. “I wonder when they will come back.”
Poirot watched the ascending spirals of smoke, and then said thoughtfully:
“They will not come back.”
“Why?”
“Because, my friend, something has happened.”
“What sort of thing? How do you know?” I asked curiously.
Poirot smiled.
“A few minutes ago the manager came hurriedly out of his office and ran
upstairs. He was much agitated. The liftboy is deep in talk with one of the
pages. The lift-bell has rung three times, but he heeds it not. Thirdly, even the
waiters are distrait; and to make a waiter distrait—” Poirot shook his head
with an air of finality. “The affair must indeed be of the first magnitude. Ah, it
is as I thought! Here come the police.”
Two men had just entered the hotel—one in uniform, the other in plain
clothes. They spoke to a page, and were immediately ushered upstairs. A few
minutes later, the same boy descended and came up to where we were sitting.
“Mr. Opalsen’s compliments, and would you step upstairs?”
Poirot sprang nimbly to his feet. One would have said that he awaited the
summons. I followed with no less alacrity.
The Opalsens’ apartments were situated on the first floor. After knocking
on the door, the page boy retired, and we answered the summons. “Come in!”
A strange scene met our eyes. The room was Mrs. Opalsen’s bedroom, and in
the centre of it, lying back in an armchair, was the lady herself, weeping
violently. She presented an extraordinary spectacle, with the tears making
great furrows in the powder with which her complexion was liberally coated.
Mr. Opalsen was striding up and down angrily. The two police officials stood
in the middle of the room, one with a notebook in hand. An hotel
chambermaid, looking frightened to death, stood by the fireplace; and on the
other side of the room a Frenchwoman, obviously Mrs. Opalsen’s maid, was
weeping and wringing her hands, with an intensity of grief that rivalled that of
her mistress.
Into this pandemonium stepped Poirot, neat and smiling. Immediately,
with an energy surprising in one of her bulk Mrs. Opalsen sprang from her
chair towards him.
“There now; Ed may say what he likes, but I believe in luck, I do. It was
fated I should meet you the way I did this evening, and I’ve a feeling that if
you can’t get my pearls back for me nobody can.”
“Calm yourself, I pray of you, madame.” Poirot patted her hand
soothingly. “Reassure yourself. All will be well. Hercule Poirot will aid you!”
Mr. Opalsen turned to the police inspector.
“There will be no objection to my—er—calling in this gentleman, I
suppose?”
“None at all, sir,” replied the man civilly, but with complete indifference.
“Perhaps now your lady’s feeling better she’ll just let us have the facts?”
Mrs. Opalsen looked helplessly at Poirot. He led her back to her chair.
“Seat yourself, madame, and recount to us the whole history without
agitating yourself.”
Thus abjured, Mrs. Opalsen dried her eyes gingerly, and began.
“I came upstairs after dinner to fetch my pearls for Mr. Poirot here to see.
The chambermaid and Célestine were both in the room as usual—”
“Excuse me, madame, but what do you mean by ‘as usual?’ ”
Mr. Opalsen explained.
“I make it a rule that no one is to come into this room unless Célestine, the
maid, is there also. The chambermaid does the room in the morning while
Célestine is present, and comes in after dinner to turn down the beds under the
same conditions; otherwise she never enters the room.”
“Well, as I was saying,” continued Mrs. Opalsen, “I came up. I went to the
drawer here”—she indicated the bottom right-hand drawer of the kneehole
dressing table—“took out my jewel case and unlocked it. It seemed quite as
usual—but the pearls were not there!”
The inspector had been busy with his notebook. When had you last seen
them?” he asked.
“They were there when I went down to dinner.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure. I was uncertain whether to wear them or not, but in the end I
decided on the emeralds, and put them back in the jewel case.”
“Who locked up the jewel case?”
“I did. I wear the key on a chain round my neck.” She held it up as she
spoke.
The inspector examined it, and shrugged his shoulders.
“The thief must have had a duplicate key. No difficult matter. The lock is
quite a simple one. What did you do after you’d locked the jewel case?”
“I put it back in the bottom drawer where I always keep it.”
“You didn’t lock the drawer?”
“No, I never do. My maid remains in the room till I come up, so there’s no
need.”
The inspector’s face grew greyer.
“Am I to understand that the jewels were there when you went down to
dinner, and that since then the maid has not left the room?”
Suddenly, as though the horror of her own situation for the first time burst
upon her, Célestine uttered a piercing shriek, and, flinging herself upon
Poirot, poured out a torrent of incoherent French.
The suggestion was infamous! That she should be suspected of robbing
Madame! The police were well known to be of a stupidity incredible! But
Monsieur, who was a Frenchman—”
“A Belgian,” interjected Poirot, but Célestine paid no attention to the
correction.
Monsieur would not stand by and see her falsely accused, while that
infamous chambermaid was allowed to go scot-free. She had never liked her
—a bold, red-faced thing—a born thief. She had said from the first that she
was not honest. And had kept a sharp watch over her too, when she was doing
Madame’s room! Let those idiots of policemen search her, and if they did not
find Madame’s pearls on her it would be very surprising!
Although this harangue was uttered in rapid and virulent French, Célestine
had interlarded it with a wealth of gesture, and the chambermaid realized at
least a part of her meaning. She reddened angrily.
“If that foreign woman’s saying I took the pearls, it’s a lie!” she declared
heatedly. “I never so much as saw them.”
“Search her!” screamed the other. “You will find it is as I say.”
“You’re a liar—do you hear?” said the chambermaid, advancing upon her.
“Stole ’em yourself, and want to put it on me. Why, I was only in the room
about three minutes before the lady came up, and then you were sitting here
the whole time, as you always do, like a cat watching a mouse.”
The inspector looked across inquiringly at Célestine. “Is that true? Didn’t
you leave the room at all?”
“I did not actually leave her alone,” admitted Célestine reluctantly, “but I
went into my own room through the door here twice—once to fetch a reel of
cotton, and once for my scissors. She must have done it then.”
“You wasn’t gone a minute,” retorted the chambermaid angrily. “Just
popped out and in again. I’d be glad if the police would search me. I’ve
nothing to be afraid of.”
At this moment there was a tap at the door. The inspector went to it. His
face brightened when he saw who it was.
“Ah!” he said. “That’s rather fortunate. I sent for one of our female
searchers, and she’s just arrived. Perhaps if you wouldn’t mind going into the
room next door.”
He looked at the chambermaid, who stepped across the threshold with a
toss of her head, the searcher following her closely.
The French girl had sunk sobbing into a chair. Poirot was looking round
the room, the main features of which I have made clear by a sketch.
“Where does that door lead?” he inquired, nodding his head towards the
one by the window.
“Into the next apartment, I believe,” said the inspector. “It’s bolted,
anyway, on this side.”
Poirot walked across to it, tried it, then drew back the bolt and tried it
again.
“And on the other side as well,” he remarked. “Well, that seems to rule
out that.”
He walked over to the windows, examining each of them in turn.
“And again—nothing. Not even a balcony outside.”
“Even if there were,” said the inspector impatiently, “I don’t see how that
would help us, if the maid never left the room.”
“Évidemment,” said Poirot, not disconcerted. “As Mademoiselle is
positive she did not leave the room—”
He was interrupted by the reappearance of the chambermaid and the
police searcher.
“Nothing,” said the latter laconically.
“I should hope not, indeed,” said the chambermaid virtuously. “And that
French hussy ought to be ashamed of herself taking away an honest girl’s
character.”
“There, there, my girl; that’s all right,” said the inspector, opening the
door. “Nobody suspects you. You go along and get on with your work.”
The chambermaid went unwillingly.
“Going to search her?” she demanded, pointing at Célestine.
“Yes, yes!” He shut the door on her and turned the key.
Célestine accompanied the searcher into the small room in her turn. A few
minutes later she also returned. Nothing had been found on her.
The inspector’s face grew graver.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come along with me all the same,
miss.” He turned to Mrs. Opalsen. “I’m sorry, madam, but all the evidence
points that way. If she’s not got them on her, they’re hidden somewhere about
the room.”
Célestine uttered a piercing shriek, and clung to Poirot’s arm. The latter
bent and whispered something in the girl’s ear. She looked up at him
doubtfully.
“Si, si, mon enfant—I assure you it is better not to resist.” Then he turned
to the inspector. “You permit, monsieur? A little experiment—purely for my
own satisfaction.”
“Depends on what it is,” replied the police officer noncommittally.
Poirot addressed Célestine once more.
“You have told us that you went into your room to fetch a reel of cotton.
Whereabouts was it?”
“On top of the chest of drawers, monsieur.”
“And the scissors?”
“They also.”
“Would it be troubling you too much, mademoiselle, to ask you to repeat
those two actions? You were sitting here with your work, you say?”
Célestine sat down, and then, at a sign from Poirot, rose, passed into the
adjoining room, took up an object from the chest of drawers, and returned.
Poirot divided his attention between her movements and a large turnip of
a watch which he held in the palm of his hand.
“Again, if you please, mademoiselle.”
At the conclusion of the second performance, he made a note in his
pocketbook, and returned the watch to his pocket.
“Thank you, mademoiselle. And you, monsieur”—he bowed to the
inspector—“for your courtesy.”
The inspector seemed somewhat entertained by this excessive politeness.
Célestine departed in a flood of tears, accompanied by the woman and the
plainclothes official.
Then, with a brief apology to Mrs. Opalsen, the inspector set to work to
ransack the room. He pulled out drawers, opened cupboards, completely
unmade the bed, and tapped the floor. Mr. Opalsen looked on sceptically.
“You really think you will find them?”
“Yes, sir. It stands to reason. She hadn’t time to take them out of the room.
The lady’s discovering the robbery so soon upset her plans. No, they’re here
right enough. One of the two must have hidden them—and it’s very unlikely
for the chambermaid to have done so.”
“More than unlikely—impossible!” said Poirot quietly.
“Eh?” The inspector stared.
Poirot smiled modestly.
“I will demonstrate. Hastings, my good friend, take my watch in your
hand—with care. It is a family heirloom! Just now I timed Mademoiselle’s
movements—her first absence from the room was of twelve seconds, her
second of fifteen. Now observe my actions. Madame will have the kindness to
give me the key of the jewel case. I thank you. My friend Hastings will have
the kindness to say ‘Go!’ ”
“Go!” I said.
With almost incredible swiftness, Poirot wrenched open the drawer of the
dressing table, extracted the jewel case, fitted the key in the lock, opened the
case, selected a piece of jewellery, shut and locked the case, and returned it to
the drawer, which he pushed to again. His movements were like lightning.
“Well, mon ami?” he demanded of me breathlessly.
“Forty-six seconds,” I replied.
“You see?” He looked round. “There would have not been time for the
chambermaid even to take the necklace out, far less hide it.”
“Then that settles it on the maid,” said the inspector with satisfaction, and
returned to his search. He passed into the maid’s bedroom next door.
Poirot was frowning thoughtfully. Suddenly he shot a question at Mr.
Opalsen.
“This necklace—it was, without doubt, insured?”
Mr. Opalsen looked a trifle surprised at the question.
“Yes,” he said hesitatingly, “that is so.”
“But what does that matter?” broke in Mrs. Opalsen tearfully. “It’s my
necklace I want. It was unique. No money could be the same.”
“I comprehend, madame,” said Poirot soothingly. “I comprehend
perfectly. To la femme sentiment is everything—is it not so? But, monsieur,
who has not the so fine susceptibility, will doubtless find some slight
consolation in the fact.”
“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Opalsen rather uncertainly. “Still—”
He was interrupted by a shout of triumph from the inspector. He came in
dangling something from his fingers.
With a cry, Mrs. Opalsen heaved herself up from her chair. She was a
changed woman.
“Oh, oh, my necklace!”
She clasped it to her breast with both hands. We crowded round.
“Where was it?” demanded Opalsen.
“Maid’s bed. In among the springs of the wire mattress. She must have
stolen it and hidden it there before the chambermaid arrived on the scene.”
“You permit, madame?” said Poirot gently. He took the necklace from her
and examined it closely; then handed it back with a bow.
“I’m afraid, madame, you’ll have to hand it over to us for the time being,”
said the inspector. “We shall want it for the charge. But it shall be returned to
you as soon as possible.”
Mr. Opalsen frowned.
“Is that necessary?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. Just a formality.”
“Oh, let him take it, Ed!” cired his wife. “I’d feel safer if he did. I
shouldn’t sleep a wink thinking someone else might try to get hold of it. That
wretched girl! And I would never have believed it of her.”
“There, there, my dear, don’t take on so.”
I felt a gentle pressure on my arm. It was Poirot.
“Shall we slip away, my friend? I think our services are no longer
needed.”
Once outside, however, he hesitated, and then, much to my surprise, he
remarked:
“I should rather like to see the room next door.”
The door was not locked, and we entered. The room, which was a large
double one, was unoccupied. Dust lay about rather noticeably, and my
sensitive friend gave a characteristic grimace as he ran his finger round a
rectangular mark on a table near the window.
“The service leaves to be desired,” he observed dryly.
He was staring thoughtfully out of the window, and seemed to have fallen
into a brown study.
“Well?” I demanded impatiently. “What did we come in here for?”
He started.
“Je vous demande pardon, mon ami. I wished to see if the door was really
bolted on this side also.”
“Well,” I said, glancing at the door which communicated with the room
we had just left, “it is bolted.”
Poirot nodded. He still seemed to be thinking.
“And anyway,” I continued, “what does it matter? The case is over. I wish
you’d had more chance of distinguishing yourself. But it was the kind of case
that even a stiff-backed idiot like that inspector couldn’t go wrong over.”
Poirot shook his head.
“The case is not over, my friend. It will not be over until we find out who
stole the pearls.”
“But the maid did!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Why,” I stammered, “they were found—actually in her mattress.”
“Ta, ta, ta!” said Poirot impatiently. “Those were not the pearls.”
“What?”
“Imitation, mon ami.”
The statement took my breath away. Poirot was smiling placidly.
“The good inspector obviously knows nothing of jewels. But presently
there will be a fine hullabaloo!”
“Come!” I cried, dragging at his arm.
“Where?”
“We must tell the Opalsens at once.”
“I think not.”
“But that poor woman—”
“Eh bien; that poor woman, as you call her, will have a much better night
believing the jewels to be safe.”
“But the thief may escape with them!”
“As usual, my friend, you speak without reflection. How do you know
that the pearls Mrs. Opalsen locked up so carefully tonight were not the false
ones, and that the real robbery did not take place at a much earlier date?”
“Oh!” I said, bewildered.
“Exactly,” said Poirot, beaming. “We start again.”
He led the way out of the room, paused a moment as though considering,
and then walked down to the end of the corridor, stopping outside the small
den where the chambermaids and valets of the respective floors congregated.
Our particular chambermaid appeared to be holding a small court there, and to
be retailing her late experiences to an appreciative audience. She stopped in
the middle of a sentence. Poirot bowed with his usual politeness.
“Excuse that I derange you, but I shall be obliged if you will unlock for
me the door of Mr. Opalsen’s room.”
The woman rose willingly, and we accompanied her down the passage
again. Mr. Opalsen’s room was on the other side of the corridor, its door
facing that of his wife’s room. The chambermaid unlocked it with her
passkey, and we entered.
As she was about to depart Poirot detained her.
“One moment; have you ever seen among the effects of Mr. Opalsen a
card like this?”
He held out a plain white card, rather highly glazed and uncommon in
appearance. The maid took it and scrutinized it carefully.
“No, sir, I can’t say I have. But, anyway, the valet has most to do with the
gentlemen’s rooms.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Poirot took back the card. The woman departed. Poirot appeared to reflect
a little. Then he gave a short, sharp nod of the head.
“Ring the bell, I pray you, Hastings. Three times for the valet.”
I obeyed, devoured with curiosity. Meanwhile Poirot had emptied the
wastepaper basket on the floor, and was swiftly going through its contents.
In a few moments the valet answered the bell. To him Poirot put the same
question, and handed him the card to examine. But the response was the
same. The valet had never seen a card of that particular quality among Mr.
Opalsen’s belongings. Poirot thanked him, and he withdrew, somewhat
unwillingly, with an inquisitive glance at the overturned wastepaper basket
and the litter on the floor. He could hardly have helped overhearing Poirot’s
thoughtful remark as he bundled the torn papers back again:
“And the necklace was heavily insured. . . .”
“Poirot,” I cried, “I see—”
“You see nothing, my friend,” he replied quickly. “As usual, nothing at
all! It is incredible—but there it is. Let us return to our own apartments.”
We did so in silence. Once there, to my intense surprise, Poirot effected a
rapid change of clothing.
“I go to London tonight,” he explained. “It is imperative.”
“What?”
“Absolutely. The real work, that of the brain (ah, those brave little grey
cells), it is done. I go to seek the confirmation. I shall find it! Impossible to
deceive Hercule Poirot!”
“You’ll come a cropper one of these days,” I observed, rather disgusted by
his vanity.
“Do not be enraged, I beg of you, mon ami. I count on you to do me a
service—of your friendship.”
“Of course,” I said eagerly, rather ashamed of my moroseness. “What is
it?”
“The sleeve of my coat that I have taken off—will you brush it? See you,
a little white powder has clung to it. You without doubt observed me run my
finger round the drawer of the dressing table?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You should observe my actions, my friend. Thus I obtained the powder
on my finger, and, being a little overexcited, I rubbed it on my sleeve; an
action without method which I deplore—false to all my principles.”
“But what was the powder?” I asked, not particularly interested in Poirot’s
principles.
“Not the poison of the Borgias,” replied Poirot with a twinkle. “I see your
imagination mounting. I should say it was French chalk.”
“French chalk?”
“Yes, cabinetmakers use it to make drawers run smoothly.”
I laughed.
“You old sinner! I thought you were working up to something exciting.”
“Au revoir, my friend. I save myself. I fly!”
The door shut behind him. With a smile, half of derision, half of affection,
I picked up the coat and stretched out my hand for the clothes brush.
II
The next morning, hearing nothing from Poirot, I went out for a stroll, met
some old friends, and lunched with them at their hotel. In the afternoon we
went for a spin. A punctured tyre delayed us, and it was past eight when I got
back to the Grand Metropolitan.
The first sight that met my eyes was Poirot, looking even more diminutive
than usual, sandwiched between the Opalsens, beaming in a state of placid
satisfaction.
“Mon ami Hastings!” he cried, and sprang to meet me. “Embrace me, my
friend; all has marched to a marvel!”
Luckily, the embrace was merely figurative—not a thing one is always
sure of with Poirot.
“Do you mean—” I began.
“Just wonderful, I call it!” said Mrs. Opalsen, smiling all over her fat face.
“Didn’t I tell you, Ed, that if he couldn’t get back my pearls nobody would?”
“You did, my dear, you did. And you were right.”
I looked helplessly at Poirot, and he answered the glance.
“My friend Hastings is, as you say in England, all at the seaside. Seat
yourself, and I will recount to you all the affair that has so happily ended.”
“Ended?”
“But yes. They are arrested.”
“Who are arrested?”
“The chambermaid and the valet, parbleu! You did not suspect? Not with
my parting hint about the French chalk?”
“You said cabinetmakers used it.”
“Certainly they do—to make drawers slide easily. Somebody wanted the
drawer to slide in and out without any noise. Who could that be? Obviously,
only the chambermaid. The plan was so ingenious that it did not at once leap
to the eye—not even to the eye of Hercule Poirot.
“Listen, this was how it was done. The valet was in the empty room next
door, waiting. The French maid leaves the room. Quick as a flash the
chambermaid whips open the drawer, takes out the jewel case and, slipping
back the bolt, passes it through the door. The valet opens it at his leisure with
the duplicate key with which he has provided himself, extracts the necklace,
and waits his time. Célestine leaves the room again, and—pst!—in a flash the
case is passed back again and replaced in the drawer.
“Madame arrives, the theft is discovered. The chambermaid demands to
be searched, with a good deal of righteous indignation, and leaves the room
without a stain on her character. The imitation necklace with which they have
provided themselves has been concealed in the French girl’s bed that morning
by the chambermaid—a master stroke, ça!”
“But what did you go to London for?”
“You remember the card?”
“Certainly. It puzzled me—and puzzles me still. I thought—”
I hesitated delicately, glancing at Mr. Opalsen.
Poirot laughed heartily.
“Une blague! For the benefit of the valet. The card was one with a
specially prepared surface—for fingerprints. I went straight to Scotland Yard,
asked for our old friend Inspector Japp, and laid the facts before him. As I had
suspected, the fingerprints proved to be those of two well-known jewel
thieves who have been ‘wanted’ for some time. Japp came down with me, the
thieves were arrested, and the necklace was discovered in the valet’s
possession. A clever pair, but they failed in method. Have I not told you,
Hastings, at least thirty-six times, that without method—”
“At least thirty-six thousand times!” I interrupted. “But where did their
‘method’ break down?”
“Mon ami, it is a good plan to take a place as chambermaid or valet—but
you must not shirk your work. They left an empty room undusted; and
therefore, when the man put down the jewel case on the little table near the
communicating door, it left a square mark—”
“I remember,” I cried.
“Before, I was undecided. Then—I knew!”
There was a moment’s silence.
“And I’ve got my pearls,” said Mrs. Opalsen as a sort of Greek chorus.
“Well,” I said, “I’d better have some dinner.”
Poirot accompanied me.
“This ought to mean kudos for you,” I observed.
“Pas du tout,” replied Poirot tranquilly. “Japp and the local inspector will
divide the credit between them. But”—he tapped his pocket—“I have a
cheque here, from Mr. Opalsen, and, how you say, my friend? This weekend
has not gone according to plan. Shall we return here next weekend—at my
expense this time?”
Three
THE KING OF CLUBS
“The King of Clubs” was first published as “The Adventures of the King of Clubs” in The
Sketch, March 21, 1923.
I
Truth,” I observed, laying aside the Daily Newsmonger, “is stranger than
fiction!”
The remark was not, perhaps, an original one. It appeared to incense my
friend. Tilting his egg-shaped head on one side, the little man carefully flicked
an imaginary fleck of dust from his carefully creased trousers, and observed:
“How profound! What a thinker is my friend Hastings!”
Without displaying any annoyance at this quite uncalled-for gibe, I tapped
the sheet I had laid aside.
“You’ve read this morning’s paper?”
“I have. And after reading it, I folded it anew symmetrically. I did not cast
it on the floor as you have done, with your so lamentable absence of order and
method.”
(That is the worst of Poirot. Order and Method are his gods. He goes so
far as to attribute all his success to them.)
“Then you saw the account of the murder of Henry Reedburn, the
impresario? It was that which prompted my remark. Not only is truth stranger
than fiction—it is more dramatic. Think of that solid middle-class English
family, the Oglanders. Father and mother, son and daughter, typical of
thousands of families all over this country. The men of the family go to the
city every day; the women look after the house. Their lives are perfectly
peaceful, and utterly monotonous. Last night they were sitting in their neat
suburban drawing room at Daisymead, Streatham, playing bridge. Suddenly,
without any warning, the French window bursts open, and a woman staggers
into the room. Her grey satin frock is marked with a crimson stain. She utters
one word, “Murder!” before she sinks to the ground insensible. It is possible
that they recognize her from her pictures as Valerie Saintclair, the famous
dancer who has lately taken London by storm!”
“Is this your eloquence, or that of the Daily Newsmonger?” inquired
Poirot.
“The Daily Newsmonger was in a hurry to go to press, and contented itself
with bare facts. But the dramatic possibilities of the story struck me at once.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. “Wherever there is human nature, there is
drama. But—it is not always just where you think it is. Remember that. Still, I
too am interested in the case, since it is likely that I shall be connected with
it.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. A gentleman rang me up this morning, and made an appointment
with me on behalf of Prince Paul of Maurania.”
“But what has that to do with it?”
“You do not read your pretty little English scandal-papers. The ones with
the funny stories, and ‘a little mouse has heard—’ or ‘a little bird would like
to know—’ See here.”
I followed his short stubby finger along the paragraph: “—whether the
foreign prince and the famous dancer are really affinities! And if the lady
likes her new diamond ring!”
“And now to resume your so dramatic narrative,” said Poirot.
“Mademoiselle Saintclair had just fainted on the drawing room carpet at
Daisymead, you remember.”
I shrugged. “As a result of Mademoiselle’s first murmured words when
she came round, the two male Oglanders stepped out, one to fetch a doctor to
attend to the lady, who was evidently suffering terribly from shock, and the
other to the police station—whence after telling his story, he accompanied the
police to Mon Désir, Mr. Reedburn’s magnificent villa, which is situated at no
great distance from Daisymead. There they found the great man, who by the
way suffers from a somewhat unsavoury reputation, lying in the library with
the back of his head cracked open like an eggshell.”
“I have cramped your style,” said Poirot kindly. “Forgive me, I pray . . .
Ah, here is M. le Prince!”
Our distinguished visitor was announced under the title of Count Feodor.
He was a strange-looking youth, tall, eager, with a weak chin, the famous
Mauranberg mouth, and the dark fiery eyes of a fanatic.
“M. Poirot?”
My friend bowed.
“Monsieur, I am in terrible trouble, greater than I can well express—”
Poirot waved his hand. “I comprehend your anxiety. Mademoiselle
Saintclair is a very dear friend, is it not so?”
The prince replied simply: “I hope to make her my wife.”
Poirot sat up in his chair, and his eyes opened.
The prince continued: “I should not be the first of my family to make a
morganatic marriage. My brother Alexander has also defied the Emperor. We
are living now in more enlightened days, free from the old caste-prejudice.
Besides, Mademoiselle Saintclair, in actual fact, is quite my equal in rank.
You have heard hints as to her history?”
“There are many romantic stories of her origin—not an uncommon thing
with famous dancers. I have heard that she is the daughter of an Irish
charwoman, also the story which makes her mother a Russian grand duchess.”
“The first story is, of course, nonsense,” said the young man. “But the
second is true. Valerie, though bound to secrecy, has let me guess as much.
Besides, she proves it unconsciously in a thousand ways. I believe in heredity,
M. Poirot.”
“I too believe in heredity,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “I have seen some
strange things in connection with it—moi qui vous parle . . . But to business,
M. le Prince. What do you want of me? What do you fear? I may speak freely,
may I not? Is there anything to connect Mademoiselle Saintclair with the
crime? She knew Reedburn of course?”
“Yes. He professed to be in love with her.”
“And she?”
“She would have nothing to say to him.”
Poirot looked at him keenly. “Had she any reason to fear him?”
The young man hesitated. “There was an incident. You know Zara, the
clairvoyant?”
“No.”
“She is wonderful. You should consult her some time. Valerie and I went
to see her last week. She read the cards for us. She spoke to Valerie of trouble
—of gathering clouds; then she turned up the last card—the covering card,
they call it. It was the king of clubs. She said to Valerie: ‘Beware. There is a
man who holds you in his power. You fear him—you are in great danger
through him. You know whom I mean?’ Valerie was white to the lips. She
nodded and said: ‘Yes, yes, I know.’ Shortly afterwards we left. Zara’s last
words to Valerie were: ‘Beware of the king of clubs. Danger threatens you!’ I
questioned Valerie. She would tell me nothing—assured me that all was well.
But now, after last night, I am more sure than ever that in the king of clubs
Valerie saw Reedburn, and that he was the man she feared.”
The Prince paused abruptly. “Now you understand my agitation when I
opened the paper this morning. Supposing Valerie, in a fit of madness—oh, it
is impossible!”
Poirot rose from his seat, and patted the young man kindly on the
shoulder. “Do not distress yourself, I beg of you. Leave it in my hands.”
“You will go to Streatham? I gather she is still there, at Daisymead—
prostrated by the shock.”
“I will go at once.”
“I have arranged matters—through the embassy. You will be allowed
access everywhere.”
“Then we will depart—Hastings, you will accompany me? Au revoir, M.
le Prince.”
II
Mon Désir was an exceptionally fine villa, thoroughly modern and
comfortable. A short carriage-drive led up to it from the road, and beautiful
gardens extended behind the house for some acres.
On mentioning Prince Paul’s name, the butler who answered the door at
once took us to the scene of the tragedy. The library was a magnificent room,
running from back to front of the whole building, with a window at either
end, one giving on the front carriage-drive, and the other on the garden. It was
in the recess of the latter that the body had lain. It had been removed not long
before, the police having concluded their examination.
“That is annoying,” I murmured to Poirot. “Who knows what clues they
may have destroyed?”
My little friend smiled. “Eh—Eh! How often must I tell you that clues
come from within? In the little grey cells of the brain lies the solution of every
mystery.”
He turned to the butler. “I suppose, except for the removal of the body, the
room has not been touched?”
“No, sir. It’s just as it was when the police came up last night.”
“These curtains, now. I see they pull right across the window recess. They
are the same in the other window. Were they drawn last night?”
“Yes, sir, I draw them every night.”
“Then Reedburn must have drawn them back himself?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“Did you know your master expected a visitor last night?”
“He did not say so, sir. But he gave orders he was not to be disturbed after
dinner. You see, sir, there is a door leading out of the library on to the terrace
at the side of the house. He could have admitted anyone that way.”
“Was he in the habit of doing that?”
The butler coughed discreetly. “I believe so, sir.”
Poirot strode to the door in question. It was unlocked. He stepped through
it on to the terrace which joined the drive on the right; on the left it led up to a
red brick wall.
“The fruit garden, sir. There is a door leading into it farther along, but it
was always locked at six o’clock.”
Poirot nodded, and reentered the library, the butler following.
“Did you hear nothing of last night’s events?”
“Well, sir, we heard voices in the library, a little before nine. But that
wasn’t unusual, especially being a lady’s voice. But of course, once we were
all in the servants’ hall, right the other side, we didn’t hear anything at all.
And then, about eleven o’clock, the police came.”
“How many voices did you hear?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. I only noticed the lady’s.”
“Ah!”
“I beg pardon, sir, but Dr. Ryan is still in the house, if you would care to
see him.”
We jumped at the suggestion, and in a few minutes the doctor, a cheery,
middle-aged man, joined us, and gave Poirot all the information he required.
Reedburn had been lying near the window, his head by the marble window
seat. There were two wounds, one between the eyes, and the other, the fatal
one, on the back of the head.
“He was lying on his back?”
“Yes. There is the mark.” He pointed to a small dark stain on the floor.
“Could not the blow on the back of the head have been caused by his
striking the floor?”
“Impossible. Whatever the weapon was, it penetrated some distance into
the skull.”
Poirot looked thoughtfully in front of him. In the embrasure of each
window was a carved marble seat, the arms being fashioned in the form of a
lion’s head. A light came into Poirot’s eyes. “Supposing he had fallen
backwards on this projecting lion’s head, and slipped from there to the
ground. Would not that cause a wound such as you describe?”
“Yes, it would. But the angle at which he was lying makes that theory
impossible. And besides there could not fail to be traces of blood on the
marble of the seat.”
“Unless they were washed away?”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “That is hardly likely. It would be to
no one’s advantage to give an accident the appearance of murder.”
“Quite so,” acquiesced Poirot. “Could either of the blows have been
struck by a woman, do you think?”
“Oh, quite out of the question, I should say. You are thinking of
Mademoiselle Saintclair, I suppose?”
“I think of no one in particular until I am sure,” said Poirot gently.
He turned his attention to the open French window, and the doctor
continued:
“It is through here that Mademoiselle Saintclair fled. You can just catch a
glimpse of Daisymead between the trees. Of course, there are many houses
nearer to the front of the house on the road, but as it happens, Daisymead,
though some distance away, is the only house visible this side.”
“Thank you for your amiability, Doctor,” said Poirot. “Come, Hastings,
we will follow the footsteps of Mademoiselle.”
III
Poirot led the way down through the garden, out through an iron gate, across
a short stretch of green and in through the garden gate of Daisymead, which
was an unpretentious little house in about half an acre of ground. There was a
small flight of steps leading up to a French window. Poirot nodded in their
direction.
“That is the way Mademoiselle Saintclair went. For us, who have not her
urgency to plead, it will be better to go round to the front door.”
A maid admitted us and took us into the drawing room, then went in
search of Mrs. Oglander. The room had evidently not been touched since the
night before. The ashes were still in the grate, and the bridge table was still in
the centre of the room, with a dummy exposed, and the hands thrown down.
The place was somewhat overloaded with gimcrack ornaments, and a good
many family portraits of surpassing ugliness adorned the walls.
Poirot gazed at them more leniently than I did, and straightened one or
two that were hanging a shade askew. “La famille, it is a strong tie, is it not?
Sentiment, it takes the place of beauty.”
I agreed, my eyes being fixed on a family group comprising a gentleman
with whiskers, a lady with a high “front” of hair, a solid, thick-set boy, and
two little girls tied up with a good many unnecessary bows of ribbon. I took
this to be the Oglander family in earlier days, and studied it with interest.
The door opened, and a young woman came in. Her dark hair was neatly
arranged, and she wore a drab-coloured sportscoat and a tweed skirt.
She looked at us inquiringly. Poirot stepped forward. “Miss Oglander? I
regret to derange you—especially after all you have been through. The whole
affair must have been most disturbing.”
“It has been rather upsetting,” admitted the young lady cautiously. I began
to think that the elements of drama were wasted on Miss Oglander, that her
lack of imagination rose superior to any tragedy. I was confirmed in this
belief as she continued: “I must apologize for the state this room is in.
Servants get so foolishly excited.”
“It was here that you were sitting last night, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes, we were playing bridge after supper, when—”
“Excuse me—how long had you been playing?”
“Well—” Miss Oglander considered. “I really can’t say. I suppose it must
have been about ten o’clock. We had had several rubbers, I know.”
“And you yourself were sitting—where?”
“Facing the window. I was playing with my mother and had gone one no
trump. Suddenly, without any warning, the window burst open, and Miss
Saintclair staggered into the room.”
“You recognized her?”
“I had a vague idea her face was familiar.”
“She is still here, is she not?”
“Yes, but she refuses to see anyone. She is still quite prostrated.”
“I think she will see me. Will you tell her that I am here at the express
request of Prince Paul of Maurania?”
I fancied that the mention of a royal prince rather shook Miss Oglander’s
imperturbable calm. But she left the room on her errand without any further
remark, and returned almost immediately to say that Mademoiselle Saintclair
would see us in her room.
We followed her upstairs, and into a fair-sized light bedroom. On a couch
by the window a woman was lying who turned her head as we entered. The
contrast between the two women struck me at once, the more so as in actual
features and colouring they were not unalike—but oh, the difference! Not a
look, not a gesture of Valerie Saintclair’s but expressed drama. She seemed to
exhale an atmosphere of romance. A scarlet flannel dressing gown covered
her feet—a homely garment in all conscience; but the charm of her
personality invested it with an exotic flavour, and it seemed an Eastern robe
of glowing colour.
Her large dark eyes fastened themselves on Poirot.
“You come from Paul?” Her voice matched her appearance—it was full
and languid.
“Yes, mademoiselle. I am here to serve him—and you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything that happened last night. But everything!”
She smiled rather wearily.
“Do you think I should lie? I am not stupid. I see well enough that there
can be no concealment. He held a secret of mine, that man who is dead. He
threatened me with it. For Paul’s sake, I endeavoured to make terms with him.
I could not risk losing Paul . . . Now that he is dead, I am safe. But for all that,
I did not kill him.”
Poirot shook his head with a smile. “It is not necessary to tell me that,
mademoiselle. Now recount to me what happened last night.”
“I offered him money. He appeared to be willing to treat with me. He
appointed last night at nine o’clock. I was to go to Mon Désir. I knew the
place; I had been there before. I was to go round to the side door into the
library, so that the servants should not see me.”
“Excuse me, mademoiselle, but were you not afraid to trust yourself alone
there at night?”
Was it my fancy, or was there a momentary pause before she answered?
“Perhaps I was. But you see, there was no one I could ask to go with me.
And I was desperate. Reedburn admitted me to the library. Oh, that man! I am
glad he is dead! He played with me, as a cat does with a mouse. He taunted
me. I begged and implored him on my knees. I offered him every jewel I
have. All in vain! Then he named his own terms. Perhaps you can guess what
they were. I refused. I told him what I thought of him. I raved at him. He
remained calmly smiling. And then, as I fell to silence at last, there was a
sound—from behind the curtain in the window . . . He heard it too. He strode
to the curtains and flung them wide apart. There was a man there, hiding—a
dreadful-looking man, a sort of tramp. He struck at Mr. Reedburn—then he
struck again, and he went down. The tramp clutched at me with his
bloodstained hand. I tore myself free, slipped through the window, and ran for
my life. Then I perceived the lights in this house, and made for them. The
blinds were up, and I saw some people playing bridge. I almost fell into the
room. I just managed to gasp out ‘Murder!’ and then everything went black
—”
“Thank you, mademoiselle. It must have been a great shock to your
nervous system. As to this tramp, could you describe him? Do you remember
what he was wearing?”
“No—it was all so quick. But I should know the man anywhere. His face
is burnt in on my brain.”
“Just one more question, mademoiselle. The curtains of the other window,
the one giving on the drive, were they drawn?”
For the first time a puzzled expression crept over the dancer’s face. She
seemed to be trying to remember.
“Eh bien, mademoiselle?”
“I think—I am almost sure—yes, quite sure! They were not drawn.”
“That is curious, since the other ones were. No matter. It is, I dare say, of
no great importance. You are remaining here long, mademoiselle?”
“The doctor thinks I shall be fit to return to town tomorrow.” She looked
round the room. Miss Oglander had gone out. “These people, they are very
kind—but they are not of my world. I shock them! And to me—well, I am not
fond of the bourgeoisie!”
A faint note of bitterness underlay her words.
Poirot nodded. “I understand. I hope I have not fatigued you unduly with
my questions?”
“Not at all, monsieur. I am only too anxious Paul should know all as soon
as possible.”
“Then I will wish you good day, mademoiselle.”
As Poirot was leaving the room, he paused, and pounced on a pair of
patent-leather slippers. “Yours, mademoiselle?”
“Yes, monsieur. They have just been cleaned and brought up.”
“Ah!” said Poirot, as we descended the stairs. “It seems that the domestics
are not too excited to clean shoes, though they forget a grate. Well, mon ami,
at first there appeared to be one or two points of interest, but I fear, I very
much fear, that we must regard the case as finished. It all seems
straightforward enough.”
“And the murderer?”
“Hercule Poirot does not hunt down tramps,” replied my friend
grandiloquently.
IV
Miss Oglander met us in the hall. “If you will wait in the drawing room a
minute, Mamma would like to speak to you.”
The room was still untouched, and Poirot idly gathered up the cards,
shuffling them with his tiny, fastidiously groomed hands.
“Do you know what I think, my friend?”
“No?” I said eagerly.
“I think that Miss Oglander made a mistake in going one no trump. She
should have gone three spades.”
“Poirot! You are the limit.”
“Mon Dieu, I cannot always be talking blood and thunder!”
Suddenly he stiffened: “Hastings—Hastings. See! The king of clubs is
missing from the pack!”
“Zara!” I cried.
“Eh?” he did not seem to understand my allusion. Mechanically he
stacked the cards and put them away in their cases. His face was very grave.
“Hastings,” he said at last, “I, Hercule Poirot, have come near to making a
big mistake—a very big mistake.”
I gazed at him, impressed, but utterly uncomprehending.
“We must begin again, Hastings. Yes, we must begin again. But this time
we shall not err.”
He was interrupted by the entrance of a handsome middle-aged lady. She
carried some household books in her hand. Poirot bowed to her.
“Do I understand, sir, that you are a friend of—er—Miss Saintclair’s?”
“I come from a friend of hers, madame.”
“Oh, I see. I thought perhaps—”
Poirot suddenly waved brusquely at the window.
“Your blinds were not pulled down last night?”
“No—I suppose that is why Miss Saintclair saw the light so plainly.”
“There was moonlight last night. I wonder that you did not see
Mademoiselle Saintclair from your seat here facing the windows?”
“I suppose we were engrossed with our game. Nothing like this has ever
happened before to us.”
“I can quite believe that, madame. And I will put your mind at rest.
Mademoiselle Saintclair is leaving tomorrow.”
“Oh!” The good lady’s face cleared.
“And I will wish you good morning, madame.”
A servant was cleaning the steps as we went out of the front door. Poirot
addressed her.
“Was it you who cleaned the shoes of the young lady upstairs?”
The maid shook her head. “No, sir. I don’t think they’ve been cleaned.”
“Who cleaned them, then?” I inquired of Poirot, as we walked down the
road.
“Nobody. They did not need cleaning.”
“I grant that walking on the road or path on a fine night would not soil
them. But surely after going through the long grass of the garden, they would
have been soiled and stained.”
“Yes,” said Poirot with a curious smile. “In that case, I agree, they would
have been stained.”
“But—”
“Have patience a little half hour, my friend. We are going back to Mon
Désir.”
V
The butler looked surprised at our reappearance, but offered no objection to
our returning to the library.
“Hi, that’s the wrong window, Poirot,” I cried as he made for the one
overlooking the carriage-drive.
“I think not, my friend. See here.” He pointed to the marble lion’s head.
On it was a faint discoloured smear. He shifted his finger and pointed to a
similar stain on the polished floor.
“Someone struck Reedburn a blow with his clenched fist between the
eyes. He fell backward on this projecting bit of marble, then slipped to the
floor. Afterwards, he was dragged across the floor to the other window, and
laid there instead, but not quite at the same angle, as the Doctor’s evidence
told us.”
“But why? It seems utterly unnecessary.”
“On the contrary, it was essential. Also, it is the key to the murderer’s
identity—though, by the way, he had no intention of killing Reedburn, and so
it is hardly permissible to call him a murderer. He must be a very strong
man!”
“Because of having dragged the body across the floor?”
“Not altogether. It has been an interesting case. I nearly made an imbecile
of myself, though.”
“Do you mean to say it is over, that you know everything?”
“Yes.”
A remembrance smote me. “No,” I cried. “There is one thing you do not
know!”
“And that?”
“You do not know where the missing king of clubs is!”
“Eh? Oh, that is droll! That is very droll, my friend.”
“Why?”
“Because it is in my pocket!” He drew it forth with a flourish.
“Oh!” I said, rather crestfallen. “Where did you find it? Here?”
“There was nothing sensational about it. It had simply not been taken out
with the other cards. It was in the box.”
“H’m! All the same, it gave you an idea, didn’t it?”
“Yes, my friend. I present my respects to His Majesty.”
“And to Madame Zara!”
“Ah, yes—to the lady also.”
“Well, what are we going to do now?”
“We are going to return to town. But I must have a few words with a
certain lady at Daisymead first.”
The same little maid opened the door to us.
“They’re all at lunch now, sir—unless it’s Miss Saintclair you want to see,
and she’s resting.”
“It will do if I can see Mrs. Oglander for a few minutes. Will you tell
her?”
We were led into the drawing room to wait. I had a glimpse of the family
in the dining room as we passed, now reinforced by the presence of two
heavy, solid-looking men, one with a moustache, the other with a beard also.
In a few minutes Mrs. Oglander came into the room, looking inquiringly
at Poirot, who bowed.
“Madame, we, in our country, have a great tenderness, a great respect for
the mother. The mère de famille, she is everything!”
Mrs. Oglander looked rather astonished at this opening.
“It is for that reason that I have come—to allay a mother’s anxiety. The
murderer of Mr. Reedburn will not be discovered. Have no fear. I, Hercule
Poirot, tell you so. I am right, am I not? Or is it a wife that I must reassure?”
There was a moment’s pause. Mrs. Oglander seemed searching Poirot
with her eyes. At last she said quietly: “I don’t know how you know—but
yes, you are right.”
Poirot nodded gravely. “That is all, madame. But do not be uneasy. Your
English policemen have not the eyes of Hercule Poirot.” He tapped the family
portrait on the wall with his fingernail.
“You had another daughter once. She is dead, madame?”
Again there was a pause, as she searched him with her eyes. Then she
answered: “Yes, she is dead.”
“Ah!” said Poirot briskly. “Well, we must return to town. You permit that I
return the king of clubs to the pack? It was your only slip. You understand, to
have played bridge for an hour or so, with only fifty-one cards—well, no one
who knows anything of the game would credit it for a minute! Bonjour!”
“And now, my friend,” said Poirot as we stepped towards the station, “you
see it all!”
“I see nothing! Who killed Reedburn?”
“John Oglander, Junior. I was not quite sure if it was the father or the son,
but I fixed on the son as being the stronger and younger of the two. It had to
be one of them, because of the window.”
“Why?”
“There were four exits from the library—two doors, two windows; but
evidently only one would do. Three exits gave on the front, directly or
indirectly. The tragedy had to occur in the back window in order to make it
appear that Valerie Saintclair came to Daisymead by chance. Really, of
course, she fainted, and John Oglander carried her across over his shoulders.
That is why I said he must be a strong man.”
“Did they go there together, then?”
“Yes. You remember Valerie’s hesitation when I asked her if she was not
afraid to go alone? John Oglander went with her—which didn’t improve
Reedburn’s temper, I fancy. They quarrelled, and it was probably some insult
levelled at Valerie that made Oglander hit him. The rest, you know.”
“But why the bridge?”
“Bridge presupposes four players. A simple thing like that carries a lot of
conviction. Who would have supposed that there had been only three people
in that room all the evening?”
I was still puzzled.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand. What have the Oglanders to do
with the dancer Valerie Saintclair?”
“Ah, that I wonder you did not see. And yet you looked long enough at
that picture on the wall—longer than I did. Mrs. Oglander’s other daughter
may be dead to her family, but the world knows her as Valerie Saintclair!”
“What?”
“Did you not see the resemblance the moment you saw the two sisters
together?”
“No,” I confessed. “I only thought how extraordinarily dissimilar they
were.”
“That is because your mind is so open to external romantic impressions,
my dear Hastings. The features are almost identical. So is the colouring. The
interesting thing is that Valerie is ashamed of her family, and her family is
ashamed of her. Nevertheless, in a moment of peril, she turned to her brother
for help, and when things went wrong, they all hung together in a remarkable
way. Family strength is a marvellous thing. They can all act, that family. That
is where Valerie gets her histrionic talent from. I, like Prince Paul, believe in
heredity! They deceived me! But for a lucky accident, and test question to
Mrs. Oglander by which I got her to contradict her daughter’s account of how
they were sitting, the Oglander family would have put a defeat on Hercule
Poirot.”
“What shall you tell the Prince?”
“That Valerie could not possibly have committed the crime, and that I
doubt if that tramp will ever be found. Also, to convey my compliments to
Zara. A curious coincidence, that! I think I shall call this little affair the
Adventure of the King of Clubs. What do you think, my friend?”
Four
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF MR. DAVENHEIM
“The Disappearance of Mr. Davenheim” was first published in The Sketch, March 28, 1923.
Poirot and I were expecting our old friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard
to tea. We were sitting round the tea table awaiting his arrival. Poirot had just
finished carefully straightening the cups and saucers which our landlady was
in the habit of throwing, rather than placing, on the table. He had also
breathed heavily on the metal teapot, and polished it with a silk handkerchief.
The kettle was on the boil, and a small enamel saucepan beside it contained
some thick, sweet chocolate which was more to Poirot’s palate than what he
described as “your English poison.”
A sharp “rat-tat” sounded below, and a few minutes afterwards Japp
entered briskly.
“Hope I’m not late,” he said as he greeted us. “To tell the truth, I was
yarning with Miller, the man who’s in charge of the Davenheim case.”
I pricked up my ears. For the last three days the papers had been full of
the strange disappearance of Mr. Davenheim, senior partner of Davenheim
and Salmon, the well-known bankers and financiers. On Saturday last he had
walked out of his house, and had never been seen since. I looked forward to
extracting some interesting details from Japp.
“I should have thought,” I remarked, “that it would be almost impossible
for anyone to ‘disappear’ nowadays.”
Poirot moved a plate of bread and butter the eighth of an inch, and said
sharply:
“Be exact, my friend. What do you mean by ‘disappear’? To which class
of disappearance are you referring?”
“Are disappearances classified and labelled, then?” I laughed.
Japp smiled also. Poirot frowned at both of us.
“But certainly they are! They fall into three categories: First, and most
common, the voluntary disappearance. Second, the much abused ‘loss of
memory’ case—rare, but occasionally genuine. Third, murder, and a more or
less successful disposal of the body. Do you refer to all three as impossible of
execution?”
“Very nearly so, I should think. You might lose your own memory, but
someone would be sure to recognize you—especially in the case of a wellknown man like Davenheim. Then ‘bodies’ can’t be made to vanish into thin
air. Sooner or later they turn up, concealed in lonely places, or in trunks.
Murder will out. In the same way, the absconding clerk, or the domestic
defaulter, is bound to be run down in these days of wireless telegraphy. He
can be headed off from foreign countries; ports and railway stations are
watched; and as for concealment in this country, his features and appearance
will be known to everyone who reads a daily newspaper. He’s up against
civilization.”
“Mon ami,” said Poirot, “you make one error. You do not allow for the
fact that a man who had decided to make away with another man—or with
himself in a figurative sense—might be that rare machine, a man of method.
He might bring intelligence, talent, a careful calculation of detail to the task;
and then I do not see why he should not be successful in baffling the police
force.”
“But not you, I suppose?” said Japp good-humouredly, winking at me.
“He couldn’t baffle you, eh, Monsieur Poirot?”
Poirot endeavoured, with a marked lack of success, to look modest. “Me
also! Why not? It is true that I approach such problems with an exact science,
a mathematical precision, which seems, alas, only too rare in the new
generation of detectives!”
Japp grinned more widely.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Miller, the man who’s on this case, is a smart
chap. You may be very sure he won’t overlook a footprint, or a cigar ash, or a
crumb even. He’s got eyes that see everything.”
“So, mon ami,” said Poirot, “has the London sparrow. But all the same, I
should not ask the little brown bird to solve the problem of Mr. Davenheim.”
“Come now, monsieur, you’re not going to run down the value of details
as clues?”
“By no means. These things are all good in their way. The danger is they
may assume undue importance. Most details are insignificant; one or two are
vital. It is the brain, the little grey cells”—he tapped his forehead—“on which
one must rely. The senses mislead. One must seek the truth within—not
without.”
“You don’t mean to say, Monsieur Poirot, that you would undertake to
solve a case without moving from your chair, do you?”
“That is exactly what I do mean—granted the facts were placed before
me. I regard myself as a consulting specialist.”
Japp slapped his knee. “Hanged if I don’t take you at your word. Bet you
a fiver that you can’t lay your hand—or rather tell me where to lay my hand
—on Mr. Davenheim, dead or alive, before a week is out.”
Poirot considered. “Eh bien, mon ami, I accept. Le sport, it is the passion
of you English. Now—the facts.”
“On Saturday last, as is his usual custom, Mr. Davenheim took the 12:40
train from Victoria to Chingside, where his palatial country seat, The Cedars,
is situated. After lunch, he strolled round the grounds, and gave various
directions to the gardeners. Everybody agrees that his manner was absolutely
normal and as usual. After tea he put his head into his wife’s boudoir, saying
that he was going to stroll down to the village and post some letters. He added
that he was expecting a Mr. Lowen, on business. If he should come before he
himself returned, he was to be shown into the study and asked to wait. Mr.
Davenheim then left the house by the front door, passed leisurely down the
drive, and out at the gate, and—was never seen again. From that hour, he
vanished completely.”
“Pretty—very pretty—altogether a charming little problem,” murmured
Poirot. “Proceed, my good friend.”
“About a quarter of an hour later a tall, dark man with a thick black
moustache rang the front doorbell, and explained that he had an appointment
with Mr. Davenheim. He gave the name of Lowen, and in accordance with the
banker’s instructions was shown into the study. Nearly an hour passed. Mr.
Davenheim did not return. Finally Mr. Lowen rang the bell, and explained
that he was unable to wait any longer, as he must catch his train back to town.
Mrs. Davenheim apologized for her husband’s absence, which seemed
unaccountable, as she knew him to have been expecting the visitor. Mr.
Lowen reiterated his regrets and took his departure.
“Well, as everyone knows, Mr. Davenheim did not return. Early on
Sunday morning the police were communicated with, but could make neither
head nor tail of the matter. Mr. Davenheim seemed literally to have vanished
into thin air. He had not been to the post office; nor had he been seen passing
through the village. At the station they were positive he had not departed by
any train. His own motor had not left the garage. If he had hired a car to meet
him in some lonely spot, it seems almost certain that by this time, in view of
the large reward offered for information, the driver of it would have come
forward to tell what he knew. True, there was a small race meeting at Entfield,
five miles away, and if he had walked to that station he might have passed
unnoticed in the crowd. But since then his photograph and a full description
of him have been circulated in every newspaper, and nobody has been able to
give any news of him. We have, of course, received many letters from all over
England, but each clue, so far, has ended in disappointment.
“On Monday morning a further sensational discovery came to light.
Behind a portière in Mr. Davenheim’s study stands a safe, and that safe had
been broken into and rifled. The windows were fastened securely on the
inside, which seems to put an ordinary burglary out of court, unless, of
course, an accomplice within the house fastened them again afterwards. On
the other hand, Sunday having intervened, and the household being in a state
of chaos, it is likely that the burglary was committed on the Saturday, and
remained undetected until Monday.”
“Précisément,” said Poirot dryly. “Well, is he arrested, ce pauvre M.
Lowen?”
Japp grinned. “Not yet. But he’s under pretty close supervision.”
Poirot nodded. “What was taken from the safe? Have you any idea?”
“We’ve been going into that with the junior partner of the firm and Mrs.
Davenheim. Apparently there was a considerable amount in bearer bonds, and
a very large sum in notes, owing to some large transaction having been just
carried through. There was also a small fortune in jewellery. All Mrs.
Davenheim’s jewels were kept in the safe. The purchasing of them had
become a passion with her husband of late years, and hardly a month passed
that he did not make her a present of some rare and costly gem.”
“Altogether a good haul,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Now, what about
Lowen? Is it known what his business was with Davenheim that evening?”
“Well, the two men were apparently not on very good terms. Lowen is a
speculator in quite a small way. Nevertheless, he has been able once or twice
to score a coup off Davenheim in the market, though it seems they seldom or
never actually met. It was a matter concerning some South American shares
which led the banker to make his appointment.”
“Had Davenheim interests in South America, then?”
“I believe so. Mrs. Davenheim happened to mention that he spent all last
autumn in Buenos Aires.”
“Any trouble in his home life? Were the husband and wife on good
terms?”
“I should say his domestic life was quite peaceful and uneventful. Mrs.
Davenheim is a pleasant, rather unintelligent woman. Quite a nonentity, I
think.”
“Then we must not look for the solution of the mystery there. Had he any
enemies?”
“He had plenty of financial rivals, and no doubt there are many people
whom he has got the better of who bear him no particular goodwill. But there
was no one likely to make away with him—and, if they had, where is the
body?”
“Exactly. As Hastings says, bodies have a habit of coming to light with
fatal persistency.”
“By the way, one of the gardeners says he saw a figure going round to the
side of the house towards the rose garden. The long French window of the
study opens on to the rose garden, and Mr. Davenheim frequently entered and
left the house that way. But the man was a good way off, at work on some
cucumber frames, and cannot even say whether it was the figure of his master
or not. Also, he cannot fix the time with any accuracy. It must have been
before six, as the gardeners cease work at that time.”
“And Mr. Davenheim left the house?”
“About half past five or thereabouts.”
“What lies beyond the rose garden?”
“A lake.”
“With a boathouse?”
“Yes, a couple of punts are kept there. I suppose you’re thinking of
suicide, Monsieur Poirot? Well, I don’t mind telling you that Miller’s going
down tomorrow expressly to see that piece of water dragged. That’s the kind
of man he is!”
Poirot smiled faintly, and turned to me. “Hastings, I pray you, hand me
that copy of Daily Megaphone. If I remember rightly, there is an unusually
clear photograph there of the missing man.”
I rose, and found the sheet required. Poirot studied the features attentively.
“H’m!” he murmured. “Wears his hair rather long and wavy, full
moustache and pointed beard, bushy eyebrows. Eyes dark?”
“Yes.”
“Hair and beard turning grey?”
The detective nodded. “Well, Monsieur Poirot, what have you got to say
to it all? Clear as daylight, eh?”
“On the contrary, most obscure.”
The Scotland Yard man looked pleased.
“Which gives me great hopes of solving it,” finished Poirot placidly.
“Eh?”
“I find it a good sign when a case is obscure. If a thing is clear as daylight
—eh bien, mistrust it! Someone has made it so.”
Japp shook his head almost pityingly. “Well, each to their fancy. But it’s
not a bad thing to see your way clear ahead.”
“I do not see,” murmured Poirot. “I shut my eyes—and think.”
Japp sighed. “Well, you’ve got a clear week to think in.”
“And you will bring me any fresh developments that arise—the result of
the labours of the hardworking and lynx-eyed Inspector Miller, for instance?”
“Certainly. That’s in the bargain.”
“Seems a shame, doesn’t it?” said Japp to me as I accompanied him to the
door. “Like robbing a child!”
I could not help agreeing with a smile. I was still smiling as I reentered
the room.
“Eh bien!” said Poirot immediately. “You make fun of Papa Poirot, is it
not so?” He shook his finger at me. “You do not trust his grey cells? Ah, do
not be confused! Let us discuss this little problem—incomplete as yet, I
admit, but already showing one or two points of interest.”
“The lake!” I said significantly.
“And even more than the lake, the boathouse!”
I looked sidewise at Poirot. He was smiling in his most inscrutable
fashion. I felt that, for the moment, it would be quite useless to question him
further.
We heard nothing of Japp until the following evening, when he walked in
about nine o’clock. I saw at once by his expression that he was bursting with
news of some kind.
“Eh bien, my friend,” remarked Poirot. “All goes well? But do not tell me
that you have discovered the body of Mr. Davenheim in your lake, because I
shall not believe you.”
“We haven’t found the body, but we did find his clothes—the identical
clothes he was wearing that day. What do you say to that?”
“Any other clothes missing from the house?”
“No, his valet was quite positive on that point. The rest of his wardrobe is
intact. There’s more. We’ve arrested Lowen. One of the maids, whose
business it is to fasten the bedroom windows, declares that she saw Lowen
coming towards the study through the rose garden about a quarter past six.
That would be about ten minutes before he left the house.”
“What does he himself say to that?”
“Denied first of all that he had ever left the study. But the maid was
positive, and he pretended afterwards that he had forgotten just stepping out
of the window to examine an unusual species of rose. Rather a weak story!
And there’s fresh evidence against him come to light. Mr. Davenheim always
wore a thick gold ring set with a solitaire diamond on the little finger of his
right hand. Well, that ring was pawned in London on Saturday night by a man
called Billy Kellett! He’s already known to the police—did three months last
autumn for lifting an old gentleman’s watch. It seems he tried to pawn the
ring at no less than five different places, succeeded at the last one, got
gloriously drunk on the proceeds, assaulted a policeman, and was run in in
consequence. I went to Bow Street with Miller and saw him. He’s sober
enough now, and I don’t mind admitting we pretty well frightened the life out
of him, hinting he might be charged with murder. This is his yarn, and a very
queer one it is.
“He was at Entfield races on Saturday, though I dare say scarfpins was his
line of business, rather than betting. Anyway, he had a bad day, and was down
on his luck. He was tramping along the road to Chingside, and sat down in a
ditch to rest just before he got into the village. A few minutes later he noticed
a man coming along the road to the village, ‘dark-complexioned gent, with a
big moustache, one of them city toffs,’ is his description of the man.
“Kellett was half concealed from the road by a heap of stones. Just before
he got abreast of him, the man looked quickly up and down the road, and
seeing it apparently deserted he took a small object from his pocket and threw
it over the hedge. Then he went on towards the station. Now, the object he
had thrown over the hedge had fallen with a slight ‘chink’ which aroused the
curiosity of the human derelict in the ditch. He investigated and, after a short
search, discovered the ring! That is Kellett’s story. It’s only fair to say that
Lowen denies it utterly, and of course the word of a man like Kellett can’t be
relied upon in the slightest. It’s within the bounds of possibility that he met
Davenheim in the lane and robbed and murdered him.”
Poirot shook his head.
“Very improbable, mon ami. He had no means of disposing of the body. It
would have been found by now. Secondly, the open way in which he pawned
the ring makes it unlikely that he did murder to get it. Thirdly, your sneak
thief is rarely a murderer. Fourthly, as he has been in prison since Saturday, it
would be too much of a coincidence that he is able to give so accurate a
description of Lowen.”
Japp nodded. “I don’t say you’re not right. But all the same, you won’t get
a jury to take much note of a jailbird’s evidence. What seems odd to me is that
Lowen couldn’t find a cleverer way of disposing of the ring.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “Well, after all, if it were found in the
neighbourhood, it might be argued that Davenheim himself had dropped it.”
“But why remove it from the body at all?” I cried.
“There might be a reason for that,” said Japp. “Do you know that just
beyond the lake, a little gate leads out on to the hill, and not three minutes’
walk brings you to—what do you think?—a lime kiln.”
“Good heavens!” I cried. “You mean that the lime which destroyed the
body would be powerless to affect the metal of the ring?”
“Exactly.”
“It seems to me,” I said, “that that explains everything. What a horrible
crime!”
By common consent we both turned and looked at Poirot. He seemed lost
in reflection, his brow knitted, as though with some supreme mental effort. I
felt at last his keen intellect was asserting itself. What would his first words
be? We were not long left in doubt. With a sigh, the tension of his attitude
relaxed and turning to Japp, he asked:
“Have you any idea, my friend, whether Mr. and Mrs. Davenheim
occupied the same bedroom?”
The question seemed so ludicrously inappropriate that for a moment we
both stared in silence. Then Japp burst into a laugh. “Good Lord, Monsieur
Poirot, I thought you were coming out with something startling. As to your
question, I’m sure I don’t know.”
“You could find out?” asked Poirot with curious persistence.
“Oh, certainly—if you really want to know.”
“Merci, mon ami. I should be obliged if you would make a point of it.”
Japp stared at him a few minutes longer, but Poirot seemed to have
forgotten us both. The detective shook his head sadly at me, and murmuring,
“Poor old fellow! War’s been too much for him!” gently withdrew from the
room.
As Poirot seemed sunk in a daydream, I took a sheet of paper, and amused
myself by scribbling notes upon it. My friend’s voice aroused me. He had
come out of his reverie, and was looking brisk and alert.
“Que faites-vous là, mon ami?”
“I was jotting down what occurred to me as the main points of interest in
this affair.”
“You become methodical—at last!” said Poirot approvingly.
I concealed my pleasure. “Shall I read them to you?”
“By all means.”
I cleared my throat.
“ ‘One: All the evidence points to Lowen having been the man who forced
the safe.
“ ‘Two: He had a grudge against Davenheim.
“ ‘Three: He lied in his first statement that he had never left the study.
“ ‘Four: If you accept Billy Kellett’s story as true, Lowen is unmistakably
implicated.’ ”
I paused. “Well?” I asked, for I felt that I had put my finger on all the vital
facts.
Poirot looked at me pityingly, shaking his head very gently. “Mon pauvre
ami! But it is that you have not the gift! The important detail, you appreciate
him never! Also, your reasoning is false.”
“How?”
“Let me take your four points.”
“One: Mr. Lowen could not possibly know that he would have the chance
to open the safe. He came for a business interview. He could not know
beforehand that Mr. Davenheim would be absent posting a letter, and that he
would consequently be alone in the study!”
“He might have seized the opportunity,” I suggested.
“And the tools? City gentlemen do not carry round housebreaker’s tools
on the off chance! And one could not cut into that safe with penknife, bien
entendu!”
“Well, what about Number Two?”
“You say Lowen had a grudge against Mr. Davenheim. What you mean is
that he had once or twice got the better of him. And presumably those
transactions were entered into with the view of benefiting himself. In any case
you do not as a rule bear a grudge against a man you have got the better of—it
is more likely to be the other way about. Whatever grudge there might have
been would have been on Mr. Davenheim’s side.”
“Well, you can’t deny that he lied about never having left the study?”
“No. But he may have been frightened. Remember, the missing man’s
clothes had just been discovered in the lake. Of course, as usual, he would
have done better to speak the truth.”
“And the fourth point?”
“I grant you that. If Kellett’s story is true, Lowen is undeniably
implicated. That is what makes the affair so very interesting.”
“Then I did appreciate one vital fact?”
“Perhaps—but you have entirely overlooked the two most important
points, the ones which undoubtedly hold the clue to the whole matter.”
“And pray, what are they?”
“One, the passion which has grown upon Mr. Davenheim in the last few
years for buying jewellery. Two, his trip to Buenos Aires last autumn.”
“Poirot, you are joking?”
“I am serious. Ah, sacred thunder, but I hope Japp will not forget my little
commission.”
But the detective, entering into the spirit of the joke, had remembered it so
well that a telegram was handed to Poirot about eleven o’clock the next day.
At his request I opened it and read it out:
“ ‘Husband and wife have occupied separate rooms since last winter.’
”
“Aha!” cried Poirot. “And now we are in mid June! All is solved!”
I stared at him.
“You have no moneys in the bank of Davenheim and Salmon, mon ami?”
“No,” I said wondering. “Why?”
“Because I should advise you to withdraw it—before it is too late.”
“Why, what do you expect?”
“I expect a big smash in a few days—perhaps sooner. Which reminds me,
we will return the compliment of a dépêche to Japp. A pencil, I pray you, and
a form. Voilà! ‘Advise you to withdraw any money deposited with firm in
question.’ That will intrigue him, the good Japp! His eyes will open wide—
wide! He will not comprehend in the slightest—until tomorrow, or the next
day!”
I remained sceptical, but the morrow forced me to render tribute to my
friend’s remarkable powers. In every paper was a huge headline telling of the
sensational failure of the Davenheim bank. The disappearance of the famous
financier took on a totally different aspect in the light of the revelation of the
financial affairs of the bank.
Before we were halfway through breakfast, the door flew open and Japp
rushed in. In his left hand was a paper; in his right was Poirot’s telegram,
which he banged down on the table in front of my friend.
“How did you know, Monsieur Poirot? How the blazes could you know?”
Poirot smiled placidly at him. “Ah, mon ami, after your wire, it was a
certainty! From the commencement, see you, it struck me that the safe
burglary was somewhat remarkable. Jewels, ready money, bearer bonds—all
so conveniently arranged for—whom? Well, the good Monsieur Davenheim
was of those who ‘look after Number One’ as your saying goes! It seemed
almost certain that it was arranged for—himself! Then his passion of late
years for buying jewellery! How simple! The funds he embezzled, he
converted into jewels, very likely replacing them in turn with paste duplicates,
and so he put away in a safe place, under another name, a considerable
fortune to be enjoyed all in good time when everyone has been thrown off the
track. His arrangements completed, he makes an appointment with Mr. Lowen
(who has been imprudent enough in the past to cross the great man once or
twice), drills a hole in the safe, leaves orders that the guest is to be shown into
the study, and walks out of the house—where?” Poirot stopped, and stretched
out his hand for another boiled egg. He frowned. “It is really insupportable,”
he murmured, “that every hen lays an egg of a different size! What symmetry
can there be on the breakfast table? At least they should sort them in dozens at
the shop!”
“Never mind the eggs,” said Japp impatiently. “Let ’em lay ’em square if
they like. Tell us where our customer went to when he left The Cedars—that
is, if you know!”
“Eh bien, he went to his hiding place. Ah, this Monsieur Davenheim,
there may be some malformation in his grey cells, but they are of the first
quality!”
“Do you know where he is hiding?”
“Certainly! It is most ingenious.”
“For the Lord’s sake, tell us, then!”
Poirot gently collected every fragment of shell from his plate, placed them
in the egg-cup, and reversed the empty eggshell on top of them. This little
operation concluded, he smiled on the neat effect, and then beamed
affectionately on us both.
“Come, my friends, you are men of intelligence. Ask yourself the question
I asked myself. ‘If I were this man, where should I hide?’ Hastings, what do
you say?”
“Well,” I said, “I’m rather inclined to think I’d not do a bolt at all. I’d stay
in London—in the heart of things, travel by tubes and buses; ten to one I’d
never be recognized. There’s safety in a crowd.”
Poirot turned inquiringly to Japp.
“I don’t agree. Get clear away at once—that’s the only chance. I would
have had plenty of time to prepare things beforehand. I’d have a yacht
waiting, with steam up, and I’d be off to one of the most out-of-the-way
corners of the world before the hue and cry began!”
We both looked at Poirot. “What do you say, monsieur?”
For a moment he remained silent. Then a very curious smile flitted across
his face.
“My friends, if I were hiding from the police, do you know where I should
hide? In a prison!”
“What?”
“You are seeking Monsieur Davenheim in order to put him in prison, so
you never dream of looking to see if he may not be already there!”
“What do you mean?”
“You tell me Madame Davenheim is not a very intelligent woman.
Nevertheless I think if you took her up to Bow Street and confronted her with
the man Billy Kellett she would recognize him! In spite of the fact that he has
shaved his beard and moustache and those bushy eyebrows, and has cropped
his hair close. A woman nearly always knows her husband, though the rest of
the world may be deceived.”
“Billy Kellett? But he’s known to the police!”
“Did I not tell you Davenheim was a clever man? He prepared his alibi
long beforehand. He was not in Buenos Aires last autumn—he was creating
the character of Billy Kellett, ‘doing three months,’ so that the police should
have no suspicions when the time came. He was playing, remember, for a
large fortune, as well as liberty. It was worth while doing the thing
thoroughly. Only—”
“Yes?”
“Eh bien, afterwards he had to wear a false beard and wig, had to make up
as himself again, and to sleep with a false beard is not easy—it invites
detection! He cannot risk continuing to share the chamber of madame his
wife. You found out for me that for the last six months, or ever since his
supposed return from Buenos Aires, he and Mrs. Davenheim occupied
separate rooms. Then I was sure! Everything fitted in. The gardener who
fancied he saw his master going round to the side of the house was quite right.
He went to the boathouse, donned his ‘tramp’ clothes, which you may be sure
had been safely hidden from the eyes of his valet, dropped the others in the
lake, and proceeded to carry out his plan by pawning the ring in an obvious
manner, and then assaulting a policeman, getting himself safely into the haven
of Bow Street, where nobody would ever dream of looking for him!”
“It’s impossible,” murmured Japp.
“Ask Madame,” said my friend, smiling.
The next day a registered letter lay beside Poirot’s plate. He opened it and
a five-pound note fluttered out. My friend’s brow puckered.
“Ah, sacré! But what shall I do with it? I have much remorse! Ce pauvre
Japp? Ah, an idea! We will have a little dinner, we three! That consoles me. It
was really too easy. I am ashamed. I, who would not rob a child—mille
tonnerres! Mon ami, what have you, that you laugh so heartily?”
Five
THE PLYMOUTH EXPRESS
“The Plymouth Express” was first published as “The Mystery of the Plymouth Express” in
The Sketch, April 4, 1923.
I
Alec Simpson, RN, stepped from the platform at Newton Abbot into a firstclass compartment of the Plymouth Express. A porter followed him with a
heavy suitcase. He was about to swing it up to the rack, but the young sailor
stopped him.
“No—leave it on the seat. I’ll put it up later. Here you are.”
“Thank you, sir.” The porter, generously tipped, withdrew.
Doors banged; a stentorian voice shouted: “Plymouth only. Change for
Torquay. Plymouth next stop.” Then a whistle blew, and the train drew slowly
out of the station.
Lieutenant Simpson had the carriage to himself. The December air was
chilly, and he pulled up the window. Then he sniffed vaguely, and frowned.
What a smell there was! Reminded him of that time in hospital, and the
operation on his leg. Yes, chloroform; that was it!
He let the window down again, changing his seat to one with its back to
the engine. He pulled a pipe out of his pocket and lit it. For a little time he sat
inactive, looking out into the night and smoking.
At last he roused himself, and opening the suitcase, took out some papers
and magazines, then closed the suitcase again and endeavoured to shove it
under the opposite seat—without success. Some obstacle resisted it. He
shoved harder with rising impatience, but it still stuck out halfway into the
carriage.
“Why the devil won’t it go in?” he muttered, and hauling it out
completely, he stooped down and peered under the seat. . . .
A moment later a cry rang out into the night, and the great train came to
an unwilling halt in obedience to the imperative jerking of the communication
cord.
II
“Mon ami,” said Poirot, “you have, I know, been deeply interested in this
mystery of the Plymouth Express. Read this.”
I picked up the note he flicked across the table to me. It was brief and to
the point.
Dear Sir,
I shall be obliged if you will call upon me at your earliest
convenience.
Yours faithfully,
Ebenezer Halliday
The connection was not clear to my mind, and I looked inquiringly at
Poirot.
For answer he took up the newspaper and read aloud: “ ‘A sensational
discovery was made last night. A young naval officer returning to Plymouth
found under the seat of his compartment the body of a woman, stabbed
through the heart. The officer at once pulled the communication cord, and the
train was brought to a standstill. The woman, who was about thirty years of
age, and richly dressed, has not yet been identified.’
“And later we have this: ‘The woman found dead in the Plymouth Express
has been identified as the Honourable Mrs. Rupert Carrington.’ You see now,
my friend? Or if you do not I will add this—Mrs. Rupert Carrington was,
before her marriage, Flossie Halliday, daughter of old man Halliday, the steel
king of America.”
“And he has sent for you? Splendid!”
“I did him a little service in the past—an affair of bearer bonds. And once,
when I was in Paris for a royal visit, I had Mademoiselle Flossie pointed out
to me. La jolie petite pensionnaire! She had the joli dot too! It caused trouble.
She nearly made a bad affair.”
“How was that?”
“A certain Count de la Rochefour. Un bien mauvais sujet! A bad hat, as
you would say. An adventurer pure and simple, who knew how to appeal to a
romantic young girl. Luckily her father got wind of it in time. He took her
back to America in haste. I heard of her marriage some years later, but I know
nothing of her husband.”
“H’m,” I said. “The Honourable Rupert Carrington is no beauty, by all
accounts. He’d pretty well run through his own money on the turf, and I
should imagine old man Halliday’s dollars came along in the nick of time. I
should say that for a good-looking, well-mannered, utterly unscrupulous
young scoundrel, it would be hard to find his mate!”
“Ah, the poor little lady! Elle n’est pas bien tombée!”
“I fancy he made it pretty obvious at once that it was her money, and not
she, that had attacted him. I believe they drifted apart almost at once. I have
heard rumours lately that there was to be a definite legal separation.”
“Old man Halliday is no fool. He would tie up her money pretty tight.”
“I dare say. Anyway, I know as a fact that the Honourable Rupert is said
to be extremely hard up.”
“Aha! I wonder—”
“You wonder what?”
“My good friend, do not jump down my throat like that. You are
interested, I see. Suppose you accompany me to see Mr. Halliday. There is a
taxi stand at the corner.”
III
A few minutes sufficed to whirl us to the superb house in Park Lane rented by
the American magnate. We were shown into the library, and almost
immediately we were joined by a large stout man, with piercing eyes and an
aggressive chin.
“M. Poirot?” said Mr. Halliday. “I guess I don’t need to tell you what I
want you for. You’ve read the papers, and I’m never one to let the grass grow
under my feet. I happened to hear you were in London, and I remembered the
good work you did over those bombs. Never forget a name. I’ve the pick of
Scotland Yard, but I’ll have my own man as well. Money no object. All the
dollars were made for my little girl—and now she’s gone, I’ll spend my last
cent to catch the damned scoundrel that did it! See? So it’s up to you to
deliver the goods.”
Poirot bowed.
“I accept, monsieur, all the more willingly that I saw your daughter in
Paris several times. And now I will ask you to tell me the circumstances of
her journey to Plymouth and any other details that seem to you to bear upon
the case.”
“Well, to begin with,” responded Halliday, “she wasn’t going to
Plymouth. She was going to join a house party at Avonmead Court, the
Duchess of Swansea’s place. She left London by the twelve-fourteen from
Paddington, arriving at Bristol (where she had to change) at two-fifty. The
principal Plymouth expresses, of course, run via Westbury, and do not go near
Bristol at all. The twelve-fourteen does a non-stop run to Bristol, afterwards
stopping at Weston, Taunton, Exeter and Newton Abbot. My daughter
travelled alone in her carriage, which was reserved as far as Bristol, her maid
being in a third-class carriage in the next coach.”
Poirot nodded, and Mr. Halliday went on: “The party at Avonmead Court
was to be a very gay one, with several balls, and in consequence my daughter
had with her nearly all her jewels—amounting in value, perhaps, to about a
hundred thousand dollars.”
“Un moment,” interrupted Poirot. “Who had charge of the jewels? Your
daughter, or the maid?”
“My daughter always took charge of them herself, carrying them in a
small blue morocco case.”
“Continue, monsieur.”
“At Bristol the maid, Jane Mason, collected her mistress’s dressing bag
and wraps, which were with her, and came to the door of Flossie’s
compartment. To her intense surprise, my daughter told her that she was not
getting out at Bristol, but was going on farther. She directed Mason to get out
the luggage and put it in the cloakroom. She could have tea in the refreshment
room, but she was to wait at the station for her mistress, who would return to
Bristol by an up-train in the course of the afternoon. The maid, although very
much astonished, did as she was told. She put the luggage in the cloakroom
and had some tea. But up-train after up-train came in, and her mistress did not
appear. After the arrival of the last train, she left the luggage where it was,
and went to a hotel near the station for the night. This morning she read of the
tragedy, and returned to town by the first available train.”
“Is there nothing to account for your daughter’s sudden change of plan?”
“Well there is this: According to Jane Mason, at Bristol, Flossie was no
longer alone in her carriage. There was a man in it who stood looking out of
the farther window so that she could not see his face.”
“The train was a corridor one, of course?”
“Yes.”
“Which side was the corridor?”
“On the platform side. My daughter was standing in the corridor as she
talked to Mason.”
“And there is no doubt in your mind—excuse me!” He got up, and
carefully straightened the inkstand which was a little askew. “Je vous
demande pardon,” he continued, re-seating himself. “It affects my nerves to
see anything crooked. Strange, is it not? I was saying, monsieur, that there is
no doubt in your mind as to this probably unexpected meeting being the cause
of your daughter’s sudden change of plan?”
“It seems the only reasonable supposition.”
“You have no idea as to who the gentleman in question might be?”
The millionaire hesitated for a moment, and then replied: “No—I do not
know at all.”
“Now—as to the discovery of the body?”
“It was discovered by a young naval officer who at once gave the alarm.
There was a doctor on the train. He examined the body. She had been first
chloroformed, and then stabbed. He gave it as his opinion that she had been
dead about four hours, so it must have been done not long after leaving
Bristol—probably between there and Weston, possibly between Weston and
Taunton.”
“And the jewel case?”
“The jewel case, M. Poirot, was missing.”
“One thing more, monsieur. Your daughter’s fortune—to whom does it
pass at her death?”
“Flossie made a will soon after her marriage, leaving everything to her
husband.” He hesitated for a minute, and then went on: “I may as well tell
you, Monsieur Poirot, that I regard my son-in-law as an unprincipled
scoundrel, and that, by my advice, my daughter was on the eve of freeing
herself from him by legal means—no difficult matter. I settled her money
upon her in such a way that he could not touch it during her lifetime, but
although they have lived entirely apart for some years, she had frequently
acceded to his demands for money, rather than face an open scandal.
However, I was determined to put an end to this. At last Flossie agreed, and
my lawyers were instructed to take proceedings.”
“And where is Monsieur Carrington?”
“In town. I believe he was away in the country yesterday, but he returned
last night.”
Poirot considered a little while. Then he said: “I think that is all,
monsieur.”
“You would like to see the maid, Jane Mason?”
“If you please.”
Halliday rang the bell, and gave a short order to the footman.
A few minutes later Jane Mason entered the room, a respectable, hardfeatured woman, as emotionless in the face of tragedy as only a good servant
can be.
“You will permit me to put a few questions? Your mistress, she was quite
as usual before starting yesterday morning? Not excited or flurried?”
“Oh no, sir!”
“But at Bristol she was quite different?”
“Yes, sir, regular upset—so nervous she didn’t seem to know what she
was saying.”
“What did she say exactly?”
“Well, sir, as near as I can remember, she said: ‘Mason, I’ve got to alter
my plans. Something has happened—I mean, I’m not getting out here after
all. I must go on. Get out the luggage and put it in the cloakroom; then have
some tea, and wait for me in the station.’
“ ‘Wait for you here, ma’am?’ I asked.
“ ‘Yes, yes. Don’t leave the station. I shall return by a later train. I don’t
know when. It mayn’t be until quite late.’
“ ‘Very well, ma’am,’ I says. It wasn’t my place to ask questions, but I
thought it very strange.”
“It was unlike your mistress, eh?”
“Very unlike her, sir.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, sir, I thought it was to do with the gentleman in the carriage. She
didn’t speak to him, but she turned round once or twice as though to ask him
if she was doing right.”
“But you didn’t see the gentleman’s face?”
“No, sir; he stood with his back to me all the time.”
“Can you describe him at all?”
“He had on a light fawn overcoat, and a travelling-cap. He was tall and
slender, like and the back of his head was dark.”
“You didn’t know him?”
“Oh no, I don’t think so, sir.”
“It was not your master, Mr. Carrington, by any chance?”
Mason looked rather startled.
“Oh, I don’t think so, sir!”
“But you are not sure?”
“It was about the master’s build, sir—but I never thought of it being him.
We so seldom saw him . . . I couldn’t say it wasn’t him!”
Poirot picked up a pin from the carpet, and frowned at it severely; then he
continued: “Would it be possible for the man to have entered the train at
Bristol before you reached the carriage?”
Mason considered.
“Yes, sir, I think it would. My compartment was very crowded, and it was
some minutes before I could get out—and then there was a very large crowd
on the platform, and that delayed me too. But he’d only have had a minute or
two to speak to the mistress, that way. I took it for granted that he’d come
along the corridor.”
“That is more probable, certainly.”
He paused, still frowning.
“You know how the mistress was dressed, sir?”
“The papers give a few details, but I would like you to confirm them.”
“She was wearing a white fox fur toque, sir, with a white spotted veil, and
a blue frieze coat and skirt—the shade of blue they call electric.”
“H’m, rather striking.”
“Yes,” remarked Mr. Halliday. “Inspector Japp is in hopes that that may
help us to fix the spot where the crime took place. Anyone who saw her
would remember her.”
“Précisément!—Thank you, mademoiselle.”
The maid left the room.
“Well!” Poirot got up briskly. “That is all I can do here—except,
monsieur, that I would ask you to tell me everything, but everything!”
“I have done so.”
“You are sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then there is nothing more to be said. I must decline the case.”
“Why?”
“Because you have not been frank with me.”
“I assure you—”
“No, you are keeping something back.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Halliday drew a paper from his
pocket and handed it to my friend.
“I guess that’s what you’re after, Monsieur Poirot—though how you know
about it fairly gets my goat!”
Poirot smiled, and unfolded the paper. It was a letter written in thin
sloping handwriting. Poirot read it aloud.
“Chère Madame,
It is with infinite pleasure that I look forward to the felicity of
meeting you again. After your so amiable reply to my letter, I can
hardly restrain my impatience. I have never forgotten those days in
Paris. It is most cruel that you should be leaving London tomorrow.
However, before very long, and perhaps sooner than you think, I shall
have the joy of beholding once more the lady whose image has ever
reigned supreme in my heart.
Believe, chère madame, all the assurances of my most devoted and
unaltered sentiments—
Armand de la Rochefour.”
Poirot handed the letter back to Halliday with a bow.
“I fancy, monsieur, that you did not know that your daughter intended
renewing her acquaintance with the Count de la Rochefour?”
“It came as a thunderbolt to me! I found this letter in my daughter’s
handbag. As you probably know, Monsieur Poirot, this so-called count is an
adventurer of the worst type.”
Poirot nodded.
“But I want to know how you knew of the existence of this letter?”
My friend smiled. “Monsieur, I did not. But to track footmarks and
recognize cigarette ash is not sufficient for a detective. He must also be a
good psychologist! I knew that you disliked and mistrusted your son-in-law.
He benefits by your daughter’s death; the maid’s description of the mysterious
man bears a sufficient resemblance to him. Yet you are not keen on his track!
Why? Surely because your suspicions lie in another direction. Therefore you
were keeping something back.”
“You’re right, Monsieur Poirot. I was sure of Rupert’s guilt until I found
this letter. It unsettled me horribly.”
“Yes. The Count says ‘Before very long, and perhaps sooner than you
think.’ Obviously he would not want to wait until you should get wind of his
reappearance. Was it he who travelled down from London by the twelvefourteen, and came along the corridor to your daughter’s compartment? The
Count de la Rochefour is also, if I remember rightly, tall and dark!”
The millionaire nodded.
“Well, monsieur, I will wish you good day. Scotland Yard has, I presume,
a list of the jewels?”
“Yes, I believe Inspector Japp is here now if you would like to see him.”
IV
Japp was an old friend of ours, and greeted Poirot with a sort of affectionate
contempt.
“And how are you, monsieur? No bad feeling between us, though we have
got our different ways of looking at things. How are the ‘little grey cells,’ eh?
Going strong?”
Poirot beamed upon him. “They function, my good Japp; assuredly they
do!”
“Then that’s all right. Think it was the Honourable Rupert, or a crook?
We’re keeping an eye on all the regular places, of course. We shall know if
the shiners are disposed of, and of course whoever did it isn’t going to keep
them to admire their sparkle. Not likely! I’m trying to find out where Rupert
Carrington was yesterday. Seems a bit of a mystery about it. I’ve got a man
watching him.”
“A great precaution, but perhaps a day late,” suggested Poirot gently.
“You always will have your joke, Monsieur Poirot. Well, I’m off to
Paddington. Bristol, Weston, Taunton, that’s my beat. So long.”
“You will come round and see me this evening, and tell me the result?”
“Sure thing, if I’m back.”
“The good inspector believes in matter in motion,” murmured Poirot as
our friend departed. “He travels; he measures footprints; he collects mud and
cigarette ash! He is extremely busy! He is zealous beyond words! And if I
mentioned psychology to him, do you know what he would do, my friend? He
would smile! He would say to himself: ‘Poor old Poirot! He ages! He grows
senile!’ Japp is the ‘younger generation knocking on the door.’ And ma foi!
They are so busy knocking that they do not notice that the door is open!”
“And what are you going to do?”
“As we have carte blanche, I shall expend threepence in ringing up the
Ritz—where you may have noticed our Count is staying. After that, as my
feet are a little damp, and I have sneezed twice, I shall return to my rooms and
make myself a tisane over the spirit lamp!”
V
I did not see Poirot again until the following morning. I found him placidly
finishing his breakfast.
“Well?” I inquired eagerly. “What has happened?”
“Nothing.”
“But Japp?”
“I have not seen him.”
“The Count?”
“He left the Ritz the day before yesterday.”
“The day of the murder?”
“Yes.”
“Then that settles it! Rupert Carrington is cleared.”
“Because the Count de la Rochefour has left the Ritz? You go too fast, my
friend.”
“Anyway, he must be followed, arrested! But what could be his motive?”
“One hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewellery is a very good motive
for anyone. No, the question to my mind is: why kill her? Why not simply
steal the jewels? She would not prosecute.”
“Why not?”
“Because she is a woman, mon ami. She once loved this man. Therefore
she would suffer her loss in silence. And the Count, who is an extremely good
psychologist where women are concerned—hence his successes—would
know that perfectly well! On the other hand, if Rupert Carrington killed her,
why take the jewels which would incriminate him fatally?”
“As a blind.”
“Perhaps you are right, my friend. Ah, here is Japp! I recognize his
knock.”
The inspector was beaming good-humouredly.
“Morning, Poirot. Only just got back. I’ve done some good work! And
you?”
“Me, I have arranged my ideas,” replied Poirot placidly.
Japp laughed heartily.
“Old chap’s getting on in years,” he observed beneath his breath to me.
“That won’t do for us young folk,” he said aloud.
“Quel dommage?” Poirot inquired.
“Well, do you want to hear what I’ve done?”
“You permit me to make a guess? You have found the knife with which
the crime was committed, by the side of the line between Weston and
Taunton, and you have interviewed the paperboy who spoke to Mrs.
Carrington at Weston!”
Japp’s jaw fell. “How on earth did you know? Don’t tell me it was those
almighty ‘little grey cells’ of yours!”
“I am glad you admit for once that they are all mighty! Tell me, did she
give the paperboy a shilling for himself?”
“No, it was half a crown!” Japp had recovered his temper, and grinned.
“Pretty extravagant, these rich Americans!”
“And in consequence the boy did not forget her?”
“Not he. Half-crowns don’t come his way every day. She hailed him and
bought two magazines. One had a picture of a girl in blue on the cover.
‘That’ll match me,’ she said. Oh, he remembered her perfectly. Well, that was
enough for me. By the doctor’s evidence, the crime must have been
committed before Taunton. I guessed they’d throw the knife away at once,
and I walked down the line looking for it; and sure enough, there it was. I
made inquiries at Taunton about our man, but of course it’s a big station, and
it wasn’t likely they’d notice him. He probably got back to London by a later
train.”
Poirot nodded. “Very likely.”
“But I found another bit of news when I got back. They’re passing the
jewels, all right! That large emerald was pawned last night—by one of the
regular lot. Who do you think it was?”
“I don’t know—except that he was a short man.”
Japp stared. “Well, you’re right there. He’s short enough. It was Red
Narky.”
“Who is Red Narky?” I asked.
“A particularly sharp jewel thief, sir. And not one to stick at murder.
Usually works with a woman—Gracie Kidd; but she doesn’t seem to be in it
this time—unless she’s got off to Holland with the rest of the swag.”
“You’ve arrested Narky?”
“Sure thing. But mind you, it’s the other man we want—the man who
went down with Mrs. Carrington in the train. He was the one who planned the
job, right enough. But Narky won’t squeal on a pal.”
I noticed Poirot’s eyes had become very green.
“I think,” he said gently, “that I can find Narky’s pal for you, all right.”
“One of your little ideas, eh?” Japp eyed Poirot sharply. “Wonderful how
you manage to deliver the goods sometimes, at your age and all. Devil’s own
luck, of course.”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” murmured my friend. “Hastings, my hat. And the
brush. So! My galoshes, if it still rains! We must not undo the good work of
that tisane. Au revoir, Japp!”
“Good luck to you, Poirot.”
Poirot hailed the first taxi we met, and directed the driver to Park Lane.
When we drew up before Halliday’s house, he skipped out nimbly, paid
the driver and rang the bell. To the footman who opened the door he made a
request in a low voice, and we were immediately taken upstairs. We went up
to the top of the house, and were shown into a small neat bedroom.
Poirot’s eyes roved round the room and fastened themselves on a small
black trunk. He knelt in front of it, scrutinized the labels on it, and took a
small twist of wire from his pocket.
“Ask Mr. Halliday if he will be so kind as to meet me here,” he said over
his shoulder to the footman.
The man departed, and Poirot gently coaxed the lock of the trunk with a
practised hand. In a few minutes the lock gave, and he raised the lid of the
trunk. Swiftly he began rummaging among the clothes it contained, flinging
them out on the floor.
There was a heavy step on the stairs, and Halliday entered the room.
“What in hell are you doing here?” he demanded, staring.
“I was looking, monsieur, for this.” Poirot withdrew from the trunk a coat
and skirt of bright blue frieze, and a small toque of white fox fur.
“What are you doing with my trunk?” I turned to see that the maid, Jane
Mason, had entered the room.
“If you will just shut the door, Hastings. Thank you. Yes, and stand with
your back against it. Now, Mr. Halliday, let me introduce you to Gracie Kidd,
otherwise Jane Mason, who will shortly rejoin her accomplice, Red Narky,
under the kind escort of Inspector Japp.”
VI
Poirot waved a deprecating hand. “It was of the most simple!” He helped
himself to more caviar.
“It was the maid’s insistence on the clothes that her mistress was wearing
that first struck me. Why was she so anxious that our attention should be
directed to them? I reflected that we had only the maid’s word for the
mysterious man in the carriage at Bristol. As far as the doctor’s evidence
went, Mrs. Carrington might easily have been murdered before reaching
Bristol. But if so, then the maid must be an accomplice. And if she were an
accomplice, she would not wish this point to rest on her evidence alone. The
clothes Mrs. Carrington was wearing were of a striking nature. A maid
usually has a good deal of choice as to what her mistress shall wear. Now if,
after Bristol, anyone saw a lady in a bright blue coat and skirt, and a fur
toque, he will be quite ready to swear he had seen Mrs. Carrington.
“I began to reconstruct. The maid would provide herself with duplicate
clothes. She and her accomplice chloroform and stab Mrs. Carrington
between London and Bristol, probably taking advantage of a tunnel. Her body
is rolled under the seat; and the maid takes her place. At Weston she must
make herself noticed. How? In all probability, a newspaper boy will be
selected. She will insure his remembering her by giving him a large tip. She
also drew his attention to the colour of her dress by a remark about one of the
magazines. After leaving Weston, she throws the knife out of the window to
mark the place where the crime presumably occurred, and changes her
clothes, or buttons a long mackintosh over them. At Taunton she leaves the
train and returns to Bristol as soon as possible, where her accomplice has duly
left the luggage in the cloakroom. He hands over the ticket and himself
returns to London. She waits on the platform, carrying out her role, goes to a
hotel for the night and returns to town in the morning, exactly as she said.
“When Japp returned from his expedition, he confirmed all my
deductions. He also told me that a well-known crook was passing the jewels. I
knew that whoever it was would be the exact opposite of the man Jane Mason
described. When I heard that it was Red Narky, who always worked with
Gracie Kidd—well, I knew just where to find her.”
“And the Count?”
“The more I thought of it, the more I was convinced that he had nothing to
do with it. That gentleman is much too careful of his own skin to risk murder.
It would be out of keeping with his character.”
“Well, Monsieur Poirot,” said Halliday, “I owe you a big debt. And the
cheque I write after lunch won’t go near to settling it.”
Poirot smiled modestly, and murmured to me: “The good Japp, he shall
get the official credit, all right, but though he has got his Gracie Kidd, I think
that I, as the Americans say, have got his goat!”
Six
THE ADVENTURE OF “THE WESTERN STAR”
“The Adventure of ‘The Western Star’ ” was first published in The Sketch, April 11, 1923.
I was standing at the window of Poirot’s rooms looking out idly on the street
below.
“That’s queer,” I ejaculated suddenly beneath my breath.
“What is, mon ami?” asked Poirot placidly, from the depths of his
comfortable chair.
“Deduce, Poirot, from the following facts! Here is a young lady, richly
dressed—fashionable hat, magnificent furs. She is coming along slowly,
looking up at the houses as she goes. Unknown to her, she is being shadowed
by three men and a middle-aged woman. They have just been joined by an
errand boy who points after the girl, gesticulating as he does so. What drama
is this being played? Is the girl a crook, and are the shadows detectives
preparing to arrest her? Or are they the scoundrels, and are they plotting to
attack an innocent victim? What does the great detective say?”
“The great detective, mon ami, chooses, as ever, the simplest course. He
rises to see for himself.” And my friend joined me at the window.
In a minute he gave vent to an amused chuckle.
“As usual, your facts are tinged with your incurable romanticism. This is
Miss Mary Marvell, the film star. She is being followed by a bevy of admirers
who have recognized her. And, en passant, my dear Hastings, she is quite
aware of the fact!”
I laughed.
“So all is explained! But you get no marks for that, Poirot. It was a mere
matter of recognition.”
“En vérité! And how many times have you seen Mary Marvell on the
screen, mon cher?”
I thought.
“About a dozen times perhaps.”
“And I—once! Yet I recognize her, and you do not.”
“She looks so different,” I replied rather feebly.
“Ah! Sacré!” cried Poirot. “Is it that you expect her to promenade herself
in the streets of London in a cowboy hat, or with bare feet, and a bunch of
curls, as an Irish colleen? Always with you it is the nonessentials! Remember
the case of the dancer, Valerie Saintclair.”
I shrugged my shoulders, slightly annoyed.
“But console yourself, mon ami,” said Poirot, calming down. “All cannot
be as Hercule Poirot! I know it well.”
“You really have the best opinion of yourself of anyone I ever knew!” I
cried, divided between amusement and annoyance.
“What will you? When one is unique, one knows it! And others share that
opinion—even, if I mistake it not, Miss Mary Marvell.”
“What?”
“Without doubt. She is coming here.”
“How do you make that out?”
“Very simply. This street, it is not aristocratic, mon ami! In it there is no
fashionable doctor, no fashionable dentist—still less is there a fashionable
milliner! But there is a fashionable detective. Oui, my friend, it is true—I am
become the mode, the dernier cri! One says to another: ‘Comment? You have
lost your gold pencil case? You must go to the little Belgian. He is too
marvellous! Everyone goes! Courez!’ And they arrive! In flocks, mon ami!
With problems of the most foolish!” A bell rang below. “What did I tell you?
That is Miss Marvell.”
As usual, Poirot was right. After a short interval, the American film star
was ushered in, and we rose to our feet.
Mary Marvell was undoubtedly one of the most popular actresses on the
screen. She had only lately arrived in England in company with her husband,
Gregory B. Rolf, also a film actor. Their marriage had taken place about a
year ago in the States and this was their first visit to England. They had been
given a great reception. Everyone was prepared to go mad over Mary
Marvell, her wonderful clothes, her furs, her jewels, above all one jewel, the
great diamond which had been nicknamed, to match its owner, “The Western
Star.” Much, true and untrue, had been written about this famous stone which
was reported to be insured for the enormous sum of fifty thousand pounds.
All these details passed rapidly through my mind as I joined with Poirot in
greeting our fair client.
Miss Marvell was small and slender, very fair and girlish looking, with the
wide innocent blue eyes of a child.
Poirot drew forward a chair for her, and she commenced talking at once.
“You will probably think me very foolish, Monsieur Poirot, but Lord
Cronshaw was telling me last night how wonderfully you cleared up the
mystery of his nephew’s death, and I felt that I just must have your advice. I
dare say it’s only a silly hoax—Gregory says so—but it’s just worrying me to
death.”
She paused for breath. Poirot beamed encouragement.
“Proceed, madame. You comprehend, I am still in the dark.”
“It’s these letters.” Miss Marvell unclasped her handbag, and drew out
three envelopes which she handed to Poirot.
The latter scrutinized them closely.
“Cheap paper—the name and address carefully printed. Let us see the
inside.” He drew out the enclosure.
I had joined him, and was leaning over his shoulder. The writing consisted
of a single sentence, carefully printed like the envelope. It ran as follows:
“The great diamond which is the left eye of the god must return
whence it came.”
The second letter was couched in precisely the same terms, but the third was
more explicit:
“You have been warned. You have not obeyed. Now the diamond will
be taken from you. At the full of the moon, the two diamonds which are
the left and right eye of the god shall return. So it is written.”
“The first letter I treated as a joke,” explained Miss Marvell. “When I got the
second, I began to wonder. The third one came yesterday, and it seemed to me
that, after all, the matter might be more serious than I had imagined.”
“I see they did not come by post, these letters.”
“No; they were left by hand—by a Chinaman. That is what frightens me.”
“Why?”
“Because it was from a Chink in San Francisco that Gregory bought the
stone three years ago.”
“I see, madame, that you believe the diamond referred to to be—”
“ ‘The Western Star,’ ” finished Miss Marvell. “That’s so. At the time,
Gregory remembers that there was some story attached to the stone, but the
Chink wasn’t handing out any information. Gregory says he seemed just
scared to death, and in a mortal hurry to get rid of the thing. He only asked
about a tenth of its value. It was Greg’s wedding present to me.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
“The story seems of an almost unbelievable romanticism. And yet—who
knows? I pray of you, Hastings, hand me my little almanac.”
I complied.
“Voyons!” said Poirot, turning the leaves. “When is the date of the full
moon? Ah, Friday next. That is in three days’ time. Eh bien, madame, you
seek my advice—I give it to you. This belle histoire may be a hoax—but it
may not! Therefore I counsel you to place the diamond in my keeping until
after Friday next. Then we can take what steps we please.”
A slight cloud passed over the actress’s face, and she replied
constrainedly:
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“You have it with you—hein?” Poirot was watching her narrowly.
The girl hesitated a moment, then slipped her hand into the bosom of her
gown, drawing out a long thin chain. She leaned forward, unclosing her hand.
In the palm, a stone of white fire, exquisitely set in platinum, lay and winked
at us solemnly.
Poirot drew in his breath with a long hiss.
“Épatant!” he murmured. “You permit, madame?” He took the jewel in
his own hand and scrutinized it keenly, then restored it to her with a little bow.
“A magnificent stone—without a flaw. Ah, cent tonnerres! and you carry it
about with you, comme ça!”
“No, no, I’m very careful really, Monsieur Poirot. As a rule it’s locked up
in my jewel case, and left in the hotel safe deposit. We’re staying at the
Magnificent, you know. I just brought it along today for you to see.”
“And you will leave it with me, n’est-ce pas? You will be advised by Papa
Poirot?”
“Well, you see, it’s this way, Monsieur Poirot. On Friday we’re going
down to Yardly Chase to spend a few days with Lord and Lady Yardly.”
Her words awoke a vague echo of remembrance in my mind. Some gossip
—what was it now? A few years ago Lord and Lady Yardly had paid a visit to
the States, rumour had it that his lordship had rather gone the pace out there
with the assistance of some lady friends—but surely there was something
more, more gossip which coupled Lady Yardly’s name with that of a “movie”
star in California—why! it came to me in a flash—of course it was none other
than Gregory B. Rolf.
“I’ll let you into a little secret, Monsieur Poirot,” Miss Marvell was
continuing. “We’ve got a deal on with Lord Yardly. There’s some chance of
our arranging to film a play down there in his ancestral pile.”
“At Yardly Chase?” I cried, interested. “Why, it’s one of the showplaces
of England.”
Miss Marvell nodded.
“I guess it’s the real old feudal stuff all right. But he wants a pretty stiff
price, and of course I don’t know yet whether the deal will go through, but
Greg and I always like to combine business with pleasure.”
“But—I demand pardon if I am dense, madame—surely it is possible to
visit Yardly Chase without taking the diamond with you?”
A shrewd, hard look came into Miss Marvell’s eyes which belied their
childlike appearance. She looked suddenly a good deal older.
“I want to wear it down there.”
“Surely,” I said suddenly, “there are some very famous jewels in the
Yardly collection, a large diamond amongst them?”
“That’s so,” said Miss Marvell briefly.
I heard Poirot murmur beneath his breath: “Ah, c’est comme ça!” Then he
said aloud, with his usual uncanny luck in hitting the bull’s-eye (he dignifies
it by the name of psychology): “Then you are without doubt already
acquainted with Lady Yardly, or perhaps your husband is?”
“Gregory knew her when she was out West three years ago,” said Miss
Marvell. She hesitated a moment, and then added abruptly: “Do either of you
ever see Society Gossip?”
We both pleaded guilty rather shamefacedly.
“I ask because in this week’s number there is an article on famous jewels,
and it’s really very curious—” She broke off.
I rose, went to the table at the other side of the room and returned with the
paper in question in my hand. She took it from me, found the article, and
began to read aloud:
“. . . Amongst other famous stones may be included The Star of the
East, a diamond in the possession of the Yardly family. An ancestor of
the present Lord Yardly brought it back with him from China, and a
romantic story is said to attach to it. According to this, the stone was
once the right eye of a temple god. Another diamond, exactly similar
in form and size, formed the left eye, and the story goes that this
jewel, too, would in course of time be stolen. ‘One eye shall go West,
the other East, till they shall meet once more. Then, in triumph shall
they return to the god.’ It is a curious coincidence that there is at the
present time a stone corresponding closely in description with this
one, and known as ‘The Star of the West,’ or ‘The Western Star.’ It is
the property of the celebrated film star, Miss Mary Marvell. A
comparison of the two stones would be interesting.”
She stopped.
“Épatant!” murmured Poirot. “Without doubt a romance of the first
water.” He turned to Mary Marvell. “And you are not afraid, madame? You
have no superstitious terrors? You do not fear to introduce these two Siamese
twins to each other lest a Chinaman should appear and, hey presto! whisk
them both back to China?”
His tone was mocking, but I fancied that an undercurrent of seriousness
lay beneath it.
“I don’t believe that Lady Yardly’s diamond is anything like as good as
mine,” said Miss Marvell. “Anyway, I’m going to see.”
What more Poirot would have said I do not know, for at that moment the
door flew open, and a splendid-looking man strode into the room. From his
crisply curling black head, to the tips of his patent leather boots, he was a hero
fit for romance.
“I said I’d call round for you, Mary,” said Gregory Rolf, “and here I am.
Well, what does Monsieur Poirot say to our little problem? Just one big hoax,
same as I do?”
Poirot smiled up at the big actor. They made a ridiculous contrast.
“Hoax or no hoax, Mr. Rolf,” he said dryly, “I have advised Madame your
wife not to take the jewel with her to Yardly Chase on Friday.”
“I’m with you there, sir. I’ve already said so to Mary. But there! She’s a
woman through and through, and I guess she can’t bear to think of another
woman outshining her in the jewel line.”
“What nonsense, Gregory!” said Mary Marvell sharply. But she flushed
angrily.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Madame, I have advised. I can do no more. C’est fini.”
He bowed them both to the door.
“Ah! la la,” he observed, returning. “Histoire des femmes! The good
husband, he hit the nail—tout de même, but he was not tactful! Assuredly
not.”
I imparted to him my vague remembrances, and he nodded vigorously.
“So I thought. All the same, there is something curious underneath all this.
With your permission, mon ami, I will take the air. Await my return, I beg of
you, I shall not be long.”
I was half asleep in my chair when the landlady tapped on the door, and
put her head in.
“It’s another lady to see Mr. Poirot, sir. I’ve told her he was out, but she
says as how she’ll wait, seeing as she’s come up from the country.”
“Oh, show her in here, Mrs. Murchinson. Perhaps I can do something for
her.”
In another moment the lady had been ushered in. My heart gave a leap as I
recognized her. Lady Yardly’s portrait had figured too often in the Society
papers to allow her to remain unknown.
“Do sit down, Lady Yardly,” I said, drawing forward a chair. “My friend,
Poirot, is out, but I know for a fact that he’ll be back very shortly.”
She thanked me and sat down. A very different type, this, from Miss Mary
Marvell. Tall, dark, with flashing eyes, and a pale proud face—yet something
wistful in the curves of the mouth.
I felt a desire to rise to the occasion. Why not? In Poirot’s presence I have
frequently felt a difficulty—I do not appear at my best. And yet there is no
doubt that I, too, possess the deductive sense in a marked degree. I leant
forward on a sudden impulse.
“Lady Yardly,” I said, “I know why you have come here. You have
received blackmailing letters about the diamond.”
There was no doubt as to my bolt having shot home. She stared at me
openmouthed, all colour banished from her cheeks.
“You know?” she gasped. “How?”
I smiled.
“By a perfectly logical process. If Miss Marvell has had warning letters
—”
“Miss Marvell? She has been here?”
“She has just left. As I was saying, if she, as the holder of one of the twin
diamonds, has received a mysterious series of warnings, you, as the holder of
the other stone, must necessarily have done the same. You see how simple it
is? I am right, then, you have received these strange communications also?”
For a moment she hesitated, as though in doubt whether to trust me or not,
then she bowed her head in assent with a little smile.
“That is so,” she acknowledged.
“Were yours, too, left by hand—by a Chinaman?”
“No, they came by post; but tell me, has Miss Marvell undergone the
same experience, then?”
I recounted to her the events of the morning. She listened attentively.
“It all fits in. My letters are the duplicate of hers. It is true that they came
by post, but there is a curious perfume impregnating them—something in the
nature of joss stick—that at once suggested the East to me. What does it all
mean?”
I shook my head.
“That is what we must find out. You have the letters with you? We might
learn something from the postmarks.”
“Unfortunately I destroyed them. You understand, at the time I regarded it
as some foolish joke. Can it be true that some Chinese gang are really trying
to recover the diamonds? It seems too incredible.”
We went over the facts again and again, but could get no further towards
the elucidation of the mystery. At last Lady Yardly rose.
“I really don’t think I need wait for Monsieur Poirot. You can tell him all
this, can’t you? Thank you so much Mr.—”
She hesitated, her hand outstretched.
“Captain Hastings.”
“Of course! How stupid of me. You’re a friend of the Cavendishes, aren’t
you? It was Mary Cavendish who sent me to Monsieur Poirot.”
When my friend returned, I enjoyed telling him the tale of what had
occurred during his absence. He cross-questioned me rather sharply over the
details of our conversation and I could read between the lines that he was not
best pleased to have been absent. I also fancied that the dear old fellow was
just the least inclined to be jealous. It had become rather a pose with him to
consistently belittle my abilities, and I think he was chagrined at finding no
loophole for criticism. I was secretly rather pleased with myself, though I
tried to conceal the fact for fear of irritating him. In spite of his
idiosyncrasies, I was deeply attached to my quaint little friend.
“Bien!” he said at length, with a curious look on his face. “The plot
develops. Pass me, I pray you, that Peerage on the top shelf there.” He turned
the leaves. “Ah, here we are! ‘Yardly . . . 10th viscount, served South African
War . . .’ tout ça n’a pas d’importance . . . ‘mar. 1907 Hon. Maude
Stopperton, fourth daughter of 3rd Baron Cotteril . . .’ um, um, um . . . ‘has
iss. two daughters, born 1908, 1910 . . . Clubs, residences . . . ’ Voilà, that
does not tell us much. But tomorrow morning we see this milord!”
“What?”
“Yes. I telephoned to him.”
“I thought you had washed your hands of the case?”
“I am not acting for Miss Marvell since she refuses to be guided by my
advice. What I do now is for my own satisfaction—the satisfaction of Hercule
Poirot! Decidedly, I must have a finger in this pie.”
“And you calmly wire Lord Yardly to dash up to town just to suit your
convenience. He won’t be pleased.”
“Au contraire, if I preserve for him his family diamond, he ought to be
very grateful.”
“Then you really think there is any chance of it being stolen?” I asked
eagerly.
“Almost a certainty,” replied Poirot placidly. “Everything points that
way.”
“But how—”
Poirot stopped my eager questions with an airy gesture of the hand.
“Not now, I pray you. Let us not confuse the mind. And observe that
Peerage—how you have replaced him! See you not that the tallest books go
in the top shelf, the next tallest in the row beneath, and so on. Thus we have
order, method, which, as I have often told you, Hastings—”
“Exactly,” I said hastily, and put the offending volume in its proper place.
II
Lord Yardly turned out to be a cheery, loud-voiced sportsman with a rather
red face, but with a good-humoured bonhomie about him that was distinctly
attractive and made up for any lack of mentality.
“Extraordinary business this, Monsieur Poirot. Can’t make head or tail of
it. Seems my wife’s been getting odd kind of letters, and that Miss Marvell’s
had ’em too. What does it all mean?”
Poirot handed him the copy of Society Gossip.
“First, milord, I would ask you if these facts are substantially correct?”
The peer took it. His face darkened with anger as he read.
“Damned nonsense!” he spluttered. “There’s never been any romantic
story attaching to the diamond. It came from India originally, I believe. I
never heard of all this Chinese god stuff.”
“Still, the stone is known as ‘The Star of the East.’ ”
“Well, what if it is?” he demanded wrathfully.
Poirot smiled a little, but made no direct reply.
“What I would ask you to do, milord, is to place yourself in my hands. If
you do so unreservedly, I have great hopes of averting the catastrophe.”
“Then you think there’s actually something in these wildcat tales?”
“Will you do as I ask you?”
“Of course I will, but—”
“Bien! Then permit that I ask you a few questions. This affair of Yardly
Chase, is it, as you say, all fixed up between you and Mr. Rolf?”
“Oh, he told you about it, did he? No, there’s nothing settled.” He
hesitated, the brick-red colour of his face deepening. “Might as well get the
thing straight. I’ve made rather an ass of myself in many ways, Monsieur
Poirot—and I’m head over ears in debt—but I want to pull up. I’m fond of the
kids, and I want to straighten things up, and be able to live on at the old place.
Gregory Rolf is offering me big money—enough to set me on my feet again. I
don’t want to do it—I hate the thought of all that crowd playacting round the
Chase—but I may have to, unless—” He broke off.
Poirot eyed him keenly. “You have, then, another string to your bow?
Permit that I make a guess? It is to sell The Star of the East?”
Lord Yardly nodded. “That’s it. It’s been in the family for some
generations, but it’s not essential. Still, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to
find a purchaser. Hoffberg, the Hatton Garden man, is on the lookout for a
likely customer, but he’ll have to find one soon, or it’s a washout.”
“One more question, permettez—Lady Yardly, which plan does she
approve?”
“Oh, she’s bitterly opposed to my selling the jewel. You know what
women are. She’s all for this film stunt.”
“I comprehend,” said Poirot. He remained a moment or so in thought, then
rose briskly to his feet. “You return to Yardly Chase at once? Bien! Say no
word to anyone—to anyone, mind—but expect us there this evening. We will
arrive shortly after five.”
“All right, but I don’t see—”
“Ça n’a pas d’importance,” said Poirot kindly. “You will that I preserve
for you your diamond, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then do as I say.”
A sadly bewildered nobleman left the room.
III
It was half past five when we arrived at Yardly Chase, and followed the
dignified butler to the old panelled hall with its fire of blazing logs. A pretty
picture met our eyes: Lady Yardly and her two children, the mother’s proud
dark head bent down over the two fair ones. Lord Yardly stood near, smiling
down on them.
“Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings,” announced the butler.
Lady Yardly looked up with a start, for her husband came forward
uncertainly, his eyes seeking instruction from Poirot. The little man was equal
to the occasion.
“All my excuses! It is that I investigate still this affair of Miss Marvell’s.
She comes to you on Friday, does she not? I make a little tour first to make
sure that all is secure. Also I wanted to ask Lady Yardly if she recollected at
all the postmarks on the letters she received?”
Lady Yardly shook her head regretfully. “I’m afraid I don’t. It’s stupid of
me. But, you see, I never dreamt of taking them seriously.”
“You’ll stay the night?” said Lord Yardly.
“Oh, milord, I fear to incommode you. We have left our bags at the inn.”
“That’s all right.” Lord Yardly had his cue. “We’ll send down for them.
No, no—no trouble, I assure you.”
Poirot permitted himself to be persuaded, and sitting down by Lady
Yardly, began to make friends with the children. In a short time they were all
romping together, and had dragged me into the game.
“Vous êtes bonne mère,” said Poirot, with a gallant little bow, as the
children were removed reluctantly by a stern nurse.
Lady Yardly smoothed her ruffled hair.
“I adore them,” she said with a little catch in her voice.
“And they you—with reason!” Poirot bowed again.
A dressing gong sounded, and we rose to go up to our rooms. At that
moment the butler emerged with a telegram on a salver which he handed to
Lord Yardly. The latter tore it open with a brief word of apology. As he read it
he stiffened visibly.
With an ejaculation he handed it to his wife. Then he glanced at my
friend.
“Just a minute, Monsieur Poirot, I feel you ought to know about this. It’s
from Hoffberg. He thinks he’s found a customer for the diamond—an
American, sailing for the States tomorrow. They’re sending down a chap
tonight to vet the stone. By Jove, though, if this goes through—” Words failed
him.
Lady Yardly had turned away. She still held the telegram in her hand.
“I wish you wouldn’t sell it, George,” she said, in a low voice. “It’s been
in the family so long.” She waited, as though for a reply, but when none came
her face hardened. She shrugged her shoulders. “I must go and dress. I
suppose I had better display ‘the goods.’ ” She turned to Poirot with a slight
grimace. “It’s one of the most hideous necklaces that was ever designed!
George has always promised to have the stones reset for me, but it’s never
been done.” She left the room.
Half an hour later, we three were assembled in the great drawing room
awaiting the lady. It was already a few minutes past the dinner hour.
Suddenly there was a low rustle, and Lady Yardly appeared framed in the
doorway, a radiant figure in a long white shimmering dress. Round the
column of her neck was a rivulet of fire. She stood there with one hand just
touching the necklace.
“Behold the sacrifice,” she said gaily. Her ill-humour seemed to have
vanished. “Wait while I turn the big light on and you shall feast your eyes on
the ugliest necklace in England.”
The switches were just outside the door. As she stretched out her hand to
them, the incredible thing happened. Suddenly, without any warning, every
light was extinguished, the door banged, and from the other side of it came a
long-drawn piercing woman’s scream.
“My God!” cried Lord Yardly. “That was Maude’s voice! What has
happened?”
We rushed blindly for the door, cannoning into each other in the darkness.
It was some minutes before we could find it. What a sight met our eyes! Lady
Yardly lay senseless on the marble floor, a crimson mark on her white throat
where the necklace had been wrenched from her neck.
As we bent over her, uncertain for the moment whether she was dead or
alive, her eyelids opened.
“The Chinaman,” she whispered painfully. “The Chinaman—the side
door.”
Lord Yardly sprang up with an oath. I accompanied him, my heart beating
wildly. The Chinaman again! The side door in question was a small one in the
angle of the wall, not more than a dozen yards from the scene of the tragedy.
As we reached it, I gave a cry. There, just short of the threshold, lay the
glittering necklace, evidently dropped by the thief in the panic of his flight. I
swooped joyously down on it. Then I uttered another cry which Lord Yardly
echoed. For in the middle of the necklace was a great gap. The Star of the
East was missing!
“That settles it,” I breathed. “These were no ordinary thieves. This one
stone was all they wanted.”
“But how did the fellow get in?”
“Through this door.”
“But it’s always locked.”
I shook my head. “It’s not locked now. See.” I pulled it open as I spoke.
As I did so something fluttered to the ground. I picked it up. It was a piece
of silk, and the embroidery was unmistakable. It had been torn from a
Chinaman’s robe.
“In his haste it caught in the door,” I explained. “Come, hurry. He cannot
have gone far as yet.”
But in vain we hunted and searched. In the pitch darkness of the night, the
thief had found it easy to make his getaway. We returned reluctantly, and Lord
Yardly sent off one of the footmen posthaste to fetch the police.
Lady Yardly, aptly ministered to by Poirot, who is as good as a woman in
these matters, was sufficiently recovered to be able to tell her story.
“I was just going to turn on the other light,” she said, “when a man sprang
on me from behind. He tore my necklace from my neck with such force that I
fell headlong to the floor. As I fell I saw him disappearing through the side
door. Then I realized by the pigtail and the embroidered robe that he was a
Chinaman.” She stopped with a shudder.
The butler reappeared. He spoke in a low voice to Lord Yardly.
“A gentleman from Mr. Hoffberg’s, m’lord. He says you expect him.”
“Good heavens!” cried the distracted nobleman. “I must see him, I
suppose. No, not here, Mullings, in the library.”
I drew Poirot aside.
“Look here, my dear fellow, hadn’t we better get back to London?”
“You think so, Hastings? Why?”
“Well”—I coughed delicately—“things haven’t gone very well, have
they? I mean, you tell Lord Yardly to place himself in your hands and all will
be well—and then the diamond vanishes from under your very nose!”
“True,” said Poirot, rather crestfallen. “It was not one of my most striking
triumphs.”
This way of describing events almost caused me to smile, but I stuck to
my guns.
“So, having—pardon the expression—rather made a mess of things, don’t
you think it would be more graceful to leave immediately?”
“And the dinner, the without doubt excellent dinner, that the chef of Lord
Yardly has prepared?”
“Oh, what’s dinner!” I said impatiently.
Poirot held up his hands in horror.
“Mon Dieu! It is that in this country you treat the affairs gastronomic with
a criminal indifference.”
“There’s another reason why we should get back to London as soon as
possible,” I continued.
“What is that, my friend?”
“The other diamond,” I said, lowering my voice. “Miss Marvell’s.”
“Eh bien, what of it?”
“Don’t you see?” His unusual obtuseness annoyed me. What had
happened to his usually keen wits? “They’ve got one, now they’ll go for the
other.”
“Tiens!” cried Poirot, stepping back a pace and regarding me with
admiration. “But your brain marches to a marvel, my friend! Figure to
yourself that for the moment I had not thought of that! But there is plenty of
time. The full of the moon, it is not until Friday.”
I shook my head dubiously. The full of the moon theory left me entirely
cold. I had my way with Poirot, however, and we departed immediately,
leaving behind us a note of explanation and apology for Lord Yardly.
My idea was to go at once to the Magnificent, and relate to Miss Marvell
what had occurred, but Poirot vetoed the plan, and insisted that the morning
would be time enough. I gave in rather grudgingly.
In the morning Poirot seemed strangely disinclined to stir out. I began to
suspect that, having made a mistake to start with, he was singularly loath to
proceed with the case. In answer to my persuasions, he pointed out, with
admirable common sense, that as the details of the affair at Yardly Chase were
already in the morning papers the Rolfs would know quite as much as we
could tell them. I gave way unwillingly.
Events proved my forebodings to be justified. About two o’clock, the
telephone rang. Poirot answered it. He listened for some moments, then with a
brief “Bien, j’y serai” he rang off, and turned to me.
“What do you think, mon ami?” He looked half ashamed, half excited.
“The diamond of Miss Marvell, it has been stolen.”
“What?” I cried, springing up. “And what about the ‘full of the moon’
now?” Poirot hung his head. “When did this happen?”
“This morning, I understand.”
I shook my head sadly. “If only you had listened to me. You see I was
right.”
“It appears so, mon ami,” said Poirot cautiously. “Appearances are
deceptive, they say, but it certainly appears so.”
As we hurried in a taxi to the Magnificent, I puzzled out the true
inwardness of the scheme.
“That ‘full of the moon’ idea was clever. The whole point of it was to get
us to concentrate on the Friday, and so be off our guard beforehand. It is a pity
you did not realize that.”
“Ma foi!” said Poirot airily, his nonchalance quite restored after its brief
eclipse. “One cannot think of everything!”
I felt sorry for him. He did so hate failure of any kind.
“Cheer up,” I said consolingly. “Better luck next time.”
At the Magnificent, we were ushered at once into the manager’s office.
Gregory Rolf was there with two men from Scotland Yard. A pale-faced clerk
sat opposite them.
Rolf nodded to us as we entered.
“We’re getting to the bottom of it,” he said. “But it’s almost unbelievable.
How the guy had the nerve I can’t think.”
A very few minutes sufficed to give us the facts. Mr. Rolf had gone out of
the hotel at 11:15. At 11:30, a gentleman, so like him in appearance as to pass
muster, entered the hotel and demanded the jewel case from the safe deposit.
He duly signed the receipt, remarking carelessly as he did so: “Looks a bit
different from my ordinary one, but I hurt my hand getting out of the taxi.”
The clerk merely smiled and remarked that he saw very little difference. Rolf
laughed and said: “Well, don’t run me in as a crook this time, anyway. I’ve
been getting threatening letters from a Chinaman, and the worst of it is I look
rather like a Chink myself—it’s something about the eyes.”
“I looked at him,” said the clerk who was telling us this, “and I saw at
once what he meant. The eyes slanted up at the corners like an Oriental’s. I’d
never noticed it before.”
“Darn it all, man,” roared Gregory Rolf, leaning forward, “do you notice
it now?”
The man looked up at him and started.
“No, sir,” he said. “I can’t say I do.” And indeed there was nothing even
remotely Oriental about the frank brown eyes that looked into ours.
The Scotland Yard man grunted. “Bold customer. Thought the eyes might
be noticed, and took the bull by the horns to disarm suspicion. He must have
watched you out of the hotel, sir, and nipped in as soon as you were well
away.”
“What about the jewel case?” I asked.
“It was found in the corridor of the hotel. Only one thing had been taken
—‘The Western Star.’ ”
We stared at each other—the whole thing was so bizarre, so unreal.
Poirot hopped briskly to his feet. “I have not been of much use, I fear,” he
said regretfully. “Is it permitted to see Madame?”
“I guess she’s prostrated with the shock,” exclaimed Rolf.
“Then perhaps I might have a few words alone with you, monsieur?”
“Certainly.”
In about five minutes Poirot reappeared.
“Now, my friend,” he said gaily. “To a post office. I have to send a
telegram.”
“Who to?”
“Lord Yardly.” He discounted further inquiries by slipping his arm
through mine. “Come, come, mon ami. I know all that you feel about this
terrible business. I have not distinguished myself! You, in my place, might
have distinguished yourself. Bien! All is admitted. Let us forget it and have
lunch.”
It was about four o’clock when we entered Poirot’s rooms. A figure rose
from a chair by the window. It was Lord Yardly. He looked haggard and
distraught.
“I got your wire and came up at once. Look here, I’ve been round to
Hoffberg, and they know nothing about that man of theirs last night, or the
wire either. Do you think that—”
Poirot held up his hand.
“My excuses! I sent that wire, and hired the gentleman in question.”
“You—but why? What?” The nobleman spluttered impotently.
“My little idea was to bring things to a head,” explained Poirot placidly.
“Bring things to a head! Oh, my God!” cried Lord Yardly.
“And the ruse succeeded,” said Poirot cheerfully. “Therefore, milord, I
have much pleasure in returning you—this!” With a dramatic gesture he
produced a glittering object. It was a great diamond.
“The Star of the East,” gasped Lord Yardly. “But I don’t understand—”
“No?” said Poirot. “It makes no matter. Believe me, it was necessary for
the diamond to be stolen. I promised you that it would be preserved to you,
and I have kept my word. You must permit me to keep my little secret.
Convey, I beg of you, the assurance of my deepest respect to Lady Yardly, and
tell her how pleased I am to be able to restore her jewel to her. What beau
temps, is it not? Good day, milord.”
And smiling and talking, the amazing little man conducted the bewildered
nobleman to the door. He returned gently rubbing his hands.
“Poirot,” I said. “Am I quite demented?”
“No, mon ami, but you are, as always, in a mental fog.”
“How did you get the diamond?”
“From Mr. Rolf.”
“Rolf?”
“Mais oui! The warning letters, the Chinaman, the article in Society
Gossip, all sprang from the ingenious brain of Mr. Rolf! The two diamonds,
supposed to be so miraculously alike—bah! they did not exist. There was only
one diamond, my friend! Originally in the Yardly collection, for three years it
has been in the possession of Mr. Rolf. He stole it this morning with the
assistance of a touch of grease paint at the corner of each eye! Ah, I must see
him on the film, he is indeed an artist, celui-là!”
“But why should he steal his own diamond?” I asked, puzzled.
“For many reasons. To begin with, Lady Yardly was getting restive.”
“Lady Yardly?”
“You comprehend she was left much alone in California. Her husband was
amusing himself elsewhere. Mr. Rolf was handsome, he had an air about him
of romance. But au fond, he is very businesslike, ce monsieur! He made love
to Lady Yardly, and then he blackmailed her. I taxed the lady with the truth
the other night, and she admitted it. She swore that she had only been
indiscreet, and I believe her. But, undoubtedly, Rolf had letters of hers that
could be twisted to bear a different interpretation. Terrified by the threat of a
divorce, and the prospect of being separated from her children, she agreed to
all he wished. She had no money of her own, and she was forced to permit
him to substitute a paste replica for the real stone. The coincidence of the date
of the appearance of ‘The Western Star’ struck me at once. All goes well.
Lord Yardly prepares to range himself—to settle down. And then comes the
menace of the possible sale of the diamond. The substitution will be
discovered. Without doubt she writes off frantically to Gregory Rolf who has
just arrived in England. He soothes her by promising to arrange all—and
prepares for a double robbery. In this way he will quiet the lady, who might
conceivably tell all to her husband, an affair which would not suit our
blackmailer at all, he will have £50,000 insurance money (aha, you had
forgotten that!), and he will still have the diamond! At this point I put my
fingers in the pie. The arrival of a diamond expert is announced. Lady Yardly,
as I felt sure she would, immediately arranges a robbery—and does it very
well too! But Hercule Poirot, he sees nothing but facts. What happens in
actuality? The lady switches off the light, bangs the door, throws the necklace
down the passage, and screams. She has already wrenched out the diamond
with pliers upstairs—”
“But we saw the necklace round her neck!” I objected.
“I demand pardon, my friend. Her hand concealed the part of it where the
gap would have shown. To place a piece of silk in the door beforehand is
child’s play! Of course, as soon as Rolf read of the robbery, he arranged his
own little comedy. And very well he played it!”
“What did you say to him?” I asked with lively curiosity.
“I said to him that Lady Yardly had told her husband all, that I was
empowered to recover the jewel, and that if it were not immediately handed
over proceedings would be taken. Also a few more little lies which occurred
to me. He was as wax in my hands!”
I pondered the matter.
“It seems a little unfair on Mary Marvell. She has lost her diamond
through no fault of her own.”
“Bah!” said Poirot brutally. “She has a magnificent advertisement. That is
all she cares for, that one! Now the other, she is different. Bonne mère, très
femme!”
“Yes,” I said doubtfully, hardly sharing Poirot’s views on femininity. “I
suppose it was Rolf who sent her the duplicate letters.”
“Pas du tout,” said Poirot briskly. “She came by the advice of Mary
Cavendish to seek my aid in her dilemma. Then she heard that Mary Marvell,
whom she knew to be her enemy, had been here, and she changed her mind
jumping at a pretext that you, my friend, offered her. A very few questions
sufficed to show me that you told her of the letters, not she you! She jumped
at the chance your words offered.”
“I don’t believe it,” I cried, stung.
“Si, si, mon ami, it is a pity that you study not the psychology. She told
you that the letters were destroyed? Oh, la la, never does a woman destroy a
letter if she can avoid it! Not even if it would be more prudent to do so!”
“It’s all very well,” I said, my anger rising, “but you’ve made a perfect
fool of me! From beginning to end! No, it’s all very well to try and explain it
away afterwards. There really is a limit!”
“But you were so enjoying yourself, my friend, I had not the heart to
shatter your illusions.”
“It’s no good. You’ve gone a bit too far this time.”
“Mon Dieu! but how you enrage yourself for nothing, mon ami!”
“I’m fed up!” I went out, banging the door. Poirot had made an absolute
laughingstock of me. I decided that he needed a sharp lesson. I would let
some time elapse before I forgave him. He had encouraged me to make a
perfect fool of myself.
Seven
THE TRAGEDY AT MARSDON MANOR
“The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor” was first published in The Sketch, April 18, 1923.
I had been called away from town for a few days, and on my return found
Poirot in the act of strapping up his small valise.
“A la bonne heure, Hastings, I feared you would not have returned in time
to accompany me.”
“You are called away on a case, then?”
“Yes, though I am bound to admit that, on the face of it, the affair does not
seem promising. The Northern Union Insurance Company have asked me to
investigate the death of a Mr. Maltravers who a few weeks ago insured his life
with them for the large sum of fifty thousand pounds.”
“Yes?” I said, much interested.
“There was, of course, the usual suicide clause in the policy. In the event
of his committing suicide within a year the premiums would be forfeited. Mr.
Maltravers was duly examined by the Company’s own doctor, and although
he was a man slightly past the prime of life was passed as being in quite
sound health. However, on Wednesday last—the day before yesterday—the
body of Mr. Maltravers was found in the grounds of his house in Essex,
Marsdon Manor, and the cause of his death is described as some kind of
internal haemorrhage. That in itself would be nothing remarkable, but sinister
rumours as to Mr. Maltravers’ financial position have been in the air of late,
and the Northern Union have ascertained beyond any possible doubt that the
deceased gentleman stood upon the verge of bankruptcy. Now that alters
matters considerably. Maltravers had a beautiful young wife, and it is
suggested that he got together all the ready money he could for the purpose of
paying the premiums on a life insurance for his wife’s benefit, and then
committed suicide. Such a thing is not uncommon. In any case, my friend
Alfred Wright, who is a director of the Northern Union, has asked me to
investigate the facts of the case, but, as I told him, I am not very hopeful of
success. If the cause of the death had been heart failure, I should have been
more sanguine. Heart failure may always be translated as the inability of the
local GP to discover what his patient really did die of, but a haemorrhage
seems fairly definite. Still, we can but make some necessary inquiries. Five
minutes to pack your bag, Hastings, and we will take a taxi to Liverpool
Street.”
About an hour later, we alighted from a Great Eastern train at the little
station of Marsdon Leigh. Inquiries at the station yielded the information that
Marsdon Manor was about a mile distant. Poirot decided to walk, and we
betook ourselves along the main street.
“What is our plan of campaign?” I asked.
“First I will call upon the doctor. I have ascertained that there is only one
doctor in Marsdon Leigh, Dr. Ralph Bernard. Ah, here we are at his house.”
The house in question was a kind of superior cottage, standing back a
little from the road. A brass plate on the gate bore the doctor’s name. We
passed up the path and rang the bell.
We proved to be fortunate in our call. It was the doctor’s consulting hour,
and for the moment there were no patients waiting for him. Dr. Bernard was
an elderly man, high-shouldered and stooping, with a pleasant vagueness of
manner.
Poirot introduced himself and explained the purpose of our visit, adding
that Insurance Companies were bound to investigate fully in a case of this
kind.
“Of course, of course,” said Dr. Bernard vaguely. “I suppose, as he was
such a rich man, his life was insured for a big sum?”
“You consider him a rich man, doctor?”
The doctor looked rather surprised.
“Was he not? He kept two cars, you know, and Marsdon Manor is a pretty
big place to keep up, although I believe he bought it very cheap.”
“I understand that he had had considerable losses of late,” said Poirot,
watching the doctor narrowly.
The latter, however, merely shook his head sadly.
“Is that so? Indeed. It is fortunate for his wife, then, that there is this life
insurance. A very beautiful and charming young creature, but terribly
unstrung by this sad catastrophe. A mass of nerves, poor thing. I have tried to
spare her all I can, but of course the shock was bound to be considerable.”
“You had been attending Mr. Maltravers recently?”
“My dear sir, I never attended him.”
“What?”
“I understand Mr. Maltravers was a Christian Scientist—or something of
that kind.”
“But you examined the body?”
“Certainly. I was fetched by one of the undergardeners.”
“And the cause of death was clear?”
“Absolutely. There was blood on the lips, but most of the bleeding must
have been internal.”
“Was he still lying where he had been found?”
“Yes, the body had not been touched. He was lying at the edge of a small
plantation. He had evidently been out shooting rooks, a small rook rifle lay
beside him. The haemorrhage must have occurred quite suddenly. Gastric
ulcer, without a doubt.”
“No question of his having been shot, eh?”
“My dear sir!”
“I demand pardon,” said Poirot humbly. “But, if my memory is not at
fault, in the case of a recent murder, the doctor first gave a verdict of heart
failure—altering it when the local constable pointed out that there was a
bullet wound through the head!”
“You will not find any bullet wounds on the body of Mr. Maltravers,” said
Dr. Bernard dryly. “Now gentlemen, if there is nothing further—”
We took the hint.
“Good morning, and many thanks to you, doctor, for so kindly answering
our questions. By the way, you saw no need for an autopsy?”
“Certainly not.” The doctor became quite apoplectic. “The cause of death
was clear, and in my profession we see no need to distress unduly the
relatives of a dead patient.”
And, turning, the doctor slammed the door sharply in our faces.
“And what do you think of Dr. Bernard, Hastings?” inquired Poirot, as we
proceeded on our way to the Manor.
“Rather an old ass.”
“Exactly. Your judgements of character are always profound, my friend.”
I glanced at him uneasily, but he seemed perfectly serious. A twinkle,
however, came into his eye, and he added slyly:
“That is to say, where there is no question of a beautiful woman!”
I looked at him coldly.
On our arrival at the manor house, the door was opened to us by a middleaged parlourmaid. Poirot handed her his card, and a letter from the Insurance
Company for Mrs. Maltravers. She showed us into a small morning room, and
retired to tell her mistress. About ten minutes elapsed, and then the door
opened, and a slender figure in widow’s weeds stood upon the threshold.
“Monsieur Poirot?” she faltered.
“Madame!” Poirot sprang gallantly to his feet and hastened towards her.
“I cannot tell you how I regret to derange you in this way. But what will you?
Les affaires—they know no mercy.”
Mrs. Maltravers permitted him to lead her to a chair. Her eyes were red
with weeping, but the temporary disfigurement could not conceal her
extraordinary beauty. She was about twenty-seven or -eight, and very fair,
with large blue eyes and a pretty pouting mouth.
“It is something about my husband’s insurance, is it? But must I be
bothered now—so soon?”
“Courage, my dear madame. Courage! You see, your late husband insured
his life for rather a large sum, and in such a case the Company always has to
satisfy itself as to a few details. They have empowered me to act for them.
You can rest assured that I will do all in my power to render the matter not too
unpleasant for you. Will you recount to me briefly the sad events of
Wednesday?”
“I was changing for tea when my maid came up—one of the gardeners
had just run to the house. He had found—”
Her voice trailed away. Poirot pressed her hand sympathetically.
“I comprehend. Enough! You had seen your husband earlier in the
afternoon?”
“Not since lunch. I had walked down to the village for some stamps, and I
believe he was out pottering round the grounds.”
“Shooting rooks, eh?”
“Yes, he usually took his little rook rifle with him, and I heard one or two
shots in the distance.”
“Where is this little rook rifle now?”
“In the hall, I think.”
She led the way out of the room and found and handed the little weapon to
Poirot, who examined it cursorily.
“Two shots fired, I see,” he observed, as he handed it back. “And now,
madame, if I might see—”
He paused delicately.
“The servant shall take you,” she murmured, averting her head.
The parlourmaid, summoned, led Poirot upstairs. I remained with the
lovely and unfortunate woman. It was hard to know whether to speak or
remain silent. I essayed one or two general reflections to which she responded
absently, and in a very few minutes Poirot rejoined us.
“I thank you for all your courtesy, madame. I do not think you need be
troubled any further with this matter. By the way, do you know anything of
your husband’s financial position?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing whatever. I am very stupid over business things.”
“I see. Then you can give us no clue as to why he suddenly decided to
insure his life? He had not done so previously, I understand.”
“Well, we had only been married a little over a year. But, as to why he
insured his life, it was because he had absolutely made up his mind that he
would not live long. He had a strong premonition of his own death. I gather
that he had had one haemorrhage already, and that he knew that another one
would prove fatal. I tried to dispel these gloomy fears of his, but without
avail. Alas, he was only too right!”
Tears in her eyes, she bade us a dignified farewell. Poirot made a
characteristic gesture as we walked down the drive together.
“Eh bien, that is that! Back to London, my friend, there appears to be no
mouse in this mouse hole. And yet—”
“Yet what?”
“A slight discrepancy, that is all! You noticed it? You did not? Still, life is
full of discrepancies, and assuredly the man cannot have taken his life—there
is no poison that would fill his mouth with blood. No, no, I must resign
myself to the fact that all here is clear and aboveboard—but who is this?”
A tall young man was striding up the drive towards us. He passed us
without making any sign, but I noted that he was not ill-looking, with a lean,
deeply-bronzed face that spoke of life in a tropic clime. A gardener who was
sweeping up leaves had paused for a minute in his task, and Poirot ran quickly
up to him.
“Tell me, I pray you, who is that gentleman? Do you know him?”
“I don’t remember his name, sir, though I did hear it. He was staying
down here last week for a night. Tuesday, it was.”
“Quick, mon ami, let us follow him.”
We hastened up the drive after the retreating figure. A glimpse of a blackrobed figure on the terrace at the side of the house, and our quarry swerved
and we after him, so that we were witnesses of the meeting.
Mrs. Maltravers almost staggered where she stood, and her face blanched
noticeably.
“You,” she gasped. “I thought you were on the sea—on your way to East
Africa?”
“I got some news from my lawyers that detained me,” explained the
young man. “My old uncle in Scotland died unexpectedly and left me some
money. Under the circumstances I thought it better to cancel my passage.
Then I saw this bad news in the paper and I came down to see if there was
anything I could do. You’ll want someone to look after things for you a bit
perhaps.”
At that moment they became aware of our presence. Poirot stepped
forward, and with many apologies explained that he had left his stick in the
hall. Rather reluctantly, it seemed to me, Mrs. Maltravers made the necessary
introduction.
“Monsieur Poirot, Captain Black.”
A few minutes’ chat ensued, in the course of which Poirot elicited the fact
that Captain Black was putting up at the Anchor Inn. The missing stick not
having been discovered (which was not surprising), Poirot uttered more
apologies and we withdrew.
We returned to the village at a great pace, and Poirot made a beeline for
the Anchor Inn.
“Here we establish ourselves until our friend the Captain returns,” he
explained. “You noticed that I emphasized the point that we were returning to
London by the first train? Possibly you thought I meant it. But no—you
observed Mrs. Maltravers’ face when she caught sight of this young Black?
She was clearly taken aback, and he—eh bien, he was very devoted, did you
not think so? And he was here on Tuesday night—the day before Mr.
Maltravers died. We must investigate the doings of Captain Black, Hastings.”
In about half an hour we espied our quarry approaching the inn. Poirot
went out and accosted him and presently brought him up to the room we had
engaged.
“I have been telling Captain Black of the mission which brings us here,”
he explained. “You can understand, monsieur le capitaine, that I am anxious
to arrive at Mr. Maltravers’ state of mind immediately before his death, and
that at the same time I do not wish to distress Mrs. Maltravers unduly by
asking her painful questions. Now, you were here just before the occurrence,
and can give us equally valuable information.”
“I’ll do anything I can to help you, I’m sure,” replied the young soldier;
“but I’m afraid I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. You see, although
Maltravers was an old friend of my people’s, I didn’t know him very well
myself.”
“You came down—when?”
“Tuesday afternoon. I went up to town early Wednesday morning, as my
boat sailed from Tilbury about twelve o’clock. But some news I got made me
alter my plans, as I dare say you heard me explain to Mrs. Maltravers.”
“You were returning to East Africa, I understand?”
“Yes. I’ve been out there ever since the War—a great country.”
“Exactly. Now what was the talk about at dinner on Tuesday night?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The usual odd topics. Maltravers asked after my
people, and then we discussed the question of German reparations, and then
Mr. Maltravers asked a lot of questions about East Africa, and I told them one
or two yarns, that’s about all, I think.”
“Thank you.”
Poirot was silent for a moment, then he said gently: “With your
permission, I should like to try a little experiment. You have told us all that
your conscious self knows, I want now to question your subconscious self.”
“Psychoanalysis, what?” said Black, with visible alarm.
“Oh, no,” said Poirot reassuringly. “You see, it is like this, I give you a
word, you answer with another, and so on. Any word, the first you think of.
Shall we begin?”
“All right,” said Black slowly, but he looked uneasy.
“Note down the words, please, Hastings,” said Poirot. Then he took from
his pocket his big turnip-faced watch and laid it on the table beside him. “We
will commence. Day.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Black replied:
“Night.”
As Poirot proceeded, his answers came quicker.
“Name,” said Poirot.
“Place.”
“Bernard.”
“Shaw.”
“Tuesday.”
“Dinner.”
“Journey.”
“Ship.”
“Country.”
“Uganda.”
“Story.”
“Lions.”
“Rook Rifle.”
“Farm.”
“Shot.”
“Suicide.”
“Elephant.”
“Tusks.”
“Money.”
“Lawyers.”
“Thank you, Captain Black. Perhaps you could spare me a few minutes in
about half an hour’s time?”
“Certainly.” The young soldier looked at him curiously and wiped his
brow as he got up.
“And now, Hastings,” said Poirot, smiling at me as the door closed behind
him. “You see it all, do you not?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Does that list of words tell you nothing?”
I scrutinized it, but was forced to shake my head.
“I will assist you. To begin with, Black answered well within the normal
time limit, with no pauses, so we can take it that he himself has no guilty
knowledge to conceal. ‘Day’ to ‘Night’ and ‘Place’ to ‘Name’ are normal
associations. I began work with ‘Bernard,’ which might have suggested the
local doctor had he come across him at all. Evidently he had not. After our
recent conversation, he gave ‘Dinner’ to my ‘Tuesday,’ but ‘Journey’ and
‘Country’ were answered by ‘Ship’ and ‘Uganda,’ showing clearly that it was
his journey abroad that was important to him and not the one which brought
him down here. ‘Story’ recalls to him one of the ‘Lion’ stories he told at
dinner. I proceeded to ‘Rook Rifle’ and he answered with the totally
unexpected word ‘Farm.’ When I say ‘Shot,’ he answers at once ‘Suicide.’
The association seems clear. A man he knows committed suicide with a rook
rifle on a farm somewhere. Remember, too, that his mind is still on the stories
he told at dinner, and I think you will agree that I shall not be far from the
truth if I recall Captain Black and ask him to repeat the particular suicide
story which he told at the dinner table on Tuesday evening.”
Black was straightforward enough over the matter.
“Yes, I did tell them that story now that I come to think of it. Chap shot
himself on a farm out there. Did it with a rook rifle through the roof of the
mouth, bullet lodged in the brain. Doctors were no end puzzled over it—there
was nothing to show except a little blood on the lips. But what—?”
“What has it got to do with Mr. Maltravers? You did not know, I see, that
he was found with a rook rifle by his side.”
“You mean my story suggested to him—oh, but that is awful!”
“Do not distress yourself—it would have been one way or another. Well, I
must get on the telephone to London.”
Poirot had a lengthy conversation over the wire, and came back
thoughtful. He went off by himself in the afternoon, and it was not till seven
o’clock that he announced that he could put it off no longer, but must break
the news to the young widow. My sympathy had already gone out to her
unreservedly. To be left penniless, and with the knowledge that her husband
had killed himself to assure her future, was a hard burden for any woman to
bear. I cherished a secret hope, however, that young Black might prove
capable of consoling her after her first grief had passed. He evidently admired
her enormously.
Our interview with the lady was painful. She refused vehemently to
believe the facts that Poirot advanced, and when she was at last convinced
broke down into bitter weeping. An examination of the body turned our
suspicions into certainty. Poirot was very sorry for the poor lady, but, after all,
he was employed by the Insurance Company, and what could he do? As he
was preparing to leave he said gently to Mrs. Maltravers:
“Madame, you of all people should know that there are no dead!”
“What do you mean?” she faltered, her eyes growing wide.
“Have you never taken part in any spiritualistic séances? You are
mediumistic, you know.”
“I have been told so. But you do not believe in Spiritualism, surely?”
“Madame, I have seen some strange things. You know that they say in the
village that this house is haunted?”
She nodded, and at that moment the parlourmaid announced that dinner
was ready.
“Won’t you just stay and have something to eat?”
We accepted gracefully, and I felt that our presence could not but help
distract her a little from her own griefs.
We had just finished our soup, when there was a scream outside the door,
and the sound of breaking crockery. We jumped up. The parlourmaid
appeared, her hand to her heart.
“It was a man—standing in the passage.”
Poirot rushed out, returning quickly.
“There is no one there.”
“Isn’t there, sir?” said the parlourmaid weakly. “Oh it did give me a start!”
“But why?”
She dropped her voice to a whisper.
“I thought—I thought it was the master—it looked like ’im.”
I saw Mrs. Maltravers give a terrified start, and my mind flew to the old
superstition that a suicide cannot rest. She thought of it too, I am sure, for a
minute later, she caught Poirot’s arm with a scream.
“Didn’t you hear that? Those three taps on the window? That’s how he
always used to tap when he passed round the house.”
“The ivy,” I cried. “It was the ivy against the pane.”
But a sort of terror was gaining on us all. The parlourmaid was obviously
unstrung, and when the meal was over Mrs. Maltravers besought Poirot not to
go at once. She was clearly terrified to be left alone. We sat in the little
morning room. The wind was getting up, and moaning round the house in an
eerie fashion. Twice the door of the room came unlatched and the door slowly
opened, and each time she clung to me with a terrified gasp.
“Ah, but this door, it is bewitched!” cried Poirot angrily at last. He got up
and shut it once more, then turned the key in the lock. “I shall lock it, so!”
“Don’t do that,” she gasped. “If it should come open now—”
And even as she spoke the impossible happened. The locked door slowly
swung open. I could not see into the passage from where I sat, but she and
Poirot were facing it. She gave one long shriek as she turned to him.
“You saw him—there in the passage?” she cried.
He was staring down at her with a puzzled face, then shook his head.
“I saw him—my husband—you must have seen him too?”
“Madame, I saw nothing. You are not well—unstrung—”
“I am perfectly well, I—Oh, God!”
Suddenly, without warning, the lights quivered and went out. Out of the
darkness came three loud raps. I could hear Mrs. Maltravers moaning.
And then—I saw!
The man I had seen on the bed upstairs stood there facing us, gleaming
with a faint ghostly light. There was blood on his lips, and he held his right
hand out, pointing. Suddenly a brilliant light seemed to proceed from it. It
passed over Poirot and me, and fell on Mrs. Maltravers. I saw her white
terrified face, and something else!
“My God, Poirot!” I cried. “Look at her hand, her right hand. It’s all red!”
Her own eyes fell on it, and she collapsed in a heap on the floor.
“Blood,” she cried hysterically. “Yes, it’s blood. I killed him. I did it. He
was showing me, and then I put my hand on the trigger and pressed. Save me
from him—save me! He’s come back!”
Her voice died away in a gurgle.
“Lights,” said Poirot briskly.
The lights went on as if by magic.
“That’s it,” he continued. “You heard, Hastings? And you, Everett? Oh, by
the way, this is Mr. Everett, rather a fine member of the theatrical profession.
I phoned to him this afternoon. His makeup is good, isn’t it? Quite like the
dead man, and with a pocket torch and the necessary phosphorescence he
made the proper impression. I shouldn’t touch her right hand if I were you,
Hastings. Red paint marks so. When the lights went out I clasped her hand,
you see. By the way, we mustn’t miss our train. Inspector Japp is outside the
window. A bad night—but he has been able to while away the time by tapping
on the window every now and then.
“You see,” continued Poirot, as we walked briskly through the wind and
rain, “there was a little discrepancy. The doctor seemed to think the deceased
was a Christian Scientist, and who could have given him that impression but
Mrs. Maltravers? But to us she represented him as being in a great state of
apprehension about his own health. Again, why was she so taken aback by the
reappearance of young Black? And lastly although I know that convention
decrees that a woman must make a decent pretence of mourning for her
husband, I do not care for such heavily-rouged eyelids! You did not observe
them, Hastings? No? As I always tell you, you see nothing!
“Well, there it was. There were the two possibilities. Did Black’s story
suggest an ingenious method of committing suicide to Mr. Maltravers, or did
his other listener, the wife, see an equally ingenious method of committing
murder? I inclined to the latter view. To shoot himself in the way indicated, he
would probably have had to pull the trigger with his toe—or at least so I
imagine. Now if Maltravers had been found with one boot off, we should
almost certainly have heard of it from someone. An odd detail like that would
have been remembered.
“No, as I say, I inclined to the view that it was the case of murder, not
suicide, but I realized that I had not a shadow of proof in support of my
theory. Hence the elaborate little comedy you saw played tonight.”
“Even now I don’t quite see all the details of the crime,” I said.
“Let us start from the beginning. Here is a shrewd and scheming woman
who, knowing of her husband’s financial débâcle and tired of the elderly mate
she had only married for his money, induces him to insure his life for a large
sum, and then seeks for the means to accomplish her purpose. An accident
gives her that—the young soldier’s strange story. The next afternoon when
monsieur le capitaine, as she thinks, is on the high seas, she and her husband
are strolling round the grounds. ‘What a curious story that was last night!’ she
observes. ‘Could a man shoot himself in such a way? Do show me if it is
possible!’ The poor fool—he shows her. He places the end of his rifle in his
mouth. She stoops down, and puts her finger on the trigger, laughing up at
him. ‘And now, sir,’ she says saucily, ‘supposing I pull the trigger?’
“And then—and then, Hastings—she pulls it!”
Eight
THE KIDNAPPED PRIME MINISTER
“The Kidnapped Prime Minister” was first published in The Sketch, April 25, 1923.
Now that war and the problems of war are things of the past, I think I may
safely venture to reveal to the world the part which my friend Poirot played in
a moment of national crisis. The secret has been well-guarded. Not a whisper
of it reached the Press. But, now that the need for secrecy has gone by, I feel
it is only just that England should know the debt it owes to my quaint little
friend, whose marvellous brain so ably averted a great catastrophe.
One evening after dinner—I will not particularize the date; it suffices to
say that it was at the time when “Peace by negotiation” was the parrot cry of
England’s enemies—my friend and I were sitting in his rooms. After being
invalided out of the Army I had been given a recruiting job, and it had
become my custom to drop in on Poirot in the evenings after dinner and talk
with him of any cases of interest that he might have had on hand.
I was attempting to discuss with him the sensational news of the day—no
less than an attempted assassination of Mr. David MacAdam, England’s
Prime Minister. The account in the papers had evidently been carefully
censored. No details were given, save that the Prime Minister had had a
marvellous escape, the bullet just grazing his cheek.
I considered that our police must have been shamefully careless for such
an outrage to be possible. I could well understand that the German agents in
England would be willing to risk much for such an achievement. “Fighting
Mac,” as his own party had nicknamed him, had strenuously and
unequivocally combated the Pacifist influence which was becoming so
prevalent.
He was more than England’s Prime Minister—he was England; and to
have removed him from his sphere of influence would have been a crushing
and paralysing blow to Britain.
Poirot was busy mopping a grey suit with a minute sponge. Never was
there a dandy such as Hercule Poirot. Neatness and order were his passion.
Now, with the odour of benzene filling the air, he was quite unable to give me
his full attention.
“In a little minute I am with you, my friend. I have all but finished. The
spot of grease—he is not good—I remove him—so!” He waved his sponge.
I smiled as I lit another cigarette.
“Anything interesting on?” I inquired, after a minute or two.
“I assist a—how do you call it?—‘charlady’ to find her husband. A
difficult affair, needing the tact. For I have a little idea that when he is found
he will not be pleased. What would you? For my part, I sympathize with him.
He was a man of discrimination to lose himself.”
I laughed.
“At last! The spot of grease, he is gone! I am at your disposal.”
“I was asking you what you thought of this attempt to assassinate
MacAdam?”
“Enfantillage!” replied Poirot promptly. “One can hardly take it seriously.
To fire with the rifle—never does it succeed. It is a device of the past.”
“It was very near succeeding this time,” I reminded him.
Poirot shook his head impatiently. He was about to reply when the
landlady thrust her head round the door and informed him that there were two
gentlemen below who wanted to see him.
“They won’t give their names, sir, but they says as it’s very important.”
“Let them mount,” said Poirot, carefully folding his grey trousers.
In a few minutes the two visitors were ushered in, and my heart gave a
leap as in the foremost I recognized no less a personage than Lord Estair,
Leader of the House of Commons; whilst his companion, Mr. Bernard Dodge,
was also a member of the War Cabinet, and, as I knew, a close personal friend
of the Prime Minister.
“Monsieur Poirot?” said Lord Estair interrogatively. My friend bowed.
The great man looked at me and hesitated. “My business is private.”
“You may speak freely before Captain Hastings,” said my friend, nodding
to me to remain. “He has not all the gifts, no! But I answer for his discretion.”
Lord Estair still hesitated, but Mr. Dodge broke in abruptly:
“Oh, come on—don’t let’s beat about the bush! As far as I can see, the
whole of England will know the hole we’re in soon enough. Time’s
everything.”
“Pray be seated, messieurs,” said Poirot politely. “Will you take the big
chair, milord?”
Lord Estair started slightly. “You know me?”
Poirot smiled. “Certainly. I read the little papers with the pictures. How
should I not know you?”
“Monsieur Poirot, I have come to consult you upon a matter of the most
vital urgency. I must ask for absolute secrecy.”
“You have the word of Hercule Poirot—I can say no more!” said my
friend grandiloquently.
“It concerns the Prime Minister. We are in grave trouble.”
“We’re up a tree!” interposed Mr. Dodge.
“The injury is serious then?” I asked.
“What injury?”
“The bullet wound.”
“Oh, that!” cried Mr. Dodge contemptuously. “That’s old history.”
“As my colleague says,” continued Lord Estair, “that affair is over and
done with. Luckily, it failed. I wish I could say as much for the second
attempt.”
“There has been a second attempt, then?”
“Yes, though not of the same nature, Monsieur Poirot, the Prime Minister
has disappeared.”
“What?”
“He has been kidnapped!”
“Impossible!” I cried, stupefied.
Poirot threw a withering glance at me, which I knew enjoined me to keep
my mouth shut.
“Unfortunately, impossible as it seems, it is only too true,” continued his
lordship.
Poirot looked at Mr. Dodge. “You said just now, monsieur, that time was
everything. What did you mean by that?”
The two men exchanged glances, and then Lord Estair said:
“You have heard, Monsieur Poirot, of the approaching Allied
Conference?”
My friend nodded.
“For obvious reasons, no details have been given of when and where it is
to take place. But, although it has been kept out of the newspapers, the date is,
of course, widely known in diplomatic circles. The Conference is to be held
tomorrow—Thursday—evening at Versailles. Now you perceive the terrible
gravity of the situation. I will not conceal from you that the Prime Minister’s
presence at the Conference is a vital necessity. The Pacifist propaganda,
started and maintained by the German agents in our midst, has been very
active. It is the universal opinion that the turning point of the Conference will
be the strong personality of the Prime Minister. His absence may have the
most serious results—possibly a premature and disastrous peace. And we
have no one who can be sent in his place. He alone can represent England.”
Poirot’s face had grown very grave. “Then you regard the kidnapping of
the Prime Minister as a direct attempt to prevent his being present at the
Conference?”
“Most certainly I do. He was actually on his way to France at the time.”
“And the Conference is to be held?”
“At nine o’clock tomorrow night.”
Poirot drew an enormous watch from his pocket.
“It is now a quarter to nine.”
“Twenty-four hours,” said Mr. Dodge thoughtfully.
“And a quarter,” amended Poirot. “Do not forget the quarter, monsieur—it
may come in useful. Now for the details—the abduction, did it take place in
England or in France?”
“In France. Mr. MacAdam crossed to France this morning. He was to stay
tonight as the guest of the Commander-in-Chief, proceeding tomorrow to
Paris. He was conveyed across the Channel by destroyer. At Boulogne he was
met by a car from General Headquarters and one of the Commander-inChief’s ADCs.”
“Eh bien?”
“Well, they started from Boulogne—but they never arrived.”
“What?”
“Monsieur Poirot, it was a bogus car and a bogus ADC. The real car was
found in a side road, with the chauffeur and the ADC neatly gagged and
bound.”
“And the bogus car?”
“Is still at large.”
Poirot made a gesture of impatience. “Incredible! Surely it cannot escape
attention for long?”
“So we thought. It seemed merely a question of searching thoroughly.
That part of France is under Military Law. We were convinced that the car
could not go long unnoticed. The French police and our own Scotland Yard
men and the military are straining every nerve. It is, as you say, incredible—
but nothing has been discovered!”
At that moment a tap came at the door, and a young officer entered with a
heavily sealed envelope which he handed to Lord Estair.
“Just through from France, sir. I brought it on here, as you directed.”
The Minister tore it open eagerly, and uttered an exclamation. The officer
withdrew.
“Here is news at last! This telegram has just been decoded. They have
found the second car, also the secretary, Daniels, chloroformed, gagged, and
bound, in an abandoned farm near C—. He remembers nothing, except
something being pressed against his mouth and nose from behind, and
struggling to free himself. The police are satisfied as to the genuineness of his
statement.”
“And they have found nothing else?”
“No.”
“Not the Prime Minister’s dead body? Then, there is hope. But it is
strange. Why, after trying to shoot him this morning, are they now taking so
much trouble to keep him alive?”
Dodge shook his head. “One thing’s quite certain. They’re determined at
all costs to prevent his attending the Conference.”
“If it is humanly possible, the Prime Minister shall be there. God grant it
is not too late. Now, messieurs, recount to me everything—from the
beginning. I must know about this shooting affair as well.”
“Last night, the Prime Minister, accompanied by one of his secretaries,
Captain Daniels—”
“The same who accompanied him to France?”
“Yes. As I was saying, they motored down to Windsor, where the Prime
Minister was granted an Audience. Early this morning he returned to town,
and it was on the way that the attempted assassination took place.”
“One moment, if you please. Who is this Captain Daniels? You have his
dossier?”
Lord Estair smiled. “I thought you would ask me that. We do not know
very much of him. He is of no particular family. He has served in the English
Army, and is an extremely able secretary, being an exceptionally fine linguist.
I believe he speaks seven languages. It is for that reason that the Prime
Minister chose him to accompany him to France.”
“Has he any relatives in England?”
“Two aunts. A Mrs. Everard, who lives at Hampstead, and a Miss Daniels,
who lives near Ascot.”
“Ascot? That is near to Windsor, is it not?”
“That point has not been overlooked. But it has led to nothing.”
“You regard the Capitaine Daniels, then, as above suspicion?”
A shade of bitterness crept into Lord Estair’s voice, as he replied:
“No, Monsieur Poirot. In these days, I should hesitate before I pronounced
anyone above suspicion.”
“Très bien. Now I understand, milord, that the Prime Minister would, as a
matter of course, be under vigilant police protection, which ought to render
any assault upon him an impossibility?”
Lord Estair bowed his head. “That is so. The Prime Minister’s car was
closely followed by another car containing detectives in plain clothes. Mr.
MacAdam knew nothing of these precautions. He is personally a most
fearless man, and would be inclined to sweep them away arbitrarily. But,
naturally, the police make their own arrangements. In fact, the Premier’s
chauffeur, O’Murphy, is a CID man.”
“O’Murphy? That is a name of Ireland, is it not so?”
“Yes, he is an Irishman.”
“From what part of Ireland?”
“County Clare, I believe.”
“Tiens! But proceed, milord.”
“The Premier started for London. The car was a closed one. He and
Captain Daniels sat inside. The second car followed as usual. But, unluckily,
for some unknown reason, the Prime Minister’s car deviated from the main
road—”
“At a point where the road curves?” interrupted Poirot.
“Yes—but how did you know?”
“Oh, c’est évident! Continue!”
“For some unknown reason,” continued Lord Estair, “the Premier’s car
left the main road. The police car, unaware of the deviation, continued to keep
to the high road. At a short distance down the unfrequented lane, the Prime
Minister’s car was suddenly held up by a band of masked men. The chauffeur
—”
“That brave O’Murphy!” murmured Poirot thoughtfully.
“The chauffeur, momentarily taken aback, jammed on the brakes. The
Prime Minister put his head out of the window. Instantly a shot rang out—
then another. The first one grazed his cheek, the second, fortunately, went
wide. The chauffeur, now realizing the danger, instantly forged straight ahead,
scattering the band of men.”
“A near escape,” I ejaculated, with a shiver.
“Mr. MacAdam refused to make any fuss over the slight wound he had
received. He declared it was only a scratch. He stopped at a local cottage
hospital, where it was dressed and bound up—he did not, of course, reveal his
identity. He then drove, as per schedule, straight to Charing Cross, where a
special train for Dover was awaiting him, and, after a brief account of what
had happened had been given to the anxious police by Captain Daniels, he
duly departed for France. At Dover, he went on board the waiting destroyer.
At Boulogne, as you know, the bogus car was waiting for him, carrying the
Union Jack, and correct in every detail.”
“That is all you have to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“There is no other circumstance that you have omitted, milord?”
“Well, there is one rather peculiar thing.”
“Yes?”
“The Prime Minister’s car did not return home after leaving the Prime
Minister at Charing Cross. The police were anxious to interview O’Murphy,
so a search was instituted at once. The car was discovered standing outside a
certain unsavoury little restaurant in Soho, which is well known as a meeting
place of German agents.”
“And the chauffeur?”
“The chauffeur was nowhere to be found. He, too, had disappeared.”
“So,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “there are two disappearances: the Prime
Minister in France, and O’Murphy in London.”
He looked keenly at Lord Estair, who made a gesture of despair.
“I can only tell you, Monsieur Poirot, that, if anyone had suggested to me
yesterday that O’Murphy was a traitor, I should have laughed in his face.”
“And today?”
“Today I do not know what to think.”
Poirot nodded gravely. He looked at his turnip of a watch again.
“I understand that I have carte blanche, messieurs—in every way, I mean?
I must be able to go where I choose, and how I choose.”
“Perfectly. There is a special train leaving for Dover in an hour’s time,
with a further contingent from Scotland Yard. You shall be accompanied by a
Military officer and a CID man, who will hold themselves at your disposal in
every way. Is that satisfactory?”
“Quite. One more question before you leave, messieurs. What made you
come to me? I am unknown, obscure in this great London of yours.”
“We sought you out on the express recommendation and wish of a very
great man of your own country.”
“Comment? My old friend the Préfet—?”
Lord Estair shook his head.
“One higher than the Préfet. One whose word was once law in Belgium—
and shall be again! That England has sworn!”
Poirot’s hand flew swiftly to a dramatic salute. “Amen to that! Ah, but my
Master does not forget . . . Messieurs, I, Hercule Poirot, will serve you
faithfully. Heaven only send that it will be in time. But this is dark—dark . . .
I cannot see.”
“Well, Poirot,” I cried impatiently, as the door closed behind the
Ministers, “what do you think?”
My friend was busy packing a minute suitcase, with quick, deft
movements. He shook his head thoughtfully.
“I don’t know what to think. My brains desert me.”
“Why, as you said, kidnap him, when a knock on the head would do as
well?” I mused.
“Pardon me, mon ami, but I did not quite say that. It is undoubtedly far
more their affair to kidnap him.”
“But why?”
“Because uncertainty creates panic. That is one reason. Were the Prime
Minister dead, it would be a terrible calamity, but the situation would have to
be faced. But now you have paralysis. Will the Prime Minister reappear, or
will he not? Is he dead or alive? Nobody knows, and until they know nothing
definite can be done. And, as I tell you, uncertainty breeds panic, which is
what les Boches are playing for. Then, again, if the kidnappers are holding
him secretly somewhere, they have the advantage of being able to make terms
with both sides. The German Government is not a liberal paymaster, as a rule,
but no doubt they can be made to disgorge substantial remittances in such a
case as this. Thirdly, they run no risk of the hangman’s rope. Oh, decidedly,
kidnapping is their affair.”
“Then, if that is so, why should they first try to shoot him?”
Poirot made a gesture of anger. “Ah, that is just what I do not understand!
It is inexplicable—stupid! They have all their arrangements made (and very
good arrangements too!) for the abduction, and yet they imperil the whole
affair by a melodramatic attack, worthy of a cinema, and quite as unreal. It is
almost impossible to believe in it, with its band of masked men, not twenty
miles from London!”
“Perhaps they were two quite separate attempts which happened
irrespective of each other,” I suggested.
“Ah, no, that would be too much of a coincidence! Then, further—who is
the traitor? There must have been a traitor—in the first affair, anyway. But
who was it—Daniels or O’Murphy? It must have been one of the two, or why
did the car leave the main road? We cannot suppose that the Prime Minister
connived at his own assassination! Did O’Murphy take that turning of his
own accord, or was it Daniels who told him to do so?”
“Surely it must have been O’Murphy’s doing.”
“Yes, because if it was Daniels’ the Prime Minister would have heard the
order, and would have asked the reason. But there are altogether too many
‘whys’ in this affair, and they contradict each other. If O’Murphy is an honest
man, why did he leave the main road? But if he was a dishonest man, why did
he start the car again when only two shots had been fired—thereby, in all
probability, saving the Prime Minister’s life? And, again, if he was honest,
why did he, immediately on leaving Charing Cross, drive to a well-known
rendezvous of German spies?”
“It looks bad,” I said.
“Let us look at the case with method. What have we for and against these
two men? Take O’Murphy first. Against: that his conduct in leaving the main
road was suspicious; that he is an Irishman from County Clare; that he has
disappeared in a highly suggestive manner. For: that his promptness in
restarting the car saved the Premier’s life; that he is a Scotland Yard man, and,
obviously, from the post allotted to him, a trusted detective. Now for Daniels.
There is not much against him, except the fact that nothing is known of his
antecedents, and that he speaks too many languages for a good Englishman!
(Pardon me, mon ami, but, as linguists, you are deplorable!) Now for him, we
have the fact that he was found gagged, bound, and chloroformed—which
does not look as though he had anything to do with the matter.”
“He might have gagged and bound himself, to divert suspicion.”
Poirot shook his head. “The French police would make no mistake of that
kind. Besides, once he had attained his object, and the Prime Minister was
safely abducted, there would not be much point in his remaining behind. His
accomplices could have gagged and chloroformed him, of course, but I fail to
see what object they hoped to accomplish by it. He can be of little use to them
now, for, until the circumstances concerning the Prime Minister have been
cleared up, he is bound to be closely watched.”
“Perhaps he hoped to start the police on a false scent?”
“Then why did he not do so? He merely says that something was pressed
over his nose and mouth, and that he remembers nothing more. There is no
false scent there. It sounds remarkably like the truth.”
“Well,” I said, glancing at the clock, “I suppose we’d better start for the
station. You may find more clues in France.”
“Possibly, mon ami, but I doubt it. It is still incredible to me that the Prime
Minister has not been discovered in that limited area, where the difficulty of
concealing him must be tremendous. If the military and the police of two
countries have not found him, how shall I?”
At Charing Cross we were met by Mr. Dodge.
“This is Detective Barnes, of Scotland Yard, and Major Norman. They
will hold themselves entirely at your disposal. Good luck to you. It’s a bad
business, but I’ve not given up hope. Must be off now.” And the Minister
strode rapidly away.
We chatted in a desultory fashion with Major Norman. In the centre of the
little group of men on the platform I recognized a little ferret-faced fellow
talking to a tall, fair man. He was an old acquaintance of Poirot’s—DetectiveInspector Japp, supposed to be one of the smartest of Scotland Yard’s officers.
He came over and greeted my friend cheerfully.
“I heard you were on this job too. Smart bit of work. So far they’ve got
away with the goods all right. But I can’t believe they can keep him hidden
long. Our people are going through France with a toothcomb. So are the
French. I can’t help feeling it’s only a matter of hours now.”
“That is, if he’s still alive,” remarked the tall detective gloomily.
Japp’s face fell. “Yes . . . but somehow I’ve got the feeling he’s still alive
all right.”
Poirot nodded. “Yes, yes; he’s alive. But can he be found in time? I, like
you, did not believe he could be hidden so long.”
The whistle blew, and we all trooped up into the Pullman car. Then, with a
slow, unwilling jerk, the train drew out of the station.
It was a curious journey. The Scotland Yard men crowded together. Maps
of Northern France were spread out, and eager forefingers traced the lines of
roads and villages. Each man had his own pet theory. Poirot showed none of
his usual loquacity, but sat staring in front of him, with an expression on his
face that reminded me of a puzzled child. I talked to Norman, whom I found
quite an amusing fellow. On arriving at Dover Poirot’s behaviour moved me
to intense amusement. The little man, as he went on board the boat, clutched
desperately at my arm. The wind was blowing lustily.
“Mon Dieu!” he murmured. “This is terrible!”
“Have courage, Poirot,” I cried. “You will succeed. You will find him. I
am sure of it.”
“Ah, mon ami, you mistake my emotion. It is this villainous sea that
troubles me! The mal de mer—it is horrible suffering!”
“Oh!” I said, rather taken aback.
The first throb of the engines was felt, and Poirot groaned and closed his
eyes.
“Major Norman has a map of Northern France if you would like to study
it?”
Poirot shook his head impatiently.
“But no, but no! Leave me, my friend. See you, to think, the stomach and
the brain must be in harmony. Laverguier has a method most excellent for
averting the mal de mer. You breathe in—and out—slowly, so—turning the
head from left to right and counting six between each breath.”
I left him to his gymnastic endeavours, and went on deck.
As we came slowly into Boulogne Harbour Poirot appeared, neat and
smiling, and announced to me in a whisper that Laverguier’s system had
succeeded “to a marvel!”
Japp’s forefinger was still tracing imaginary routes on his map.
“Nonsense! The car started from Boulogne—here they branched off. Now, my
idea is that they transferred the Prime Minister to another car. See?”
“Well,” said the tall detective, “I shall make for the seaports. Ten to one,
they’ve smuggled him on board a ship.”
Japp shook his head. “Too obvious. The order went out at once to close all
the ports.”
The day was just breaking as we landed. Major Norman touched Poirot on
the arm. “There’s a military car here waiting for you, sir.”
“Thank you, monsieur. But, for the moment, I do not propose to leave
Boulogne.”
“What?”
“No, we will enter this hotel here, by the quay.”
He suited the action to the word, demanded and was accorded a private
room. We three followed him, puzzled and uncomprehending.
He shot a quick glance at us. “It is not so that the good detective should
act, eh? I perceive your thought. He must be full of energy. He must rush to
and fro. He should prostrate himself on the dusty road and seek the marks of
tyres through a little glass. He must gather up the cigarette end, the fallen
match? That is your idea, is it not?”
His eyes challenged us. “But I—Hercule Poirot—tell you that it is not so!
The true clues are within—here!” He tapped his forehead. “See you, I need
not have left London. It would have been sufficient for me to sit quietly in my
rooms there. All that matters is the little grey cells within. Secretly and
silently they do their part, until suddenly I call for a map, and I lay my finger
on a spot—so—and I say: the Prime Minister is there! And it is so! With
method and logic one can accomplish anything! This frantic rushing to France
was a mistake—it is playing a child’s game of hide-and-seek. But now,
though it may be too late, I will set to work the right way, from within.
Silence, my friends, I beg of you.”
And for five long hours the little man sat motionless, blinking his eyelids
like a cat, his green eyes flickering and becoming steadily greener and
greener. The Scotland Yard man was obviously contemptuous, Major Norman
was bored and impatient, and I myself found the time passed with wearisome
slowness.
Finally, I got up, and strolled as noiselessly as I could to the window. The
matter was becoming a farce. I was secretly concerned for my friend. If he
failed, I would have preferred him to fail in a less ridiculous manner. Out of
the window I idly watched the daily leave boat, belching forth columns of
smoke, as she lay alongside the quay.
Suddenly I was aroused by Poirot’s voice close to my elbow.
“Mes amis, let us start!”
I turned. An extraordinary transformation had come over my friend. His
eyes were flickering with excitement, his chest was swelled to the uttermost.
“I have been an imbecile, my friends! But I see daylight at last.”
Major Norman moved hastily to the door. “I’ll order the car.”
“There is no need. I shall not use it. Thank Heaven the wind has fallen.”
“Do you mean you are going to walk, sir?”
“No, my young friend. I am no St. Peter. I prefer to cross the sea by boat.”
“To cross the sea?”
“Yes. To work with method, one must begin from the beginning. And the
beginning of this affair was in England. Therefore, we return to England.”
II
At three o’clock, we stood once more upon Charing Cross platform. To all our
expostulations, Poirot turned a deaf ear, and reiterated again and again that to
start at the beginning was not a waste of time, but the only way. On the way
over, he had conferred with Norman in a low voice, and the latter had
despatched a sheaf of telegrams from Dover.
Owing to the special passes held by Norman, we got through everywhere
in record time. In London, a large police car was waiting for us, with some
plainclothesmen, one of whom handed a typewritten sheet of paper to my
friend. He answered my inquiring glance.
“A list of the cottage hospitals within a certain radius west of London. I
wired for it from Dover.”
We were whirled rapidly through the London streets. We were on the Bath
Road. On we went, through Hammersmith, Chiswick and Brentford. I began
to see our objective. Through Windsor and so on to Ascot. My heart gave a
leap. Ascot was where Daniels had an aunt living. We were after him, then,
not O’Murphy.
We duly stopped at the gate of a trim villa. Poirot jumped out and rang the
bell. I saw a perplexed frown dimming the radiance of his face. Plainly, he
was not satisfied. The bell was answered. He was ushered inside. In a few
moments he reappeared, and climbed into the car with a short, sharp shake of
his head. My hopes began to die down. It was past four now. Even if he found
certain evidence incriminating Daniels, what would be the good of it, unless
he could wring from someone the exact spot in France where they were
holding the Prime Minister?
Our return progress towards London was an interrupted one. We deviated
from the main road more than once, and occasionally stopped at a small
building, which I had no difficulty in recognizing as a cottage hospital. Poirot
only spent a few minutes at each, but at every halt his radiant assurance was
more and more restored.
He whispered something to Norman, to which the latter replied:
“Yes, if you turn off to the left, you will find them waiting by the bridge.”
We turned up a side road, and in the failing light I discerned a second car,
waiting by the side of the road. It contained two men in plain clothes. Poirot
got down and spoke to them, and then we started off in a northerly direction,
the other car following close behind.
We drove for some time, our objective being obviously one of the
northern suburbs of London. Finally, we drove up to the front door of a tall
house, standing a little back from the road in its own grounds.
Norman and I were left in the car. Poirot and one of the detectives went up
to the door and rang. A neat parlourmaid opened it. The detective spoke.
“I am a police officer, and I have a warrant to search this house.”
The girl gave a little scream, and a tall, handsome woman of middle age
appeared behind her in the hall.
“Shut the door, Edith. They are burglars, I expect.”
But Poirot swiftly inserted his foot in the door, and at the same moment
blew a whistle. Instantly the other detectives ran up, and poured into the
house, shutting the door behind them.
Norman and I spent about five minutes cursing our forced inactivity.
Finally the door reopened, and the men emerged, escorting three prisoners—a
woman and two men. The woman, and one of the men, were taken to the
second car. The other man was placed in our car by Poirot himself.
“I must go with the others, my friend. But have great care of this
gentleman. You do not know him, no? Eh bien, let me present to you,
Monsieur O’Murphy!”
O’Murphy! I gaped at him open-mouthed as we started again. He was not
handcuffed, but I did not fancy he would try to escape. He sat there staring in
front of him as though dazed. Anyway, Norman and I would be more than a
match for him.
To my surprise, we still kept a northerly route. We were not returning to
London, then! I was much puzzled. Suddenly, as the car slowed down, I
recognized that we were close to Hendon Aerodrome. Immediately I grasped
Poirot’s idea. He proposed to reach France by aeroplane.
It was a sporting idea, but, on the face of it, impracticable. A telegram
would be far quicker. Time was everything. He must leave the personal glory
of rescuing the Prime Minister to others.
As we drew up, Major Norman jumped out, and a plainclothesman took
his place. He conferred with Poirot for a few minutes, and then went off
briskly.
I, too, jumped out, and caught Poirot by the arm.
“I congratulate you, old fellow! They have told you the hiding place? But,
look here, you must wire to France at once. You’ll be too late if you go
yourself.”
Poirot looked at me curiously for a minute or two.
“Unfortunately, my friend, there are some things that cannot be sent by
telegram.”
III
At that moment Major Norman returned, accompanied by a young officer in
the uniform of the Flying Corps.
“This is Captain Lyall, who will fly you over to France. He can start at
once.”
“Wrap up warmly, sir,” said the young pilot. “I can lend you a coat, if you
like.”
Poirot was consulting his enormous watch. He murmured to himself:
“Yes, there is time—just time.” Then he looked up and bowed politely to the
young officer. “I thank you, monsieur. But it is not I who am your passenger.
It is this gentleman here.”
He moved a little aside as he spoke, and a figure came forward out of the
darkness. It was the second male prisoner who had gone in the other car, and
as the light fell on his face, I gave a start of surprise.
It was the Prime Minister!
IV
“For Heaven’s sake, tell me all about it,” I cried impatiently, as Poirot,
Norman and I motored back to London. “How in the world did they manage
to smuggle him back to England?”
“There was no need to smuggle him back,” replied Poirot dryly. “The
Prime Minister has never left England. He was kidnapped on his way from
Windsor to London.”
“What?”
“I will make all clear. The Prime Minister was in his car, his secretary
beside him. Suddenly a pad of chloroform is clapped on his face—”
“But by whom?”
“By the clever linguistic Captain Daniels. As soon as the Prime Minister
is unconscious, Daniels picks up the speaking tube, and directs O’Murphy to
turn to the right, which the chauffeur, quite unsuspicious, does. A few yards
down that unfrequented road a large car is standing, apparently broken down.
Its driver signals to O’Murphy to stop. O’Murphy slows up. The stranger
approaches. Daniels leans out of the window, and, probably with the aid of an
instantaneous anaesthetic, such as ethylchloride, the chloroform trick is
repeated. In a few seconds, the two helpless men are dragged out and
transferred to the other car, and a pair of substitutes take their places.”
“Impossible!”
“Pas du tout! Have you not seen music hall turns imitating celebrities
with marvellous accuracy? Nothing is easier than to personate a public
character. The Prime Minister of England is far easier to understudy than Mr.
John Smith of Clapham, say. As for O’Murphy’s ‘double,’ no one was going
to take much notice of him until after the departure of the Prime Minister, and
by then he would have made himself scarce. He drives straight from Charing
Cross to the meeting place of his friends. He goes in as O’Murphy, he
emerges as someone quite different. O’Murphy has disappeared, leaving a
conveniently suspicious trail behind him.”
“But the man who personated the Prime Minister was seen by everyone!”
“He was not seen by anyone who knew him privately or intimately. And
Daniels shielded him from contact with anyone as much as possible.
Moreover, his face was bandaged up, and anything unusual in his manner
would be put down to the fact that he was suffering from shock as a result of
the attempt upon his life. Mr. MacAdam has a weak throat, and always spares
his voice as much as possible before any great speech. The deception was
perfectly easy to keep up as far as France. There it would be impracticable
and impossible—so the Prime Minister disappears. The police of this country
hurry across the Channel, and no one bothers to go into the details of the first
attack. To sustain the illusion that the abduction has taken place in France,
Daniels is gagged and chloroformed in a convincing manner.”
“And the man who has enacted the part of the Prime Minister?”
“Rids himself of his disguise. He and the bogus chauffeur may be arrested
as suspicious characters, but no one will dream of suspecting their real part in
the drama, and they will eventually be released for lack of evidence.”
“And the real Prime Minister?”
“He and O’Murphy were driven straight to the house of ‘Mrs. Everard,’ at
Hampstead, Daniels’ so-called ‘aunt.’ In reality, she is Frau Bertha Ebenthal,
and the police have been looking for her for some time. It is a valuable little
present that I have made them—to say nothing of Daniels! Ah, it was a clever
plan, but he did not reckon on the cleverness of Hercule Poirot!”
I think my friend might well be excused his moment of vanity.
“When did you first begin to suspect the truth of the matter?”
“When I began to work the right way—from within! I could not make that
shooting affair fit in—but when I saw that the net result of it was that the
Prime Minister went to France with his face bound up I began to
comprehend! And when I visited all the cottage hospitals between Windsor
and London, and found that no one answering to my description had had his
face bound up and dressed that morning, I was sure! After that, it was child’s
play for a mind like mine!”
The following morning, Poirot showed me a telegram he had just
received. It had no place of origin, and was unsigned. It ran:
“In time.”
Later in the day the evening papers published an account of the Allied
Conference. They laid particular stress on the magnificent ovation accorded to
Mr. David MacAdam, whose inspiring speech had produced a deep and
lasting impression.
Nine
THE MILLION DOLLAR BOND ROBBERY
“The Million Dollar Bond Robbery” was first published in The Sketch, May 2, 1923.
What a number of bond robberies there have been lately!” I observed one
morning, laying aside the newspaper. “Poirot, let us forsake the science of
detection, and take to crime instead!”
“You are on the—how do you say it?—get-rich-quick tack, eh, mon ami?”
“Well, look at this last coup, the million dollars’ worth of Liberty Bonds
which the London and Scottish Bank were sending to New York, and which
disappeared in such a remarkable manner on board the Olympia.”
“If it were not for mal de mer, and the difficulty of practising the so
excellent method of Laverguier for a longer time than the few hours of
crossing the Channel, I should delight to voyage myself on one of these big
liners,” murmured Poirot dreamily.
“Yes, indeed,” I said enthusiastically. “Some of them must be perfect
palaces; the swimming baths, the lounges, the restaurant, the palm courts—
really, it must be hard to believe that one is on the sea.”
“Me, I always know when I am on the sea,” said Poirot sadly. “And all
those bagatelles that you enumerate, they say nothing to me; but, my friend,
consider for a moment the genuises that travel as it were incognito! On board
these floating palaces, as you so justly call them, one would meet the élite, the
haute noblesse of the criminal world!”
I laughed.
“So that’s the way your enthusiasm runs! You would have liked to cross
swords with the man who sneaked the Liberty Bonds?”
The landlady interrupted us.
“A young lady as wants to see you, Mr. Poirot. Here’s her card.”
The card bore the inscription: Miss Esmée Farquhar, and Poirot, after
diving under the table to retrieve a stray crumb, and putting it carefully in the
wastepaper basket, nodded to the landlady to admit her.
In another minute one of the most charming girls I have ever seen was
ushered into the room. She was perhaps about five-and-twenty, with big
brown eyes and a perfect figure. She was well-dressed and perfectly
composed in manner.
“Sit down, I beg of you, mademoiselle. This is my friend, Captain
Hastings, who aids me in my little problems.”
“I am afraid it is a big problem I have brought you today, Monsieur
Poirot,” said the girl, giving me a pleasant bow as she seated herself. “I dare
say you have read about it in the papers. I am referring to the theft of Liberty
Bonds on the Olympia.” Some astonishment must have shown itself on
Poirot’s face, for she continued quickly: “You are doubtless asking yourself
what have I to do with a grave institution like the London and Scottish Bank.
In one sense nothing, in another sense everything. You see, Monsieur Poirot, I
am engaged to Mr. Philip Ridgeway.”
“Aha! and Mr. Philip Ridgeway—”
“Was in charge of the bonds when they were stolen. Of course no actual
blame can attach to him, it was not his fault in any way. Nevertheless, he is
half distraught over the matter, and his uncle, I know, insists that he must
carelessly have mentioned having them in his possession. It is a terrible
setback to his career.”
“Who is his uncle?”
“Mr. Vavasour, joint general manager of the London and Scottish Bank.”
“Suppose, Miss Farquhar, that you recount to me the whole story?”
“Very well. As you know, the Bank wished to extend their credits in
America, and for this purpose decided to send over a million dollars in
Liberty Bonds. Mr. Vavasour selected his nephew, who had occupied a
position of trust in the Bank for many years and who was conversant with all
the details of the Bank’s dealings in New York, to make the trip. The Olympia
sailed from Liverpool on the 23rd, and the bonds were handed over to Philip
on the morning of that day by Mr. Vavasour and Mr. Shaw, the two joint
general managers of the London and Scottish Bank. They were counted,
enclosed in a package, and sealed in his presence, and he then locked the
package at once in his portmanteau.”
“A portmanteau with an ordinary lock?”
“No, Mr. Shaw insisted on a special lock being fitted to it by Hubbs.
Philip, as I say, placed the package at the bottom of the trunk. It was stolen
just a few hours before reaching New York. A rigorous search of the whole
ship was made, but without result. The bonds seemed literally to have
vanished into thin air.”
Poirot made a grimace.
“But they did not vanish absolutely, since I gather that they were sold in
small parcels within half an hour of the docking of the Olympia! Well,
undoubtedly the next thing is for me to see Mr. Ridgeway.”
“I was about to suggest that you should lunch with me at the ‘Cheshire
Cheese.’ Philip will be there. He is meeting me, but does not yet know that I
have been consulting you on his behalf.”
We agreed to this suggestion readily enough, and drove there in a taxi.
Mr. Philip Ridgeway was there before us, and looked somewhat surprised
to see his fiancée arriving with two complete strangers. He was a nice looking
young fellow, tall and spruce, with a touch of greying hair at the temples,
though he could not have been much over thirty.
Miss Farquhar went up to him and laid her hand on his arm.
“You must forgive me acting without consulting you, Philip,” she said.
“Let me introduce you to Monsieur Hercule Poirot, of whom you must often
have heard, and his friend, Captain Hastings.”
Ridgeway looked very astonished.
“Of course I have heard of you, Monsieur Poirot,” he said, as he shook
hands. “But I had no idea that Esmée was thinking of consulting you about
my—our trouble.”
“I was afraid you would not let me do it, Philip,” said Miss Farquhar
meekly.
“So you took care to be on the safe side,” he observed, with a smile. “I
hope Monsieur Poirot will be able to throw some light on this extraordinary
puzzle, for I confess frankly that I am nearly out of my mind with worry and
anxiety about it.”
Indeed, his face looked drawn and haggard and showed only too clearly
the strain under which he was labouring.
“Well, well,” said Poirot. “Let us lunch, and over lunch we will put our
heads together and see what can be done. I want to hear Mr. Ridgeway’s story
from his own lips.”
Whilst we discussed the excellent steak and kidney pudding of the
establishment, Philip Ridgeway narrated the circumstances leading to the
disappearance of the bonds. His story agreed with that of Miss Farquhar in
every particular. When he had finished, Poirot took up the thread with a
question.
“What exactly led you to discover that the bonds had been stolen, Mr.
Ridgeway?”
He laughed rather bitterly.
“The thing stared me in the face, Monsieur Poirot. I couldn’t have missed
it. My cabin trunk was half out from under the bunk and all scratched and cut
about where they’d tried to force the lock.”
“But I understood that it had been opened with a key?”
“That’s so. They tried to force it, but couldn’t. And in the end, they must
have got it unlocked somehow or other.”
“Curious,” said Poirot, his eyes beginning to flicker with the green light I
knew so well. “Very curious! They waste much, much time trying to prise it
open, and then—sapristi! they find they have the key all the time—for each
of Hubbs’s locks are unique.”
“That’s just why they couldn’t have had the key. It never left me day or
night.”
“You are sure of that?”
“I can swear to it, and besides, if they had had the key or a duplicate, why
should they waste time trying to force an obviously unforceable lock?”
“Ah! there is exactly the question we are asking ourselves! I venture to
prophesy that the solution, if we ever find it, will hinge on that curious fact. I
beg of you not to assault me if I ask you one more question: Are you perfectly
certain that you did not leave the trunk unlocked?”
Philip Ridgeway merely looked at him, and Poirot gesticulated
apologetically.
“Ah, but these things can happen, I assure you! Very well, the bonds were
stolen from the trunk. What did the thief do with them? How did he manage
to get ashore with them?”
“Ah!” cried Ridgeway. “That’s just it. How? Word was passed to the
Customs authorities, and every soul that left the ship was gone over with a
toothcomb!”
“And the bonds, I gather, made a bulky package?”
“Certainly they did. They could hardly have been hidden on board—and
anyway we know they weren’t, because they were offered for sale within half
an hour of the Olympia’s arrival, long before I got the cables going and the
numbers sent out. One broker swears he bought some of them even before the
Olympia got in. But you can’t send bonds by wireless.”
“Not by wireless, but did any tug come alongside?”
“Only the official ones, and that was after the alarm was given when
everyone was on the lookout. I was watching out myself for their being
passed over to someone that way. My God, Monsieur Poirot, this thing will
drive me mad! People are beginning to say I stole them myself.”
“But you also were searched on landing, weren’t you?” asked Poirot
gently.
“Yes.”
The young man stared at him in a puzzled manner.
“You do not catch my meaning, I see,” said Poirot, smiling enigmatically.
“Now I should like to make a few inquiries at the Bank.”
Ridgeway produced a card and scribbled a few words on it.
“Send this in and my uncle will see you at once.”
Poirot thanked him, bade farewell to Miss Farquhar, and together we
started out for Threadneedle Street and the head office of the London and
Scottish Bank. On production of Ridgeway’s card, we were led through the
labyrinth of counters and desks, skirting paying-in clerks and paying-out
clerks and up to a small office on the first floor where the joint general
managers received us. They were two grave gentlemen, who had grown grey
in the service of the Bank. Mr. Vavasour had a short white beard, Mr. Shaw
was clean shaven.
“I understand you are strictly a private inquiry agent?” said Mr. Vavasour.
“Quite so, quite so. We have, of course, placed ourselves in the hands of
Scotland Yard. Inspector McNeil has charge of the case. A very able officer, I
believe.”
“I am sure of it,” said Poirot politely. “You will permit a few questions, on
your nephew’s behalf? About this lock, who ordered it from Hubbs’s?”
“I ordered it myself,” said Mr. Shaw. “I would not trust to any clerk in the
matter. As to the keys, Mr. Ridgeway had one, and the other two are held by
my colleague and myself.”
“And no clerk has had access to them?”
Mr. Shaw turned inquiringly to Mr. Vavasour.
“I think I am correct in saying that they have remained in the safe where
we placed them on the 23rd,” said Mr. Vavasour. “My colleague was
unfortunately taken ill a fortnight ago—in fact on the very day that Philip left
us. He has only just recovered.”
“Severe bronchitis is no joke to a man of my age,” said Mr. Shaw ruefully.
“But I’m afraid Mr. Vavasour has suffered from the hard work entailed by my
absence, especially with this unexpected worry coming on top of everything.”
Poirot asked a few more questions. I judged that he was endeavouring to
gauge the exact amount of intimacy between uncle and nephew. Mr.
Vavasour’s answers were brief and punctilious. His nephew was a trusted
official of the Bank, and had no debts or money difficulties that he knew of.
He had been entrusted with similar missions in the past. Finally we were
politely bowed out.
“I am disappointed,” said Poirot, as we emerged into the street.
“You hoped to discover more? They are such stodgy old men.”
“It is not their stodginess which disappoints me, mon ami. I do not expect
to find in a Bank manager, a ‘keen financier with an eagle glance,’ as your
favourite works of fiction put it. No, I am disappointed in the case—it is too
easy!”
“Easy?”
“Yes, do you not find it almost childishly simple?”
“You know who stole the bonds?”
“I do.”
“But then—we must—why—”
“Do not confuse and fluster yourself, Hastings. We are not going to do
anything at present.”
“But why? What are you waiting for?”
“For the Olympia. She is due on her return trip from New York on
Tuesday.”
“But if you know who stole the bonds, why wait? He may escape.”
“To a South Sea island where there is no extradition? No, mon ami, he
would find life very uncongenial there. As to why I wait—eh bien, to the
intelligence of Hercule Poirot the case is perfectly clear, but for the benefit of
others, not so greatly gifted by the good God—the Inspector, McNeil, for
instance—it would be as well to make a few inquiries to establish the facts.
One must have consideration for those less gifted than oneself.”
“Good Lord, Poirot! Do you know, I’d give a considerable sum of money
to see you make a thorough ass of yourself—just for once. You’re so
confoundedly conceited!”
“Do not enrage yourself, Hastings. In verity, I observe that there are times
when you almost detest me! Alas, I suffer the penalties of greatness!”
The little man puffed out his chest, and sighed so comically that I was
forced to laugh.
Tuesday saw us speeding to Liverpool in a first-class carriage of the L and
NWR. Poirot had obstinately refused to enlighten me as to his suspicions—or
certainties. He contented himself with expressing surprise that I, too, was not
equally au fait with the situation. I disdained to argue, and entrenched my
curiosity behind a rampart of pretended indifference.
Once arrived at the quay alongside which lay the big transatlantic liner,
Poirot became brisk and alert. Our proceedings consisted in interviewing four
successive stewards and inquiring after a friend of Poirot’s who had crossed
to New York on the 23rd.
“An elderly gentleman, wearing glasses. A great invalid, hardly moved
out of his cabin.”
The description appeared to tally with one Mr. Ventnor who had occupied
the cabin C24 which was next to that of Philip Ridgeway. Although unable to
see how Poirot had deduced Mr. Ventnor’s existence and personal appearance,
I was keenly excited.
“Tell me,” I cried, “was this gentleman one of the first to land when you
got to New York?”
The steward shook his head.
“No, indeed, sir, he was one of the last off the boat.”
I retired crestfallen, and observed Poirot grinning at me. He thanked the
steward, a note changed hands, and we took our departure.
“It’s all very well,” I remarked heatedly, “but that last answer must have
damned your precious theory, grin as you please!”
“As usual, you see nothing, Hastings. That last answer is, on the contrary,
the copingstone of my theory.”
I flung up my hands in despair.
“I give it up.”
II
When we were in the train, speeding towards London, Poirot wrote busily for
a few minutes, sealing up the result in an envelope.
“This is for the good Inspector McNeil. We will leave it at Scotland Yard
in passing, and then to the Rendezvous Restaurant, where I have asked Miss
Esmée Farquhar to do us the honour of dining with us.”
“What about Ridgeway?”
“What about him?” asked Poirot with a twinkle.
“Why, you surely don’t think—you can’t—”
“The habit of incoherence is growing upon you, Hastings. As a matter of
fact I did think. If Ridgeway had been the thief—which was perfectly possible
—the case would have been charming; a piece of neat methodical work.”
“But not so charming for Miss Farquhar.”
“Possibly you are right. Therefore all is for the best. Now, Hastings, let us
review the case. I can see that you are dying to do so. The sealed package is
removed from the trunk and vanishes, as Miss Farquhar puts it, into thin air.
We will dismiss the thin air theory, which is not practicable at the present
stage of science, and consider what is likely to have become of it. Everyone
asserts the incredulity of its being smuggled ashore—”
“Yes, but we know—”
“You may know, Hastings, I do not. I take the view that, since it seemed
incredible, it was incredible. Two possibilities remain: it was hidden on board
—also rather difficult—or it was thrown overboard.”
“With a cork on it, do you mean?”
“Without a cork.”
I stared.
“But if the bonds were thrown overboard, they couldn’t have been sold in
New York.”
“I admire your logical mind, Hastings. The bonds were sold in New York,
therefore they were not thrown overboard. You see where that leads us?”
“Where we were when we started.”
“Jamais de la vie! If the package was thrown overboard and the bonds
were sold in New York, the package could not have contained the bonds. Is
there any evidence that the package did contain the bonds? Remember, Mr.
Ridgeway never opened it from the time it was placed in his hands in
London.”
“Yes, but then—”
Poirot waved an impatient hand.
“Permit me to continue. The last moment that the bonds are seen as bonds
is in the office of the London and Scottish Bank on the morning of the 23rd.
They reappear in New York half an hour after the Olympia gets in, and
according to one man, whom nobody listens to, actually before she gets in.
Supposing then, that they have never been on the Olympia at all? Is there any
other way they could get to New York? Yes. The Gigantic leaves
Southampton on the same day as the Olympia, and she holds the record for
the Atlantic. Mailed by the Gigantic, the bonds would be in New York the day
before the Olympia arrived. All is clear, the case begins to explain itself. The
sealed packet is only a dummy, and the moment of its substitution must be in
the office in the bank. It would be an easy matter for any of the three men
present to have prepared a duplicate package which could be substituted for
the genuine one. Très bien, the bonds are mailed to a confederate in New
York, with instructions to sell as soon as the Olympia is in, but someone must
travel on the Olympia to engineer the supposed moment of robbery.”
“But why?”
“Because if Ridgeway merely opens the packet and finds it a dummy,
suspicion flies at once to London. No, the man on board in the cabin next
door does his work, pretends to force the lock in an obvious manner so as to
draw immediate attention to the theft, really unlocks the trunk with a
duplicate key, throws the package overboard and waits until the last to leave
the boat. Naturally he wears glasses to conceal his eyes, and is an invalid
since he does not want to run the risk of meeting Ridgeway. He steps ashore
in New York and returns by the first boat available.”
“But who—which was he?”
“The man who had a duplicate key, the man who ordered the lock, the
man who has not been severely ill with bronchitis at his home in the country
—enfin, the ‘stodgy’ old man, Mr. Shaw! There are criminals in high places
sometimes, my friend. Ah, here we are, Mademoiselle, I have succeeded! You
permit?”
And, beaming, Poirot kissed the astonished girl lightly on either cheek!
Ten
THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHEAP FLAT
“The Adventure of the Cheap Flat” was first published in The Sketch, May 9, 1923.
So far, in the cases which I have recorded, Poirot’s investigations have
started from the central fact, whether murder or robbery, and have proceeded
from thence by a process of logical deduction to the final triumphant
unravelling. In the events I am now about to chronicle a remarkable chain of
circumstances led from the apparently trivial incidents which first attracted
Poirot’s attention to the sinister happenings which completed a most unusual
case.
I had been spending the evening with an old friend of mine, Gerald
Parker. There had been, perhaps, about half a dozen people there besides my
host and myself, and the talk fell, as it was bound to do sooner or later
wherever Parker found himself, on the subject of house-hunting in London.
Houses and flats were Parker’s special hobby. Since the end of the War, he
had occupied at least half a dozen different flats and maisonettes. No sooner
was he settled anywhere than he would light unexpectedly upon a new find,
and would forthwith depart bag and baggage. His moves were nearly always
accomplished at a slight pecuniary gain, for he had a shrewd business head,
but it was sheer love of the sport that actuated him, and not a desire to make
money at it. We listened to Parker for some time with the respect of the
novice for the expert. Then it was our turn, and a perfect babel of tongues was
let loose. Finally the floor was left to Mrs. Robinson, a charming little bride
who was there with her husband. I had never met them before, as Robinson
was only a recent acquaintance of Parker’s.
“Talking of flats,” she said, “have you heard of our piece of luck, Mr.
Parker? We’ve got a flat—at last! In Montagu Mansions.”
“Well,” said Parker, “I’ve always said there are plenty of flats—at a
price!”
“Yes, but this isn’t at a price. It’s dirt cheap. Eighty pounds a year!”
“But—but Montagu Mansions is just off Knightsbridge, isn’t it? Big
handsome building. Or are you talking of a poor relation of the same name
stuck in the slums somewhere?”
“No, it’s the Knightsbridge one. That’s what makes it so wonderful.”
“Wonderful is the word! It’s a blinking miracle. But there must be a catch
somewhere. Big premium, I suppose?”
“No premium!”
“No prem—oh, hold my head, somebody!” groaned Parker.
“But we’ve got to buy the furniture,” continued Mrs. Robinson.
“Ah!” Parker bristled up. “I knew there was a catch!”
“For fifty pounds. And it’s beautifully furnished!”
“I give it up,” said Parker. “The present occupants must be lunatics with a
taste for philanthropy.”
Mrs. Robinson was looking a little troubled. A little pucker appeared
between her dainty brows.
“It is queer, isn’t it? You don’t think that—that—the place is haunted?”
“Never heard of a haunted flat,” declared Parker decisively.
“No-o.” Mrs. Robinson appeared far from convinced. “But there were
several things about it all that struck me as—well, queer.”
“For instance—” I suggested.
“Ah,” said Parker, “our criminal expert’s attention is aroused! Unburden
yourself to him, Mrs. Robinson. Hastings is a great unraveller of mysteries.”
I laughed, embarrassed, but not wholly displeased with the rôle thrust
upon me.
“Oh, not really queer, Captain Hastings, but when we went to the agents,
Stosser and Paul—we hadn’t tried them before because they only have the
expensive Mayfair flats, but we thought at any rate it would do no harm—
everything they offered us was four and five hundred a year, or else huge
premiums, and then, just as we were going, they mentioned that they had a
flat at eighty, but that they doubted if it would be any good our going there,
because it had been on their books some time and they had sent so many
people to see it that it was almost sure to be taken—‘snapped up’ as the clerk
put it—only people were so tiresome in not letting them know, and then they
went on sending, and people get annoyed at being sent to a place that had,
perhaps, been let some time.”
Mrs. Robinson paused for some much needed breath, and then continued:
“We thanked him, and said that we quite understood it would probably be
no good, but that we should like an order all the same—just in case. And we
went there straight away in a taxi, for, after all, you never know. No. 4 was on
the second floor, and just as we were waiting for the lift, Elsie Ferguson—
she’s a friend of mine, Captain Hastings, and they are looking for a flat too—
came hurrying down the stairs. ‘Ahead of you for once, my dear,’ she said.
‘But it’s no good. It’s already let.’ That seemed to finish it, but—well, as John
said, the place was very cheap, we could afford to give more, and perhaps if
we offered a premium. A horrid thing to do, of course, and I feel quite
ashamed of telling you, but you know what flat-hunting is.”
I assured her that I was well aware that in the struggle for houseroom the
baser side of human nature frequently triumphed over the higher, and that the
well-known rule of dog eat dog always applied.
“So we went up and, would you believe it, the flat wasn’t let at all. We
were shown over it by the maid, and then we saw the mistress, and the thing
was settled then and there. Immediate possession and fifty pounds for the
furniture. We signed the agreement next day, and we are to move in
tomorrow!” Mrs. Robinson paused triumphantly.
“And what about Mrs. Ferguson?” asked Parker. “Let’s have your
deductions, Hastings.”
“ ‘Obvious, my dear Watson,’ ” I quoted lightly. “She went to the wrong
flat.”
“Oh, Captain Hastings, how clever of you!” cried Mrs. Robinson
admiringly.
I rather wished Poirot had been there. Sometimes I have the feeling that
he rather underestimates my capabilities.
II
The whole thing was rather amusing, and I propounded the thing as a mock
problem to Poirot on the following morning. He seemed interested, and
questioned me rather narrowly as to the rents of flats in various localities.
“A curious story,” he said thoughtfully. “Excuse me, Hastings, I must take
a short stroll.”
When he returned, about an hour later, his eyes were gleaming with a
peculiar excitement. He laid his stick on the table, and brushed the nap of his
hat with his usual tender care before he spoke.
“It is as well, mon ami, that we have no affairs of moment on hand. We
can devote ourselves wholly to the present investigation.”
“What investigation are you talking about?”
“The remarkable cheapness of your friend, Mrs. Robinson’s, new flat.”
“Poirot, you are not serious!”
“I am most serious. Figure to yourself, my friend, that the real rent of
those flats is £350. I have just ascertained that from the landlord’s agents. And
yet this particular flat is being sublet at eighty pounds! Why?”
“There must be something wrong with it. Perhaps it is haunted, as Mrs.
Robinson suggested.”
Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
“Then again how curious it is that her friend tells her the flat is let, and,
when she goes up, behold, it is not so at all!”
“But surely you agree with me that the other woman must have gone to
the wrong flat. That is the only possible solution.”
“You may or may not be right on that point, Hastings. The fact still
remains that numerous other applicants were sent to see it, and yet, in spite of
its remarkable cheapness, it was still in the market when Mrs. Robinson
arrived.”
“That shows that there must be something wrong about it.”
“Mrs. Robinson did not seem to notice anything amiss. Very curious, is it
not? Did she impress you as being a truthful woman, Hastings?”
“She was a delightful creature!”
“Evidemment! since she renders you incapable of replying to my question.
Describe her to me, then.”
“Well, she’s tall and fair; her hair’s really a beautiful shade of auburn—”
“Always you have had a penchant for auburn hair!” murmured Poirot.
“But continue.”
“Blue eyes and a very nice complexion and—well, that’s all, I think,” I
concluded lamely.
“And her husband?”
“Oh, he’s quite a nice fellow—nothing startling.”
“Dark or fair?”
“I don’t know—betwixt and between, and just an ordinary sort of face.”
Poirot nodded.
“Yes, there are hundreds of these average men—and anyway, you bring
more sympathy and appreciation to your description of women. Do you know
anything about these people? Does Parker know them well?”
“They are just recent acquaintances, I believe. But surely, Poirot, you
don’t think for an instant—”
Poirot raised his hand.
“Tout doucement, mon ami. Have I said that I think anything? All I say is
—it is a curious story. And there is nothing to throw light upon it; except
perhaps the lady’s name, eh, Hastings?”
“Her name is Stella,” I said stiffly, “but I don’t see—”
Poirot interrupted me with a tremendous chuckle. Something seemed to be
amusing him vastly.
“And Stella means a star, does it not? Famous!”
“What on earth—?”
“And stars give light! Voilà! Calm yourself, Hastings. Do not put on that
air of injured dignity. Come, we will go to Montagu Mansions and make a
few inquiries.”
I accompanied him, nothing loath. The Mansions were a handsome block
of buildings in excellent repair. A uniformed porter was sunning himself on
the threshold, and it was to him that Poirot addressed himself.
“Pardon, but would you tell me if a Mr. and Mrs. Robinson reside here?”
The porter was a man of few words and apparently of a sour or suspicious
disposition. He hardly looked at us and grunted out:
“No. 4. Second floor.”
“I thank you. Can you tell me how long they have been here?”
“Six months.”
I started forward in amazement, conscious as I did so of Poirot’s malicious
grin.
“Impossible,” I cried. “You must be making a mistake.”
“Six months.”
“Are you sure? The lady I mean is tall and fair with reddish gold hair and
—”
“That’s ’er,” said the porter. “Come in the Michaelmas quarter, they did.
Just six months ago.”
He appeared to lose interest in us and retreated slowly up the hall. I
followed Poirot outside.
“Eh bien, Hastings?” my friend demanded slyly. “Are you so sure now
that delightful women always speak the truth?”
I did not reply.
Poirot had steered his way into Brompton Road before I asked him what
he was going to do and where we were going.
“To the house agents, Hastings. I have a great desire to have a flat in
Montagu Mansions. If I am not mistaken, several interesting things will take
place there before long.”
We were fortunate in our quest. No. 8, on the fourth floor, was to be let
furnished at ten guineas a week, Poirot promptly took it for a month. Outside
in the street again, he silenced my protests:
“But I make money nowadays! Why should I not indulge a whim? By the
way, Hastings, have you a revolver?”
“Yes—somewhere,” I answered, slightly thrilled. “Do you think—”
“That you will need it? It is quite possible. The idea pleases you, I see.
Always the spectacular and romantic appeals to you.”
The following day saw us installed in our temporary home. The flat was
pleasantly furnished. It occupied the same position in the building as that of
the Robinsons, but was two floors higher.
The day after our installation was a Sunday. In the afternoon, Poirot left
the front door ajar, and summoned me hastily as a bang reverberated from
somewhere below.
“Look over the banisters. Are those your friends? Do not let them see
you.”
I craned my neck over the staircase.
“That’s them,” I declared in an ungrammatical whisper.
“Good. Wait awhile.”
About half an hour later, a young woman emerged in brilliant and varied
clothing. With a sigh of satisfaction, Poirot tiptoed back into the flat.
“C’est ça. After the master and mistress, the maid. The flat should now be
empty.”
“What are we going to do?” I asked uneasily.
Poirot had trotted briskly into the scullery and was hauling at the rope of
the coal lift.
“We are about to descend after the method of the dustbins,” he explained
cheerfully. “No one will observe us. The Sunday concert, the Sunday
‘afternoon out,’ and finally the Sunday nap after the Sunday dinner of
England—le rosbif—all these will distract attention from the doings of
Hercule Poirot. Come, my friend.”
He stepped into the rough wooden contrivance and I followed him
gingerly.
“Are we going to break into the flat?” I asked dubiously.
Poirot’s answer was not too reassuring:
“Not precisely today,” he replied.
Pulling on the rope, we descended slowly till we reached the second floor.
Poirot uttered an exclamation of satisfaction as he perceived that the wooden
door into the scullery was open.
“You observe? Never do they bolt these doors in the daytime. And yet
anyone could mount or descend as we have done. At night, yes—though not
always then—and it is against that that we are going to make provision.”
He had drawn some tools from his pocket as he spoke, and at once set
deftly to work, his object being to arrange the bolt so that it could be pulled
back from the lift. The operation only occupied about three minutes. Then
Poirot returned the tools to his pocket, and we reascended once more to our
own domain.
III
On Monday Poirot was out all day, but when he returned in the evening he
flung himself into his chair with a sigh of satisfaction.
“Hastings, shall I recount to you a little history? A story after your own
heart and which will remind you of your favourite cinema?”
“Go ahead,” I laughed. “I presume that it is a true story, not one of your
efforts of fancy.”
“It is true enough. Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard will vouch for its
accuracy, since it was through his kind offices that it came to my ears. Listen,
Hastings. A little over six months ago some important Naval plans were
stolen from an American Government department. They showed the position
of some of the most important Harbour defences, and would be worth a
considerable sum to any foreign Government—that of Japan, for example.
Suspicion fell upon a young man named Luigi Valdarno, an Italian by birth,
who was employed in a minor capacity in the Department and who was
missing at the same time as the papers. Whether Luigi Valdarno was the thief
or not, he was found two days later on the East Side in New York, shot dead.
The papers were not on him. Now for some time past Luigi Valdarno had
been going about with a Miss Elsa Hardt, a young concert singer who had
recently appeared and who lived with a brother in an apartment in
Washington. Nothing was known of the antecedents of Miss Elsa Hardt, and
she disappeared suddenly about the time of Valdarno’s death. There are
reasons for believing that she was in reality an accomplished international spy
who has done much nefarious work under various aliases. The American
Secret Service, while doing their best to trace her, also kept an eye upon
certain insignificant Japanese gentlemen living in Washington. They felt
pretty certain that, when Elsa Hardt had covered her tracks sufficiently, she
would approach the gentlemen in question. One of them left suddenly for
England a fortnight ago. On the face of it, therefore, it would seem that Elsa
Hardt is in England.” Poirot paused, and then added softly: “The official
description of Elsa Hardt is: Height 5 ft. 7, eyes blue, hair auburn, fair
complexion, nose straight, no special distinguishing marks.”
“Mrs. Robinson!” I gasped.
“Well, there is a chance of it, anyhow,” amended Poirot. “Also I learn that
a swarthy man, a foreigner of some kind, was inquiring about the occupants
of No. 4 only this morning. Therefore, mon ami, I fear that you must forswear
your beauty sleep tonight, and join me in my all-night vigil in that flat below
—armed with that excellent revolver of yours, bien entendu!”
“Rather,” I cried with enthusiasm. “When shall we start?”
“The hour of midnight is both solemn and suitable, I fancy. Nothing is
likely to occur before then.”
At twelve o’clock precisely, we crept cautiously into the coal lift and
lowered ourselves to the second floor. Under Poirot’s manipulation, the
wooden door quickly swung inwards, and we climbed into the flat. From the
scullery we passed into the kitchen where we established ourselves
comfortably in two chairs with the door into the hall ajar.
“Now we have but to wait,” said Poirot contentedly, closing his eyes.
To me, the waiting appeared endless. I was terrified of going to sleep. Just
when it seemed to me that I had been there about eight hours—and had, as I
found out afterwards, in reality been exactly one hour and twenty minutes—a
faint scratching sound came to my ears. Poirot’s hand touched mine. I rose,
and together we moved carefully in the direction of the hall. The noise came
from there. Poirot placed his lips to my ear.
“Outside the front door. They are cutting out the lock. When I give the
word, not before, fall upon him from behind and hold him fast. Be careful, he
will have a knife.”
Presently there was a rending sound, and a little circle of light appeared
through the door. It was extinguished immediately and then the door was
slowly opened. Poirot and I flattened ourselves against the wall. I heard a
man’s breathing as he passed us. Then he flashed on his torch, and as he did
so, Poirot hissed in my ear:
“Allez.”
We sprang together, Poirot with a quick movement enveloped the
intruder’s head with a light woollen scarf whilst I pinioned his arms. The
whole affair was quick and noiseless. I twisted a dagger from his hand, and as
Poirot brought down the scarf from his eyes, whilst keeping it wound tightly
round his mouth, I jerked up my revolver where he could see it and
understand that resistance was useless. As he ceased to struggle Poirot put his
mouth close to his ear and began to whisper rapidly. After a minute the man
nodded. Then enjoining silence with a movement of the hand, Poirot led the
way out of the flat and down the stairs. Our captive followed, and I brought
up the rear with the revolver. When we were out in the street, Poirot turned to
me.
“There is a taxi waiting just round the corner. Give me the revolver. We
shall not need it now.”
“But if this fellow tries to escape?”
Poirot smiled.
“He will not.”
I returned in a minute with the waiting taxi. The scarf had been unwound
from the stranger’s face, and I gave a start of surprise.
“He’s not a Jap,” I ejaculated in a whisper to Poirot.
“Observation was always your strong point, Hastings! Nothing escapes
you. No, the man is not a Jap. He is an Italian.”
We got into the taxi, and Poirot gave the driver an address in St. John’s
Wood. I was by now completely fogged. I did not like to ask Poirot where we
were going in front of our captive, and strove in vain to obtain some light
upon the proceedings.
We alighted at the door of a small house standing back from the road. A
returning wayfarer, slightly drunk, was lurching along the pavement and
almost collided with Poirot, who said something sharply to him which I did
not catch. All three of us went up the steps of the house. Poirot rang the bell
and motioned us to stand a little aside. There was no answer and he rang
again and then seized the knocker which he plied for some minutes
vigorously.
A light appeared suddenly above the fanlight, and the door opened
cautiously a little way.
“What the devil do you want?” a man’s voice demanded harshly.
“I want the doctor. My wife is taken ill.”
“There’s no doctor here.”
The man prepared to shut the door, but Poirot thrust his foot in adroitly.
He became suddenly a perfect caricature of an infuriated Frenchman.
“What you say, there is no doctor? I will have the law of you. You must
come! I will stay here and ring and knock all night.”
“My dear sir—” The door was opened again, the man, clad in a dressing
gown and slippers, stepped forward to pacify Poirot with an uneasy glance
round.
“I will call the police.”
Poirot prepared to descend the steps.
“No, don’t do that for Heaven’s sake!” The man dashed after him.
With a neat push Poirot sent him staggering down the steps. In another
minute all three of us were inside the door and it was pushed to and bolted.
“Quick—in here.” Poirot led the way into the nearest room, switching on
the light as he did so. “And you—behind the curtain.”
“Si, Signor,” said the Italian and slid rapidly behind the full folds of rosecoloured velvet which draped the embrasure of the window.
Not a minute too soon. Just as he disappeared from view a woman rushed
into the room. She was tall with reddish hair and held a scarlet kimono round
her slender form.
“Where is my husband?” she cried, with a quick frightened glance. “Who
are you?”
Poirot stepped forward with a bow.
“It is to be hoped your husband will not suffer from a chill. I observed that
he had slippers on his feet, and that his dressing gown was a warm one.”
“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”
“It is true that none of us have the pleasure of your acquaintance,
madame. It is especially to be regretted as one of our number has come
specially from New York in order to meet you.”
The curtains parted and the Italian stepped out. To my horror I observed
that he was brandishing my revolver, which Poirot must doubtless have put
down through inadvertence in the cab.
The woman gave a piercing scream and turned to fly, but Poirot was
standing in front of the closed door.
“Let me by,” she shrieked. “He will murder me.”
“Who was it dat croaked Luigi Valdarno?” asked the Italian hoarsely,
brandishing the weapon, and sweeping each one of us with it. We dared not
move.
“My God, Poirot, this is awful. What shall we do?” I cried.
“You will oblige me by refraining from talking so much, Hastings. I can
assure you that our friend will not shoot until I give the word.”
“Youse sure o’ dat, eh?” said the Italian, leering unpleasantly.
It was more than I was, but the woman turned to Poirot like a flash.
“What is it you want?”
Poirot bowed.
“I do not think it is necessary to insult Miss Elsa Hardt’s intelligence by
telling her.”
With a swift movement, the woman snatched up a big black velvet cat
which served as a cover for the telephone.
“They are stitched in the lining of that.”
“Clever,” murmured Poirot appreciatively. He stood aside from the door.
“Good evening, madame. I will detain your friend from New York whilst you
make your getaway.”
“Whatta fool!” roared the big Italian, and raising the revolver he fired
point-blank at the woman’s retreating figure just as I flung myself upon him.
But the weapon merely clicked harmlessly and Poirot’s voice rose in mild
reproof.
“Never will you trust your old friend, Hastings. I do not care for my
friends to carry loaded pistols about with them and never would I permit a
mere acquaintance to do so. No, no, mon ami.” This to the Italian who was
swearing hoarsely. Poirot continued to address him in a tone of mild reproof:
“See now, what I have done for you. I have saved you from being hanged.
And do not think that our beautiful lady will escape. No, no, the house is
watched, back and front. Straight into the arms of the police they will go. Is
not that a beautiful and consoling thought? Yes, you may leave the room now.
But be careful—be very careful. I—Ah, he is gone! And my friend Hastings
looks at me with eyes of reproach. But it’s all so simple! It was clear, from the
first, that out of several hundred, probably, applicants for No. 4 Montagu
Mansions, only the Robinsons were considered suitable. Why? What was
there that singled them out from the rest—at practically a glance. Their
appearance? Possibly, but it was not so unusual. Their name, then!”
“But there’s nothing unusual about the name of Robinson,” I cried. “It’s
quite a common name.”
“Ah! Sapristi, but exactly! That was the point. Elsa Hardt and her
husband, or brother or whatever he really is, come from New York, and take a
flat in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. Suddenly they learn that one of
these secret societies, the Mafia, or the Camorra, to which doubtless Luigi
Valdarno belonged, is on their track. What do they do? They hit on a scheme
of transparent simplicity. Evidently they knew that their pursuers were not
personally acquainted with either of them. What, then, can be simpler? They
offer the flat at an absurdly low rental. Of the thousands of young couples in
London looking for flats, there cannot fail to be several Robinsons. It is only a
matter of waiting. If you will look at the name of Robinson in the telephone
directory, you will realize that a fair-haired Mrs. Robinson was pretty sure to
come along sooner or later. Then what will happen? The avenger arrives. He
knows the name, he knows the address. He strikes! All is over, vengeance is
satisfied, and Miss Elsa Hardt has escaped by the skin of her teeth once more.
By the way, Hastings, you must present me to the real Mrs. Robinson—that
delightful and truthful creature! What will they think when they find their flat
has been broken into! We must hurry back. Ah, that sounds like Japp and his
friends arriving.”
A mighty tattoo sounded on the knocker.
“How do you know this address?” I asked as I followed Poirot out into the
hall. “Oh, of course, you had the first Mrs. Robinson followed when she left
the other flat.”
“A la bonne heure, Hastings. You use your grey cells at last. Now for a
little surprise for Japp.”
Softly unbolting the door, he stuck the cat’s head round the edge and
ejaculated a piercing “Miaow.”
The Scotland Yard inspector, who was standing outside with another man,
jumped in spite of himself.
“Oh, it’s only Monsieur Poirot at one of his little jokes!” he exclaimed, as
Poirot’s head followed that of the cat. “Let us in, moosior.”
“You have our friends safe and sound?”
“Yes, we’ve got the birds all right. But they hadn’t got the goods with
them.”
“I see. So you come to search. Well, I am about to depart with Hastings,
but I should like to give you a little lecture upon the history and habits of the
domestic cat.”
“For the Lord’s sake, have you gone completely balmy?”
“The cat,” declaimed Poirot, “was worshipped by the ancient Egyptians. It
is still regarded as a symbol of good luck if a black cat crosses your path. This
cat crossed your path tonight, Japp. To speak of the interior of any animal or
any person is not. I know, considered polite in England. But the interior of
this cat is perfectly delicate. I refer to the lining.”
With a sudden grunt, the second man seized the cat from Poirot’s hand.
“Oh, I forgot to introduce you,” said Japp. “Mr. Poirot, this is Mr. Burt of
the United States Secret Service.”
The American’s trained fingers had felt what he was looking for. He held
out his hand, and for a moment speech failed him. Then he rose to the
occasion.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Mr. Burt.
Eleven
THE MYSTERY OF HUNTER’S LODGE
“The Mystery of Hunter’s Lodge” was first published in The Sketch, May 16, 1923.
After all,” murmured Poirot, “it is possible that I shall not die this time.”
Coming from a convalescent influenza patient, I hailed the remark as
showing a beneficial optimism. I myself had been the first sufferer from the
disease. Poirot in his turn had gone down. He was now sitting up in bed,
propped up with pillows, his head muffled in a woollen shawl, and was
slowly sipping a particularly noxious tisane which I had prepared according
to his directions. His eye rested with pleasure upon a neatly graduated row of
medicine bottles which adorned the mantelpiece.
“Yes, yes,” my little friend continued. “Once more shall I be myself again,
the great Hercule Poirot, the terror of evildoers! Figure to yourself, mon ami,
that I have a little paragraph to myself in Society Gossip. But yes! Here it is:
‘Go it—criminals—all out! Hercule Poirot—and believe me, girls, he’s some
Hercules!—our own pet society detective can’t get a grip on you. ’Cause
why? ’Cause he’s got la grippe himself!’ ”
I laughed.
“Good for you, Poirot. You are becoming quite a public character. And
fortunately you haven’t missed anything of particular interest during this
time.”
“That is true. The few cases I have had to decline did not fill me with any
regret.”
Our landlady stuck her head in at the door.
“There’s a gentleman downstairs. Says he must see Monsieur Poirot or
you, Captain. Seeing as he was in a great to-do—and with all that quite the
gentleman—I brought up ’is card.”
She handed me a bit of pasteboard. “Mr. Roger Havering,” I read.
Poirot motioned with his head towards the bookcase, and I obediently
pulled forth Who’s Who. Poirot took it from me and scanned the pages rapidly.
“Second son of fifth Baron Windsor. Married 1913 Zoe, fourth daughter
of William Crabb.”
“H’m!” I said. “I rather fancy that’s the girl who used to act at the
Frivolity—only she called herself Zoe Carrisbrook. I remember she married
some young man about town just before the War.”
“Would it interest you, Hastings, to go down and hear what our visitor’s
particular little trouble is? Make him all my excuses.”
Roger Havering was a man of about forty, well set up and of smart
appearance. His face, however, was haggard, and he was evidently labouring
under great agitation.
“Captain Hastings? You are Monsieur Poirot’s partner, I understand. It is
imperative that he should come with me to Derbyshire today.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I replied. “Poirot is ill in bed—influenza.”
His face fell.
“Dear me, that is a great blow to me.”
“The matter on which you want to consult him is serious?”
“My God, yes! My uncle, the best friend I have in the world, was foully
murdered last night.”
“Here in London?”
“No, in Derbyshire. I was in town and received a telegram from my wife
this morning. Immediately upon its receipt I determined to come round and
beg Monsieur Poirot to undertake the case.”
“If you will excuse me a minute,” I said, struck by a sudden idea.
I rushed upstairs, and in a few brief words acquainted Poirot with the
situation. He took any further words out of my mouth.
“I see. I see. You want to go yourself, is it not so? Well, why not? You
should know my methods by now. All I ask is that you should report to me
fully every day, and follow implicitly any instructions I may wire you.”
To this I willingly agreed.
II
An hour later I was sitting opposite Mr. Havering in a first-class carriage on
the Midland Railway, speeding rapidly away from London.
“To begin with, Captain Hastings, you must understand that Hunter’s
Lodge, where we are going, and where the tragedy took place, is only a small
shooting box in the heart of the Derbyshire moors. Our real home is near
Newmarket, and we usually rent a flat in town for the season. Hunter’s Lodge
is looked after by a housekeeper who is quite capable of doing all we need
when we run down for an occasional weekend. Of course, during the shooting
season, we take down some of our own servants from Newmarket. My uncle,
Mr. Harrington Pace (as you may know, my mother was a Miss Pace of New
York), has, for the last three years, made his home with us. He never got on
well with my father, or my elder brother, and I suspect that my being
somewhat of a prodigal son myself rather increased than diminished his
affection towards me. Of course I am a poor man, and my uncle was a rich
one—in other words, he paid the piper! But, though exacting in many ways,
he was not really hard to get on with, and we all three lived very
harmoniously together. Two days ago, my uncle, rather wearied with some
recent gaieties of ours in town, suggested that we should run down to
Derbyshire for a day or two. My wife telegraphed to Mrs. Middleton, the
housekeeper, and we went down that same afternoon. Yesterday evening I
was forced to return to town, but my wife and my uncle remained on. This
morning I received this telegram.” He handed it over to me:
“Come at once uncle Harrington murdered last night bring good
detective if you can but do come—Zoe.”
“Then, as yet you know no details?”
“No, I suppose it will be in the evening papers. Without doubt the police
are in charge.”
It was about three o’clock when we arrived at the little station of Elmer’s
Dale. From there a five-mile drive brought us to a small grey stone building in
the midst of the rugged moors.
“A lonely place,” I observed with a shiver.
Havering nodded.
“I shall try and get rid of it. I could never live here again.”
We unlatched the gate and were walking up the narrow path to the oak
door when a familiar figure emerged and came to meet us.
“Japp!” I ejaculated.
The Scotland Yard inspector grinned at me in a friendly fashion before
addressing my companion.
“Mr. Havering, I think? I’ve been sent down from London to take charge
of this case, and I’d like a word with you, if I may, sir.”
“My wife—”
“I’ve seen your good lady, sir—and the housekeeper. I won’t keep you a
moment, but I am anxious to get back to the village now that I’ve seen all
there is to see here.”
“I know nothing as yet as to what—”
“Ex-actly,” said Japp soothingly. “But there are just one or two little
points I’d like your opinion about all the same. Captain Hastings here, he
knows me, and he’ll go on up to the house and tell them you’re coming. What
have you done with the little man, by the way, Captain Hastings?”
“He’s ill in bed with influenza.”
“Is he now? I’m sorry to hear that. Rather the case of the cart without the
horse, you being here without him, isn’t it?”
And on his rather ill-timed jest I went on to the house. I rang the bell, as
Japp had closed the door behind him. After some moments it was opened to
me by a middle-aged woman in black.
“Mr. Havering will be here in a moment,” I explained. “He has been
detained by the inspector. I have come down with him from London to look
into the case. Perhaps you can tell me briefly what occurred last night.”
“Come inside, sir.” She closed the door behind me, and we stood in the
dimly-lighted hall. “It was after dinner last night, sir, that the man came. He
asked to see Mr. Pace, sir, and, seeing that he spoke the same way, I thought it
was an American gentleman friend of Mr. Pace’s and I showed him into the
gun room, and then went to tell Mr. Pace. He wouldn’t give any name, which,
of course, was a bit odd, now I come to think of it. I told Mr. Pace, and he
seemed puzzled like, but he said to the mistress: ‘Excuse me, Zoe, while I see
what this fellow wants.’ He went off to the gun room, and I went back to the
kitchen, but after a while I heard loud voices, as if they were quarrelling, and
I came out into the hall. At the same time, the mistress she comes out too, and
just then there was a shot and then a dreadful silence. We both ran to the gun
room door, but it was locked and we had to go round to the window. It was
open, and there inside was Mr. Pace, all shot and bleeding.”
“What became of the man?”
“He must have got away through the window, sir, before we got to it.”
“And then?”
“Mrs. Havering sent me to fetch the police. Five miles to walk it was.
They came back with me, and the constable he stayed all night, and this
morning the police gentleman from London arrived.”
“What was this man like who called to see Mr. Pace?”
The housekeeper reflected.
“He had a black beard, sir, and was about middle-aged, and had on a light
overcoat. Beyond the fact that he spoke like an American I didn’t notice much
about him.”
“I see. Now I wonder if I can see Mrs. Havering?”
“She’s upstairs, sir. Shall I tell her?”
“If you please. Tell her that Mr. Havering is outside with Inspector Japp,
and that the gentleman he has brought back with him from London is anxious
to speak to her as soon as possible.”
“Very good, sir.”
I was in a fever of impatience to get all the facts. Japp had two or three
hours’ start on me, and his anxiety to be gone made me keen to be close at his
heels.
Mrs. Havering did not keep me waiting long. In a few minutes I heard a
light step descending the stairs, and looked up to see a very handsome young
woman coming towards me. She wore a flame-coloured jumper, that set off
the slender boyishness of her figure. On her dark head was a little hat of
flame-coloured leather. Even the present tragedy could not dim the vitality of
her personality.
I introduced myself, and she nodded in quick comprehension.
“Of course I have often heard of you and your colleague, Monsieur Poirot.
You have done some wonderful things together, haven’t you? It was very
clever of my husband to get you so promptly. Now will you ask me
questions? That is the easiest way, isn’t it, of getting to know all you want to
about this dreadful affair?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Havering. Now what time was it that this man arrived?”
“It must have been just before nine o’clock. We had finished dinner, and
were sitting over our coffee and cigarettes.”
“Your husband had already left for London?”
“Yes, he went up by the 6:15.”
“Did he go by car to the station, or did he walk?”
“Our own car isn’t down here. One came out from the garage in Elmer’s
Dale to fetch him in time for the train.”
“Was Mr. Pace quite his usual self?”
“Absolutely. Most normal in every way.”
“Now, can you describe this visitor at all?”
“I’m afraid not. I didn’t see him. Mrs. Middleton showed him straight into
the gun room and then came to tell my uncle.”
“What did your uncle say?”
“He seemed rather annoyed, but went off at once. It was about five
minutes later that I heard the sound of raised voices. I ran out into the hall and
almost collided with Mrs. Middleton. Then we heard the shot. The gun room
door was locked on the inside, and we had to go right round the house to the
window. Of course that took some time, and the murderer had been able to get
well away. My poor uncle”—her voice faltered—“had been shot through the
head. I saw at once that he was dead. I sent Mrs. Middleton for the police, I
was careful to touch nothing in the room but to leave it exactly as I found it.”
I nodded approval.
“Now, as to the weapon?”
“Well, I can make a guess at it, Captain Hastings. A pair of revolvers of
my husband’s were mounted upon the wall. One of them is missing. I pointed
this out to the police, and they took the other one away with them. When they
have extracted the bullet, I suppose they will know for certain.”
“May I go to the gun room?”
“Certainly. The police have finished with it. But the body has been
removed.”
She accompanied me to the scene of the crime. At that moment Havering
entered the hall, and with a quick apology his wife ran to him. I was left to
undertake my investigations alone.
I may as well confess at once that they were rather disappointing. In
detective novels clues abound, but here I could find nothing that struck me as
out of the ordinary except a large bloodstain on the carpet where I judged the
dead man had fallen. I examined everything with painstaking care and took a
couple of pictures of the room with my little camera which I had brought with
me. I also examined the ground outside the window, but it appeared to have
been so heavily trampled underfoot that I judged it was useless to waste time
over it. No, I had seen all that Hunter’s Lodge had to show me. I must go
back to Elmer’s Dale and get into touch with Japp. Accordingly I took leave
of the Haverings, and was driven off in the car that had brought us from the
station.
I found Japp at the Matlock Arms and he took me forthwith to see the
body. Harrington Pace was a small, spare, clean-shaven man, typically
American in appearance. He had been shot through the back of the head, and
the revolver had been discharged at close quarters.
“Turned away for a moment,” remarked Japp, “and the other fellow
snatched up a revolver and shot him. The one Mrs. Havering handed over to
us was fully loaded and I suppose the other one was also. Curious what darn
fool things people do. Fancy keeping two loaded revolvers hanging up on
your wall.”
“What do you think of the case?” I asked, as we left the gruesome
chamber behind us.
“Well, I’d got my eye on Havering to begin with. Oh, yes!”—noting my
exclamation of astonishment. “Havering has one or two shady incidents in his
past. When he was a boy at Oxford there was some funny business about the
signature on one of his father’s cheques. All hushed up of course. Then, he’s
pretty heavily in debt now, and they’re the kind of debts he wouldn’t like to
go to his uncle about, whereas you may be sure the uncle’s will would be in
his favour. Yes, I’d got my eye on him, and that’s why I wanted to speak to
him before he saw his wife, but their statements dovetail all right, and I’ve
been to the station and there’s no doubt whatever that he left by the 6:15. That
gets up to London about 10:30. He went straight to his club, he says, and if
that’s confirmed all right—why, he couldn’t have been shooting his uncle here
at nine o’clock in a black beard!”
“Ah, yes, I was going to ask you what you thought about that beard?”
Japp winked.
“I think it grew pretty fast—grew in the five miles from Elmer’s Dale to
Hunter’s Lodge. Americans that I’ve met are mostly clean-shaven. Yes, it’s
amongst Mr. Pace’s American associates that we’ll have to look for the
murderer. I questioned the housekeeper first, and then her mistress, and their
stories agree all right, but I’m sorry Mrs. Havering didn’t get a look at the
fellow. She’s a smart woman, and she might have noticed something that
would set us on the track.”
I sat down and wrote a minute and lengthy account to Poirot. I was able to
add various further items of information before I posted the letter.
The bullet had been extracted and was proved to have been fired from a
revolver identical with the one held by the police. Furthermore, Mr.
Havering’s movements on the night in question had been checked and
verified, and it was proved beyond doubt that he had actually arrived in
London by the train in question. And, thirdly, a sensational development had
occurred. A city gentleman, living at Ealing, on crossing Haven Green to get
to the District Railway Station that morning, had observed a brown-paper
parcel stuck between the railings. Opening it, he found that it contained a
revolver. He handed the parcel over to the local police station, and before
night it was proved to be the one we were in search of, the fellow to that
given us by Mrs. Havering. One bullet had been fired from it.
All this I added to my report. A wire from Poirot arrived whilst I was at
breakfast the following morning:
“Of course black-bearded man was not Havering only you or Japp
would have such an idea wire me description of housekeeper and what
clothes she wore this morning same of Mrs. Havering do not waste
time taking photographs of interiors they are underexposed and not in
the least artistic.”
It seemed to me that Poirot’s style was unnecessarily facetious. I also fancied
he was a shade jealous of my position on the spot with full facilities for
handling the case. His request for a description of the clothes worn by the two
women appeared to me to be simply ridiculous, but I complied as well as I, a
mere man, was able to.
At eleven a reply wire came from Poirot:
“Advise Japp arrest housekeeper before it is too late.”
Dumbfounded, I took the wire to Japp. He swore softly under his breath.
“He’s the goods, Monsieur Poirot: if he says so, there’s something in it.
And I hardly noticed the woman. I don’t know that I can go so far as arresting
her, but I’ll have her watched. We’ll go up right away, and take another look
at her.”
But it was too late, Mrs. Middleton, that quiet middle-aged woman, who
had appeared so normal and respectable, had vanished into thin air. Her box
had been left behind. It contained only ordinary wearing apparel. There was
no clue to her identity, or as to her whereabouts.
From Mrs. Havering we elicited all the facts we could:
“I engaged her about three weeks ago when Mrs. Emery, our former
housekeeper, left. She came to me from Mrs. Selbourne’s Agency in Mount
Street—a very well-known place. I get all my servants from there. They sent
several women to see me, but this Mrs. Middleton seemed much the nicest,
and had splendid references. I engaged her on the spot, and notified the
Agency of the fact. I can’t believe that there was anything wrong with her.
She was such a nice quiet woman.”
The thing was certainly a mystery. Whilst it was clear that the woman
herself could not have committed the crime, since at the moment the shot was
fired Mrs. Havering was with her in the hall, nevertheless she must have some
connection with the murder, or why should she suddenly take to her heels and
bolt?
I wired the latest development to Poirot and suggested returning to
London and making inquiries at Selbourne’s Agency.
Poirot’s reply was prompt:
“Useless to inquire at agency they will never have heard of her find
out what vehicle took her up to hunters lodge when she first arrived
there.”
Though mystified, I was obedient. The means of transport in Elmer’s Dale
were limited. The local garage had two battered Ford cars, and there were two
station flies. None of these had been requisitioned on the date in question.
Questioned, Mrs. Havering explained that she had given the woman the
money for her fare down to Derbyshire and sufficient to hire a car or fly to
take her up to Hunter’s Lodge. There was usually one of the Fords at the
station on the chance of its being required. Taking into consideration the
further fact that nobody at the station had noticed the arrival of a stranger,
black-bearded or otherwise, on the fatal evening, everything seemed to point
to the conclusion that the murderer had come to the spot in a car, which had
been waiting near at hand to aid his escape, and that the same car had brought
the mysterious housekeeper to her new post. I may mention that inquiries at
the Agency in London bore out Poirot’s prognostication. No such woman as
“Mrs. Middleton” had ever been on their books. They had received the Hon.
Mrs. Havering’s application for a housekeeper, and had sent her various
applicants for the post. When she sent them the engagement fee, she omitted
to mention which woman she had selected.
Somewhat crestfallen, I returned to London. I found Poirot established in
an armchair by the fire in a garish, silk dressing gown. He greeted me with
much affection.
“Mon ami Hastings! But how glad I am to see you. Veritably I have for
you a great affection! And you have enjoyed yourself? You have run to and
fro with the good Japp? You have interrogated and investigated to your heart’s
content?”
“Poirot,” I cried, “the thing’s a dark mystery! It will never be solved.”
“It is true that we are not likely to cover ourselves with glory over it.”
“No, indeed. It’s a hard nut to crack.”
“Oh, as far as that goes, I am very good at cracking the nuts! A veritable
squirrel! It is not that which embarrasses me. I know well enough who killed
Mr. Harrington Pace.”
“You know? How did you find out?”
“Your illuminating answers to my wires supplied me with the truth. See
here, Hastings, let us examine the facts methodically and in order. Mr.
Harrington Pace is a man with a considerable fortune which at his death will
doubtless pass to his nephew. Point No. 1. His nephew is known to be
desperately hard up. Point No. 2. His nephew is also known to be—shall we
say a man of rather loose moral fibre? Point No. 3.”
“But Roger Havering is proved to have journeyed straight up to London.”
“Précisément—and therefore, as Mr. Havering left Elmer’s Dale at 6:15,
and since Mr. Pace cannot have been killed before he left, or the doctor would
have spotted the time of the crime as being given wrongly when he examined
the body, we conclude quite rightly, that Mr. Havering did not shoot his uncle.
But there is a Mrs. Havering, Hastings.”
“Impossible! The housekeeper was with her when the shot was fired.”
“Ah, yes, the housekeeper. But she has disappeared.”
“She will be found.”
“I think not. There is something peculiarly elusive about that housekeeper,
don’t you think so, Hastings? It struck me at once.”
“She played her part, I suppose, and then got out in the nick of time.”
“And what was her part?”
“Well, presumably to admit her confederate, the black-bearded man.”
“Oh, no, that was not her part! Her part was what you have just
mentioned, to provide an alibi for Mrs. Havering at the moment the shot was
fired. And no one will ever find her, mon ami, because she does not exist!
‘There’s no such person,’ as your so great Shakespeare says.”
“It was Dickens,” I murmured, unable to suppress a smile. “But what do
you mean, Poirot?”
“I mean that Zoe Havering was an actress before her marriage, that you
and Japp only saw the housekeeper in a dark hall, a dim middle-aged figure in
black with a faint subdued voice, and finally that neither you nor Japp, nor the
local police whom the housekeeper fetched, ever saw Mrs. Middleton and her
mistress at one and the same time. It was child’s play for that clever and
daring woman. On the pretext of summoning her mistress, she runs upstairs,
slips on a bright jumper and a hat with black curls attached which she jams
down over the grey transformation. A few deft touches, and the makeup is
removed, a slight dusting of rouge, and the brilliant Zoe Havering comes
down with her clear ringing voice. Nobody looks particularly at the
housekeeper. Why should they? There is nothing to connect her with the
crime. She, too, has an alibi.”
“But the revolver that was found at Ealing? Mrs. Havering could not have
placed it there?”
“No, that was Roger Havering’s job—but it was a mistake on their part. It
put me on the right track. A man who has committed murder with a revolver
which he found on the spot would fling it away at once, he would not carry it
up to London with him. No, the motive was clear, the criminals wished to
focus the interest of the police on a spot far removed from Derbyshire, they
were anxious to get the police away as soon as possible from the vicinity of
Hunter’s Lodge. Of course the revolver found at Ealing was not the one with
which Mr. Pace was shot. Roger Havering discharged one shot from it,
brought it up to London, went straight to his club to establish his alibi, then
went quickly out to Ealing by the District, a matter of about twenty minutes
only, placed the parcel where it was found and so back to town. That
charming creature, his wife, quietly shoots Mr. Pace after dinner—you
remember he was shot from behind? Another significant point, that!—reloads
the revolver and puts it back in its place, and then starts off with her desperate
little comedy.”
“It’s incredible,” I muttered, fascinated, “and yet—”
“And yet it is true. Bien sur, my friend, it is true. But to bring that precious
pair to justice, that is another matter. Well, Japp must do what he can—I have
written him fully—but I very much fear, Hastings, that we shall be obliged to
leave them to Fate, or le bon Dieu, whichever you prefer.”
“The wicked flourish like a green bay tree,” I reminded him.
“But at a price, Hastings, always at a price, croyez-moi!”
Poirot’s forebodings were confirmed, Japp, though convinced of the truth
of his theory, was unable to get together the necessary evidence to ensure a
conviction.
Mr. Pace’s huge fortune passed into the hands of his murderers.
Nevertheless, Nemesis did overtake them, and when I read in the paper that
the Hon. Roger and Mrs. Havering were amongst those killed in the crashing
of the Air Mail to Paris I knew that Justice was satisfied.
Twelve
THE CHOCOLATE BOX
“The Chocolate Box” was first published as “The Clue of the Chocolate Box” in The Sketch,
May 23, 1923.
It was a wild night. Outside, the wind howled malevolently, and the rain beat
against the windows in great gusts.
Poirot and I sat facing the hearth, our legs stretched out to the cheerful
blaze. Between us was a small table. On my side of it stood some carefully
brewed hot toddy; on Poirot’s was a cup of thick, rich chocolate which I
would not have drunk for a hundred pounds! Poirot sipped the thick brown
mess in the pink china cup, and sighed with contentment.
“Quelle belle vie!” he murmured.
“Yes, it’s a good old world,” I agreed. “Here am I with a job, and a good
job too! And here are you, famous—”
“Oh, mon ami!” protested Poirot.
“But you are. And rightly so! When I think back on your long line of
successes, I am positively amazed. I don’t believe you know what failure is!”
“He would be a droll kind of original who could say that!”
“No, but seriously, have you ever failed?”
“Innumerable times, my friend. What would you? La bonne chance, it
cannot always be on your side. I have been called in too late. Very often
another, working towards the same goal, has arrived there first. Twice have I
been stricken down with illness just as I was on the point of success. One
must take the downs with the ups, my friend.”
“I didn’t quite mean that,” I said. “I meant, had you ever been completely
down and out over a case through your own fault?”
“Ah, I comprehend! You ask if I have ever made the complete prize ass of
myself, as you say over here? Once, my friend—” A slow, reflective smile
hovered over his face. “Yes, once I made a fool of myself.”
He sat up suddenly in his chair.
“See here, my friend, you have, I know, kept a record of my little
successes. You shall add one more story to the collection, the story of a
failure!”
He leaned forward and placed a log on the fire. Then, after carefully
wiping his hands on a little duster that hung on a nail by the fireplace, he
leaned back and commenced his story.
That of which I tell you (said M. Poirot) took place in Belgium many
years ago. It was at the time of the terrible struggle in France between church
and state. M. Paul Déroulard was a French deputy of note. It was an open
secret that the portfolio of a Minister awaited him. He was among the bitterest
of the anti-Catholic party, and it was certain that on his accession to power, he
would have to face violent enmity. He was in many ways a peculiar man.
Though he neither drank nor smoked, he was nevertheless not so scrupulous
in other ways. You comprehend, Hastings, c’était des femmes—toujours des
femmes!
He had married some years earlier a young lady from Brussels who had
brought him a substantial dot. Undoubtedly the money was useful to him in
his career, as his family was not rich, though on the other hand he was entitled
to call himself M. le Baron if he chose. There were no children of the
marriage, and his wife died after two years—the result of a fall downstairs.
Among the property which she bequeathed to him was a house on the Avenue
Louise in Brussels.
It was in this house that his sudden death took place, the event coinciding
with the resignation of the Minister whose portfolio he was to inherit. All the
papers printed long notices of his career. His death, which had taken place
quite suddenly in the evening after dinner, was attributed to heart failure.
At that time, mon ami, I was, as you know, a member of the Belgian
detective force. The death of M. Paul Déroulard was not particularly
interesting to me. I am, as you also know, bon catholique, and his demise
seemed to me fortunate.
It was some three days afterwards, when my vacation had just begun, that
I received a visitor at my own apartments—a lady, heavily veiled, but
evidently quite young; and I perceived at once that she was a jeune fille tout à
fait comme il faut.
“You are Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” she asked in a low sweet voice.
I bowed.
“Of the detective service?”
Again I bowed. “Be seated, I pray of you, mademoiselle,” I said.
She accepted a chair and drew aside her veil. Her face was charming,
though marred with tears, and haunted as though with some poignant anxiety.
“Monsieur,” she said, “I understand that you are now taking a vacation.
Therefore you will be free to take up a private case. You understand that I do
not wish to call in the police.”
I shook my head. “I fear what you ask is impossible, mademoiselle. Even
though on vacation, I am still of the police.”
She leaned forward. “Ecoutez, monsieur. All that I ask of you is to
investigate. The result of your investigations you are at perfect liberty to
report to the police. If what I believe to be true is true, we shall need all the
machinery of the law.”
That placed a somewhat different complexion on the matter, and I placed
myself at her service without more ado.
A slight colour rose in her cheeks. “I thank you, monsieur. It is the death
of M. Paul Déroulard that I ask you to investigate.”
“Comment?” I exclaimed, surprised.
“Monsieur, I have nothing to go upon—nothing but my woman’s instinct,
but I am convinced—convinced, I tell you—that M. Déroulard did not die a
natural death!”
“But surely the doctors—”
“Doctors may be mistaken. He was so robust, so strong. Ah, Monsieur
Poirot, I beseech of you to help me—”
The poor child was almost beside herself. She would have knelt to me. I
soothed her as best I could.
“I will help you, mademoiselle. I feel almost sure that your fears are
unfounded, but we will see. First, I will ask you to describe to me the inmates
of the house.”
“There are the domestics, of course, Jeannette, Félice, and Denise the
cook. She has been there many years; the others are simple country girls. Also
there is François, but he too is an old servant. Then there is Monsieur
Déroulard’s mother who lived with him, and myself. My name is Virginie
Mesnard. I am a poor cousin of the late Madame Déroulard, M. Paul’s wife,
and I have been a member of their ménage for over three years. I have now
described to you the household. There were also two guests staying in the
house.”
“And they were?”
“M. de Saint Alard, a neighbour of M. Déroulard’s in France. Also an
English friend, Mr. John Wilson.”
“Are they still with you?”
“Mr. Wilson, yes, but M. de Saint Alard departed yesterday.”
“And what is your plan, Mademoiselle Mesnard?”
“If you will present yourself at the house in half an hour’s time, I will
have arranged some story to account for your presence. I had better represent
you to be connected with journalism in some way. I shall say you have come
from Paris, and that you have brought a card of introduction from M. de Saint
Alard. Madame Déroulard is very feeble in health, and will pay little attention
to details.”
On mademoiselle’s ingenious pretext I was admitted to the house, and
after a brief interview with the dead deputy’s mother, who was a wonderfully
imposing and aristocratic figure though obviously in failing health, I was
made free of the premises.
I wonder, my friend (continued Poirot), whether you can possibly figure
to yourself the difficulties of my task? Here was a man whose death had taken
place three days previously. If there had been foul play, only one possibility
was admittable—poison! And I had no chance of seeing the body, and there
was no possibility of examining, or analysing, any medium in which the
poison could have been administered. There were no clues, false or otherwise,
to consider. Had the man been poisoned? Had he died a natural death? I,
Hercule Poirot, with nothing to help me, had to decide.
First, I interviewed the domestics, and with their aid, I recapitulated the
evening. I paid especial notice to the food at dinner, and the method of
serving it. The soup had been served by M. Déroulard himself from a tureen.
Next a dish of cutlets, then a chicken. Finally, a compote of fruits. And all
placed on the table, and served by Monsieur himself. The coffee was brought
in a big pot to the dinner-table. Nothing there, mon ami—impossible to
poison one without poisoning all!
After dinner Madame Déroulard had retired to her own apartments and
Mademoiselle Virginie had accompanied her. The three men had adjourned to
M. Déroulard’s study. Here they had chatted amicably for some time, when
suddenly, without any warning, the deputy had fallen heavily to the ground.
M. de Saint Alard had rushed out and told François to fetch the doctor
immediately. He said it was without doubt an apoplexy, explained the man.
But when the doctor arrived, the patient was past help.
Mr. John Wilson, to whom I was presented by Mademoiselle Virginie,
was what was known in those days as a regular John Bull Englishman,
middle-aged and burly. His account, delivered in very British French, was
substantially the same.
“Déroulard went very red in the face, and down he fell.”
There was nothing further to be found out there. Next I went to the scene
of the tragedy, the study, and was left alone there at my own request. So far
there was nothing to support Mademoiselle Mesnard’s theory. I could not but
believe that it was a delusion on her part. Evidently she had entertained a
romantic passion for the dead man which had not permitted her to take a
normal view of the case. Nevertheless, I searched the study with meticulous
care. It was just possible that a hypodermic needle might have been
introduced into the dead man’s chair in such a way as to allow of a fatal
injection. The minute puncture it would cause was likely to remain unnoticed.
But I could discover no sign to support the theory. I flung myself down in the
chair with a gesture of despair.
“Enfin, I abandon it!” I said aloud. “There is not a clue anywhere!
Everything is perfectly normal.”
As I said the words, my eyes fell on a large box of chocolates standing on
a table near by, and my heart gave a leap. It might not be a clue to M.
Déroulard’s death, but here at least was something that was not normal. I
lifted the lid. The box was full, untouched; not a chocolate was missing—but
that only made the peculiarity that had caught my eye more striking. For, see
you, Hastings, while the box itself was pink, the lid was blue. Now, one often
sees a blue ribbon on a pink box, and vice versa, but a box of one colour, and
a lid of another—no, decidedly—ça ne se voit jamais!
I did not as yet see that this little incident was of any use to me, yet I
determined to investigate it as being out of the ordinary. I rang the bell for
François, and asked him if his late master had been fond of sweets. A faint
melancholy smile came to his lips.
“Passionately fond of them, monsieur. He would always have a box of
chocolates in the house. He did not drink wine of any kind, you see.”
“Yet this box has not been touched?” I lifted the lid to show him.
“Pardon, monsieur, but that was a new box purchased on the day of his
death, the other being nearly finished.”
“Then the other box was finished on the day of his death,” I said slowly.
“Yes, monsieur, I found it empty in the morning and threw it away.”
“Did M. Déroulard eat sweets at all hours of the day?”
“Usually after dinner, monsieur.”
I began to see light.
“François,” I said, “you can be discreet?”
“If there is need, monsieur.”
“Bon! Know, then, that I am of the police. Can you find me that other
box?”
“Without doubt, monsieur. It will be in the dustbin.”
He departed, and returned in a few minutes with a dust-covered object. It
was the duplicate of the box I held, save for the fact that this time the box was
blue and the lid was pink. I thanked François, recommended him once more to
be discreet, and left the house in the Avenue Louise without more ado.
Next I called upon the doctor who had attended M. Déroulard. With him I
had a difficult task. He entrenched himself prettily behind a wall of learned
phraseology, but I fancied that he was not quite as sure about the case as he
would like to be.
“There have been many curious occurrences of the kind,” he observed,
when I had managed to disarm him somewhat. “A sudden fit of anger, a
violent emotion—after a heavy dinner, c’est entendu—then, with an access of
rage, the blood flies to the head, and pst!—there you are!”
“But M. Déroulard had had no violent emotion.”
“No? I made sure that he had been having a stormy altercation with M. de
Saint Alard.”
“Why should he?”
“C’est évident!” The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “Was not M. de Saint
Alard a Catholic of the most fanatical? Their friendship was being ruined by
this question of church and state. Not a day passed without discussions. To M.
de Saint Alard, Déroulard appeared almost as Antichrist.”
This was unexpected, and gave me food for thought.
“One more question, Doctor: would it be possible to introduce a fatal dose
of poison into a chocolate?”
“It would be possible, I suppose,” said the doctor slowly. “Pure prussic
acid would meet the case if there were no chance of evaporation, and a tiny
globule of anything might be swallowed unnoticed—but it does not seem a
very likely supposition. A chocolate full of morphine or strychnine—” He
made a wry face. “You comprehend, M. Poirot—one bite would be enough!
The unwary one would not stand upon ceremony.”
“Thank you, M. le Docteur.”
I withdrew. Next I made inquiries of the chemists, especially those in the
neighbourhood of the Avenue Louise. It is good to be of the police. I got the
information I wanted without any trouble. Only in one case could I hear of
any poison having been supplied to the house in question. This was some eye
drops of atropine sulphate for Madame Déroulard. Atropine is a potent
poison, and for the moment I was elated, but the symptoms of atropine
poisoning are closely allied to those of ptomaine, and bear no resemblance to
those I was studying. Besides, the prescription was an old one. Madame
Déroulard had suffered from cataracts in both eyes for many years.
I was turning away discouraged when the chemist’s voice called me back.
“Un moment, M. Poirot. I remember, the girl who brought that
prescription, she said something about having to go on to the English chemist.
You might try there.”
I did. Once more enforcing my official status, I got the information I
wanted. On the day before M. Déroulard’s death they had made up a
prescription for Mr. John Wilson. Not that there was any making up about it.
They were simply little tablets of trinitrine. I asked if I might see some. He
showed me them, and my heart beat faster—for the tiny tablets were of
chocolate.
“Is it a poison?” I asked.
“No, monsieur.”
“Can you describe to me its effect?”
“It lowers the blood pressure. It is given for some forms of heart trouble—
angina pectoris for instance. It relieves the arterial tension. In arteriosclerosis
—”
I interrupted him. “Ma foi! This rigmarole says nothing to me. Does it
cause the face to flush?”
“Certainly it does.”
“And supposing I ate ten—twenty of your little tablets, what then?”
“I should not advise you to attempt it,” he replied drily.
“And yet you say it is not poison?”
“There are many things not called poison which can kill a man,” he
replied as before.
I left the shop elated. At last, things had begun to march!
I now knew that John Wilson had the means for the crime—but what
about the motive? He had come to Belgium on business, and had asked M.
Déroulard, whom he knew slightly, to put him up. There was apparently no
way in which Déroulard’s death could benefit him. Moreover, I discovered by
inquiries in England that he had suffered for some years from that painful
form of heart disease known as angina. Therefore he had a genuine right to
have those tablets in his possession. Nevertheless, I was convinced that
someone had gone to the chocolate box, opening the full one first by mistake,
and had abstracted the contents of the last chocolate, cramming in instead as
many little trinitrine tablets as it would hold. The chocolates were large ones.
Between twenty or thirty tablets, I felt sure, could have been inserted. But
who had done this?
There were two guests in the house. John Wilson had the means. Saint
Alard had the motive. Remember, he was a fanatic, and there is no fanatic like
a religious fanatic. Could he, by any means, have got hold of John Wilson’s
trinitrine?
Another little idea came to me. Ah, you smile at my little ideas! Why had
Wilson run out of trinitrine? Surely he would bring an adequate supply from
England. I called once more at the house in the Avenue Louise. Wilson was
out, but I saw the girl who did his room, Félice. I demanded of her
immediately whether it was not true that M. Wilson had lost a bottle from his
washstand some little time ago. The girl responded eagerly. It was quite true.
She, Félice, had been blamed for it. The English gentleman had evidently
thought that she had broken it, and did not like to say so. Whereas she had
never even touched it. Without doubt it was Jeannette—always nosing round
where she had no business to be—
I calmed the flow of words, and took my leave. I knew now all that I
wanted to know. It remained for me to prove my case. That, I felt, would not
be easy. I might be sure that Saint Alard had removed the bottle of trinitrine
from John Wilson’s washstand, but to convince others, I would have to
produce evidence. And I had none to produce!
Never mind. I knew—that was the great thing. You remember our
difficulty in the Styles case, Hastings? There again, I knew—but it took me a
long time to find the last link which made my chain of evidence against the
murderer complete.
I asked for an interview with Mademoiselle Mesnard. She came at once. I
demanded of her the address of M. de Saint Alard. A look of trouble came
over her face.
“Why do you want it, monsieur?”
“Mademoiselle, it is necessary.”
She seemed doubtful—troubled.
“He can tell you nothing. He is a man whose thoughts are not in this
world. He hardly notices what goes on around him.”
“Possibly, mademoiselle. Nevertheless, he was an old friend of M.
Déroulard’s. There may be things he can tell me—things of the past—old
grudges—old love-affairs.”
The girl flushed and bit her lip. “As you please—but—but I feel sure now
that I have been mistaken. It was good of you to accede to my demand, but I
was upset—almost distraught at the time. I see now that there is no mystery to
solve. Leave it, I beg of you, monsieur.”
I eyed her closely.
“Mademoiselle,” I said, “it is sometimes difficult for a dog to find a scent,
but once he has found it, nothing on earth will make him leave it! That is if he
is a good dog! And I, mademoiselle, I, Hercule Poirot, am a very good dog.”
Without a word she turned away. A few minutes later she returned with
the address written on a sheet of paper. I left the house. François was waiting
for me outside. He looked at me anxiously.
“There is no news, monsieur?”
“None as yet, my friend.”
“Ah! Pauvre Monsieur Déroulard!” he sighed. “I too was of his way of
thinking. I do not care for priests. Not that I would say so in the house. The
women are all devout—a good thing perhaps. Madame est très pieuse—et
Mademoiselle Virginie aussi.”
Mademoiselle Virginie? Was she “très pieuse?” Thinking of the tearstained passionate face I had seen that first day, I wondered.
Having obtained the address of M. de Saint Alard, I wasted no time. I
arrived in the neighbourhood of his château in the Ardennes but it was some
days before I could find a pretext for gaining admission to the house. In the
end I did—how do you think—as a plumber, mon ami! It was the affair of a
moment to arrange a neat little gas leak in his bedroom. I departed for my
tools, and took care to return with them at an hour when I knew I should have
the field pretty well to myself. What I was searching for, I hardly knew. The
one thing needful, I could not believe there was any chance of finding. He
would never have run the risk of keeping it.
Still when I found the little cupboard above the washstand locked, I could
not resist the temptation of seeing what was inside it. The lock was quite a
simple one to pick. The door swung open. It was full of old bottles. I took
them up one by one with a trembling hand. Suddenly, I uttered a cry. Figure to
yourself, my friend, I held in my hand a little phial with an English chemist’s
label. On it were the words: “Trinitrine Tablets. One to be taken when
required. Mr. John Wilson.”
I controlled my emotion, closed the cupboard, slipped the bottle into my
pocket, and continued to repair the gas leak! One must be methodical. Then I
left the château, and took train for my own country as soon as possible. I
arrived in Brussels late that night. I was writing out a report for the préfet in
the morning, when a note was brought to me. It was from old Madame
Déroulard, and it summoned me to the house in the Avenue Louise without
delay.
François opened the door to me.
“Madame la Baronne is awaiting you.”
He conducted me to her apartments. She sat in state in a large armchair.
There was no sign of Mademoiselle Virginie.
“M. Poirot,” said the old lady, “I have just learned that you are not what
you pretend to be. You are a police officer.”
“That is so, madame.”
“You came here to inquire into the circumstances of my son’s death?”
Again I replied: “That is so, madame.”
“I should be glad if you would tell me what progress you have made.”
I hesitated.
“First I would like to know how you have learned all this, madame.”
“From one who is no longer of this world.”
Her words, and the brooding way she uttered them, sent a chill to my
heart. I was incapable of speech.
“Therefore, monsieur, I would beg of you most urgently to tell me exactly
what progress you have made in your investigation.”
“Madame, my investigation is finished.”
“My son?”
“Was killed deliberately.”
“You know by whom?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Who, then?”
“M. de Saint Alard.”
“You are wrong. M. de Saint Alard is incapable of such a crime.”
“The proofs are in my hands.”
“I beg of you once more to tell me all.”
This time I obeyed, going over each step that had led me to the discovery
of the truth. She listened attentively. At the end she nodded her head.
“Yes, yes, it is all as you say, all but one thing. It was not M. de Saint
Alard who killed my son. It was I, his mother.”
I stared at her. She continued to nod her head gently.
“It is well that I sent for you. It is the providence of the good God that
Virginie told me before she departed for the convent, what she had done.
Listen, M. Poirot! My son was an evil man. He persecuted the church. He led
a life of mortal sin. He dragged down the other souls beside his own. But
there was worse than that. As I came out of my room in this house one
morning, I saw my daughter-in-law standing at the head of the stairs. She was
reading a letter. I saw my son steal up behind her. One swift push, and she
fell, striking her head on the marble steps. When they picked her up she was
dead. My son was a murderer, and only I, his mother, knew it.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “You cannot conceive, monsieur, of my
agony, my despair. What was I to do? Denounce him to the police? I could not
bring myself to do it. It was my duty, but my flesh was weak. Besides, would
they believe me? My eyesight had been failing for some time—they would
say I was mistaken. I kept silence. But my conscience gave me no peace. By
keeping silence I too was a murderer. My son inherited his wife’s money. He
flourished as the green bay tree. And now he was to have a Minister’s
portfolio. His persecution of the church would be redoubled. And there was
Virginie. She, poor child, beautiful, naturally pious, was fascinated by him.
He had a strange and terrible power over women. I saw it coming. I was
powerless to prevent it. He had no intention of marrying her. The time came
when she was ready to yield everything to him.
“Then I saw my path clear. He was my son. I had given him life. I was
responsible for him. He had killed one woman’s body, now he would kill
another’s soul! I went to Mr. Wilson’s room, and took the bottle of tablets. He
had once said laughingly that there were enough in it to kill a man! I went
into the study and opened the big box of chocolates that always stood on the
table. I opened a new box by mistake. The other was on the table also. There
was just one chocolate left in it. That simplified things. No one ate chocolates
except my son and Virginie. I would keep her with me that night. All went as
I had planned—”
She paused, closing her eyes a minute then opened them again.
“M. Poirot, I am in your hands. They tell me I have not many days to live.
I am willing to answer for my action before the good God. Must I answer for
it on earth also?”
I hesitated. “But the empty bottle, madame,” I said to gain time. “How
came that into M. de Saint Alard’s possession?”
“When he came to say goodbye to me, monsieur, I slipped it into his
pocket. I did not know how to get rid of it. I am so infirm that I cannot move
about much without help, and finding it empty in my rooms might have
caused suspicion. You understand, monsieur—” she drew herself up to her
full height—“it was with no idea of casting suspicion on M. de Saint Alard! I
never dreamed of such a thing. I thought his valet would find an empty bottle
and throw it away without question.”
I bowed my head. “I comprehend, madame,” I said.
“And your decision, monsieur?”
Her voice was firm and unfaltering, her head held as high as ever.
I rose to my feet.
“Madame,” I said, “I have the honour to wish you good day. I have made
my investigations—and failed! The matter is closed.”
He was silent for a moment, then said quietly: “She died just a week later.
Mademoiselle Virginie passed through her novitiate, and duly took the veil.
That, my friend, is the story. I must admit that I do not make a fine figure in
it.”
“But that was hardly a failure,” I expostulated. “What else could you have
thought under the circumstances?”
“Ah, sacré, mon ami,” cried Poirot, becoming suddenly animated. “Is it
that you do not see? But I was thirty-six times an idiot! My grey cells, they
functioned not at all. The whole time I had the clue in my hands.”
“What clue?”
“The chocolate box! Do you not see? Would anyone in possession of their
full eyesight make such a mistake? I knew Madame Déroulard had cataracts
—the atropine drops told me that. There was only one person in the
household whose eyesight was such that she could not see which lid to
replace. It was the chocolate box that started me on the track, and yet up to
the end I failed consistently to perceive its real significance!
“Also my psychology was at fault. Had M. de Saint Alard been the
criminal, he would never have kept an incriminating bottle. Finding it was a
proof of his innocence. I had learned already from Mademoiselle Virginie that
he was absent-minded. Altogether it was a miserable affair that I have
recounted to you there! Only to you have I told the story. You comprehend, I
do not figure well in it! An old lady commits a crime in such a simple and
clever fashion that I, Hercule Poirot, am completely deceived. Sapristi! It
does not bear thinking of! Forget it. Or no—remember it, and if you think at
any time that I am growing conceited—it is not likely, but it might arise.”
I concealed a smile.
“Eh bien, my friend, you shall say to me, ‘Chocolate box.’ Is it agreed?”
“It’s a bargain!”
“After all,” said Poirot reflectively, “it was an experience! I, who have
undoubtedly the finest brain in Europe at present, can afford to be
magnanimous!”
“Chocolate box,” I murmured gently.
“Pardon, mon ami?”
I looked at Poirot’s innocent face, as he bent forward inquiringly, and my
heart smote me. I had suffered often at his hands, but I, too, though not
possessing the finest brain in Europe, could afford to be magnanimous!
“Nothing,” I lied, and lit another pipe, smiling to myself.
Thirteen
THE ADVENTURE OF THE EGYPTIAN TOMB
“The Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb” was first published in The Sketch, September 26,
1923.
I have always considered that one of the most thrilling and dramatic of the
many adventures I have shared with Poirot was that of our investigation into
the strange series of deaths which followed upon the discovery and opening
of the Tomb of King Men-her-Ra.
Hard upon the discovery of the Tomb of Tutankh-Amen by Lord
Carnarvon, Sir John Willard and Mr. Bleibner of New York, pursuing their
excavations not far from Cairo, in the vicinity of the Pyramids of Gizeh, came
unexpectedly on a series of funeral chambers. The greatest interest was
aroused by their discovery. The Tomb appeared to be that of King Men-herRa, one of those shadowy kings of the Eighth Dynasty, when the Old
Kingdom was falling to decay. Little was known about this period, and the
discoveries were fully reported in the newspapers.
An event soon occurred which took a profound hold on the public mind.
Sir John Willard died quite suddenly of heart failure.
The more sensational newspapers immediately took the opportunity of
reviving all the old superstitious stories connected with the ill luck of certain
Egyptian treasures. The unlucky Mummy at the British Museum, that hoary
old chestnut, was dragged out with fresh zest, was quietly denied by the
Museum, but nevertheless enjoyed all its usual vogue.
A fortnight later Mr. Bleibner died of acute blood poisoning, and a few
days afterwards a nephew of his shot himself in New York. The “Curse of
Men-her-Ra” was the talk of the day, and the magic power of dead-and-gone
Egypt was exalted to a fetish point.
It was then that Poirot received a brief note from Lady Willard, widow of
the dead archaeologist, asking him to go and see her at her house in
Kensington Square. I accompanied him.
Lady Willard was a tall, thin woman, dressed in deep mourning. Her
haggard face bore eloquent testimony to her recent grief.
“It is kind of you to have come so promptly, Monsieur Poirot.”
“I am at your service, Lady Willard. You wished to consult me?”
“You are, I am aware, a detective, but it is not only as a detective that I
wish to consult you. You are a man of original views, I know, you have
imagination, experience of the world; tell me, Monsieur Poirot, what are your
views on the supernatural?”
Poirot hesitated for a moment before he replied. He seemed to be
considering. Finally he said:
“Let us not misunderstand each other, Lady Willard. It is not a general
question that you are asking me there. It has a personal application, has it not?
You are referring obliquely to the death of your late husband?”
“That is so,” she admitted.
“You want me to investigate the circumstances of his death?”
“I want you to ascertain for me exactly how much is newspaper chatter,
and how much may be said to be founded on fact? Three deaths, Monsieur
Poirot—each one explicable taken by itself, but taken together surely an
almost unbelievable coincidence, and all within a month of the opening of the
tomb! It may be mere superstition, it may be some potent curse from the past
that operates in ways undreamed of by modern science. The fact remains—
three deaths! And I am afraid, Monsieur Poirot, horribly afraid. It may not yet
be the end.”
“For whom do you fear?”
“For my son. When the news of my husband’s death came I was ill. My
son, who has just come down from Oxford, went out there. He brought the—
the body home, but now he has gone out again, in spite of my prayers and
entreaties. He is so fascinated by the work that he intends to take his father’s
place and carry on the system of excavations. You may think me a foolish,
credulous woman, but, Monsieur Poirot, I am afraid. Supposing that the spirit
of the dead King is not yet appeased? Perhaps to you I seem to be talking
nonsense—”
“No, indeed, Lady Willard,” said Poirot quickly. “I, too, believe in the
force of superstition, one of the greatest forces the world has ever known.”
I looked at him in surprise. I should never have credited Poirot with being
superstitious. But the little man was obviously in earnest.
“What you really demand is that I shall protect your son? I will do my
utmost to keep him from harm.”
“Yes, in the ordinary way, but against an occult influence?”
“In volumes of the Middle Ages, Lady Willard, you will find many ways
of counteracting black magic. Perhaps they knew more than we moderns with
all our boasted science. Now let us come to facts, that I may have guidance.
Your husband had always been a devoted Egyptologist, hadn’t he?”
“Yes, from his youth upwards. He was one of the greatest living
authorities upon the subject.”
“But Mr. Bleibner, I understand, was more or less of an amateur?”
“Oh, quite. He was a very wealthy man who dabbled freely in any subject
that happened to take his fancy. My husband managed to interest him in
Egyptology, and it was his money that was so useful in financing the
expedition.”
“And the nephew? What do you know of his tastes? Was he with the party
at all?”
“I do not think so. In fact I never knew of his existence till I read of his
death in the paper. I do not think he and Mr. Bleibner can have been at all
intimate. He never spoke of having any relations.”
“Who are the other members of the party?”
“Well, there’s Dr. Tosswill, a minor official connected with the British
Museum; Mr. Schneider of the Metropolitan Museum in New York; a young
American secretary; Dr. Ames, who accompanies the expedition in his
professional capacity; and Hassan, my husband’s devoted native servant.”
“Do you remember the name of the American secretary?”
“Harper, I think, but I cannot be sure. He had not been with Mr. Bleibner
very long, I know. He was a very pleasant young fellow.”
“Thank you, Lady Willard.”
“If there is anything else—”
“For the moment, nothing. Leave it now in my hands, and be assured that
I will do all that is humanly possible to protect your son.”
They were not exactly reassuring words, and I observed Lady Willard
wince as he uttered them. Yet, at the same time, the fact that he had not poohpoohed her fears seemed in itself to be a relief to her.
For my part I had never before suspected that Poirot had so deep a vein of
superstition in his nature. I tackled him on the subject as we went homewards.
His manner was grave and earnest.
“But yes, Hastings. I believe in these things. You must not underrate the
force of superstition.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“Toujours pratique, the good Hastings! Eh bien, to begin with we are
going to cable to New York for fuller details of young Mr. Bleibner’s death.”
He duly sent off his cable. The reply was full and precise. Young Rupert
Bleibner had been in low water for several years. He had been a beachcomber
and a remittance man in several South Sea islands, but had returned to New
York two years ago, where he had rapidly sunk lower and lower. The most
significant thing, to my mind, was that he had recently managed to borrow
enough money to take him to Egypt. “I’ve a good friend there I can borrow
from,” he had declared. Here, however, his plans had gone awry. He had
returned to New York cursing his skinflint of an uncle who cared more for the
bones of dead and gone kings than his own flesh and blood. It was during his
sojourn in Egypt that the death of Sir John Willard had occurred. Rupert had
plunged once more into his life of dissipation in New York, and then, without
warning, he had committed suicide, leaving behind him a letter which
contained some curious phrases. It seemed written in a sudden fit of remorse.
He referred to himself as a leper and an outcast, and the letter ended by
declaring that such as he were better dead.
A shadowy theory leapt into my brain. I had never really believed in the
vengeance of a long dead Egyptian king. I saw here a more modern crime.
Supposing this young man had decided to do away with his uncle—preferably
by poison. By mistake, Sir John Willard receives the fatal dose. The young
man returns to New York, haunted by his crime. The news of his uncle’s death
reaches him. He realizes how unnecessary his crime has been, and stricken
with remorse takes his own life.
I outlined my solution to Poirot. He was interested.
“It is ingenious what you have thought of there—decidedly it is ingenious.
It may even be true. But you leave out of count the fatal influence of the
Tomb.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“You still think that has something to do with it?”
“So much so, mon ami, that we start for Egypt tomorrow.”
“What?” I cried, astonished.
“I have said it.” An expression of conscious heroism spread over Poirot’s
face. Then he groaned. “But oh,” he lamented, “the sea! The hateful sea!”
II
It was a week later. Beneath our feet was the golden sand of the desert. The
hot sun poured down overhead. Poirot, the picture of misery, wilted by my
side. The little man was not a good traveller. Our four days’ voyage from
Marseilles had been one long agony to him. He had landed at Alexandria the
wraith of his former self, even his usual neatness had deserted him. We had
arrived in Cairo and had driven out at once to the Mena House Hotel, right in
the shadow of the Pyramids.
The charm of Egypt had laid hold of me. Not so Poirot. Dressed precisely
the same as in London, he carried a small clothes brush in his pocket and
waged an unceasing war on the dust which accumulated on his dark apparel.
“And my boots,” he wailed. “Regard them, Hastings. My boots, of the
neat patent leather, usually so smart and shining. See, the sand is inside them,
which is painful, and outside them, which outrages the eyesight. Also the
heat, it causes my moustaches to become limp—but limp!”
“Look at the Sphinx,” I urged. “Even I can feel the mystery and the charm
it exhales.”
Poirot looked at it discontentedly.
“It has not the air happy,” he declared. “How could it, half-buried in sand
in that untidy fashion. Ah, this cursed sand!”
“Come, now, there’s a lot of sand in Belgium,” I reminded him, mindful
of a holiday spent at Knocke-sur-mer in the midst of “Les dunes
impeccables” as the guidebook had phrased it.
“Not in Brussels,” declared Poirot. He gazed at the Pyramids thoughtfully.
“It is true that they, at least, are of a shape solid and geometrical, but their
surface is of an unevenness most unpleasing. And the palm trees I like them
not. Not even do they plant them in rows!”
I cut short his lamentations, by suggesting that we should start for the
camp. We were to ride there on camels, and the beasts were patiently
kneeling, waiting for us to mount, in charge of several picturesque boys
headed by a voluble dragoman.
I pass over the spectacle of Poirot on a camel. He started by groans and
lamentations and ended by shrieks, gesticulations and invocations to the
Virgin Mary and every Saint in the calendar. In the end, he descended
ignominiously and finished the journey on a diminutive donkey. I must admit
that a trotting camel is no joke for the amateur. I was stiff for several days.
At last we neared the scene of the excavations. A sunburnt man with a
grey beard, in white clothes and wearing a helmet, came to meet us.
“Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings? We received your cable. I’m
sorry that there was no one to meet you in Cairo. An unforeseen event
occurred which completely disorganized our plans.”
Poirot paled. His hand, which had stolen to his clothes brush, stayed its
course.
“Not another death?” he breathed.
“Yes.”
“Sir Guy Willard?” I cried.
“No, Captain Hastings. My American colleague, Mr. Schneider.”
“And the cause?” demanded Poirot.
“Tetanus.”
I blanched. All around me I seemed to feel an atmosphere of evil, subtle
and menacing. A horrible thought flashed across me. Supposing I were next?
“Mon Dieu,” said Poirot, in a very low voice, “I do not understand this. It
is horrible. Tell me, monsieur, there is no doubt that it was tetanus?”
“I believe not. But Dr. Ames will tell you more than I can do.”
“Ah, of course, you are not the doctor.”
“My name is Tosswill.”
This, then, was the British expert described by Lady Willard as being a
minor official at the British Museum. There was something at once grave and
steadfast about him that took my fancy.
“If you will come with me,” continued Dr. Tosswill. “I will take you to Sir
Guy Willard. He was most anxious to be informed as soon as you should
arrive.”
We were taken across the camp to a large tent. Dr. Tosswill lifted up the
flap and we entered. Three men were sitting inside.
“Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings have arrived, Sir Guy,” said
Tosswill.
The youngest of the three men jumped up and came forward to greet us.
There was a certain impulsiveness in his manner which reminded me of his
mother. He was not nearly so sunburnt as the others, and that fact, coupled
with a certain haggardness round the eyes, made him look older than his
twenty-two years. He was clearly endeavouring to bear up under a severe
mental strain.
He introduced his two companions, Dr. Ames, a capable-looking man of
thirty-odd, with a touch of greying hair at the temples, and Mr. Harper, the
secretary, a pleasant lean young man wearing the national insignia of hornrimmed spectacles.
After a few minutes’ desultory conversation the latter went out, and Dr.
Tosswill followed him. We were left alone with Sir Guy and Dr. Ames.
“Please ask any questions you want to ask, Monsieur Poirot,” said
Willard. “We are utterly dumbfounded at this strange series of disasters, but it
isn’t—it can’t be, anything but coincidence.”
There was a nervousness about his manner which rather belied the words.
I saw that Poirot was studying him keenly.
“Your heart is really in this work, Sir Guy?”
“Rather. No matter what happens, or what comes of it, the work is going
on. Make up your mind to that.”
Poirot wheeled round on the other.
“What have you to say to that, monsieur le docteur?”
“Well,” drawled the doctor, “I’m not for quitting myself.”
Poirot made one of those expressive grimaces of his.
“Then, évidemment, we must find out just how we stand. When did Mr.
Schneider’s death take place?”
“Three days ago.”
“You are sure it was tetanus?”
“Dead sure.”
“It couldn’t have been a case of strychnine poisoning, for instance?”
“No, Monsieur Poirot, I see what you are getting at. But it was a clear
case of tetanus.”
“Did you not inject antiserum?”
“Certainly we did,” said the doctor dryly. “Every conceivable thing that
could be done was tried.”
“Had you the antiserum with you?”
“No. We procured it from Cairo.”
“Have there been any other cases of tetanus in the camp?”
“No, not one.”
“Are you certain that the death of Mr. Bleibner was not due to tetanus?”
“Absolutely plumb certain. He had a scratch upon his thumb which
became poisoned, and septicaemia set in. It sounds pretty much the same to a
layman, I dare say, but the two things are entirely different.”
“Then we have four deaths—all totally dissimilar, one heart failure, one
blood poisoning, one suicide and one tetanus.”
“Exactly, Monsieur Poirot.”
“Are you certain that there is nothing which might link the four together?”
“I don’t quite understand you?”
“I will put it plainly. Was any act committed by those four men which
might seem to denote disrespect to the spirit of Men-her-Ra?”
The doctor gazed at Poirot in astonishment.
“You’re talking through your hat, Monsieur Poirot. Surely you’ve not
been guyed into believing all that fool talk?”
“Absolute nonsense,” muttered Willard angrily.
Poirot remained placidly immovable, blinking a little out of his green cat’s
eyes.
“So you do not believe it, monsieur le docteur?”
“No, sir, I do not,” declared the doctor emphatically. “I am a scientific
man, and I believe only what science teaches.”
“Was there no science then in Ancient Egypt?” asked Poirot softly. He did
not wait for a reply, and indeed Dr. Ames seemed rather at a loss for the
moment. “No, no, do not answer me, but tell me this. What do the native
workmen think?”
“I guess,” said Dr. Ames, “that, where white folk lose their heads, natives
aren’t going to be far behind. I’ll admit that they’re getting what you might
call scared—but they’ve no cause to be.”
“I wonder,” said Poirot noncommittally.
Sir Guy leant forward.
“Surely,” he cried incredulously, “you cannot believe in—oh, but the
thing’s absurd! You can know nothing of Ancient Egypt if you think that.”
For answer Poirot produced a little book from his pocket—an ancient
tattered volume. As he held it out I saw its title, The Magic of the Egyptians
and Chaldeans. Then, wheeling round, he strode out of the tent. The doctor
stared at me.
“What is his little idea?”
The phrase, so familiar on Poirot’s lips, made me smile as it came from
another.
“I don’t know exactly,” I confessed. “He’s got some plan of exorcizing the
evil spirits, I believe.”
I went in search of Poirot, and found him talking to the lean-faced young
man who had been the late Mr. Bleibner’s secretary.
“No,” Mr. Harper was saying, “I’ve only been six months with the
expedition. Yes, I knew Mr. Bleibner’s affairs pretty well.”
“Can you recount to me anything concerning his nephew?”
“He turned up here one day, not a bad-looking fellow. I’d never met him
before, but some of the others had—Ames, I think, and Schneider. The old
man wasn’t at all pleased to see him. They were at it in no time, hammer and
tongs. ‘Not a cent,’ the old man shouted. ‘Not one cent now or when I’m
dead. I intend to leave my money to the furtherance of my life’s work. I’ve
been talking it over with Mr. Schneider today.’ And a bit more of the same.
Young Bleibner lit out for Cairo right away.”
“Was he in perfectly good health at the time?”
“The old man?”
“No, the young one.”
“I believe he did mention there was something wrong with him. But it
couldn’t have been anything serious, or I should have remembered.”
“One thing more, has Mr. Bleibner left a will?”
“So far as we know, he has not.”
“Are you remaining with the expedition, Mr. Harper?”
“No, sir, I am not. I’m for New York as soon as I can square up things
here. You may laugh if you like, but I’m not going to be this blasted Men-herRa’s next victim. He’ll get me if I stop here.”
The young man wiped the perspiration from his brow.
Poirot turned away. Over his shoulder he said with a peculiar smile:
“Remember, he got one of his victims in New York.”
“Oh, hell!” said Mr. Harper forcibly.
“That young man is nervous,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “He is on the edge,
but absolutely on the edge.”
I glanced at Poirot curiously, but his enigmatical smile told me nothing. In
company with Sir Guy Willard and Dr. Tosswill we were taken round the
excavations. The principal finds had been removed to Cairo, but some of the
tomb furniture was extremely interesting. The enthusiasm of the young
baronet was obvious, but I fancied that I detected a shade of nervousness in
his manner as though he could not quite escape from the feeling of menace in
the air. As we entered the tent which had been assigned to us, for a wash
before joining the evening meal, a tall dark figure in white robes stood aside
to let us pass with a graceful gesture and a murmured greeting in Arabic.
Poirot stopped.
“You are Hassan, the late Sir John Willard’s servant?”
“I served my Lord Sir John, now I serve his son.” He took a step nearer to
us and lowered his voice. “You are a wise one, they say, learned in dealing
with evil spirits. Let the young master depart from here. There is evil in the
air around us.”
And with an abrupt gesture, not waiting for a reply, he strode away.
“Evil in the air,” muttered Poirot. “Yes, I feel it.”
Our meal was hardly a cheerful one. The floor was left to Dr. Tosswill,
who discoursed at length upon Egyptian antiquities. Just as we were preparing
to retire to rest, Sir Guy caught Poirot by the arm and pointed. A shadowy
figure was moving amidst the tents. It was no human one: I recognized
distinctly the dog-headed figure I had seen carved on the walls of the tomb.
My blood froze at the sight.
“Mon Dieu!” murmured Poirot, crossing himself vigorously. “Anubis, the
jackal-headed, the god of departing souls.”
“Someone is hoaxing us,” cried Dr. Tosswill, rising indignantly to his feet.
“It went into your tent, Harper,” muttered Sir Guy, his face dreadfully
pale.
“No,” said Poirot, shaking his head, “into that of Dr. Ames.”
The doctor stared at him incredulously; then, repeating Dr. Tosswill’s
words, he cried:
“Someone is hoaxing us. Come, we’ll soon catch the fellow.”
He dashed energetically in pursuit of the shadowy apparition. I followed
him, but, search as we would, we could find no trace of any living soul having
passed that way. We returned, somewhat disturbed in mind, to find Poirot
taking energetic measures, in his own way, to ensure his personal safety. He
was busily surrounding our tent with various diagrams and inscriptions which
he was drawing in the sand. I recognized the five-pointed star or Pentagon
many times repeated. As was his wont, Poirot was at the same time delivering
an impromptu lecture on witchcraft and magic in general, White magic as
opposed to Black, with various references to the Ka and the Book of the Dead
thrown in.
It appeared to excite the liveliest contempt in Dr. Tosswill, who drew me
aside, literally snorting with rage.
“Balderdash, sir,” he exclaimed angrily. “Pure balderdash. The man’s an
imposter. He doesn’t know the difference between the superstitions of the
Middle Ages and the beliefs of Ancient Egypt. Never have I heard such a
hotchpotch of ignorance and credulity.”
I calmed the excited expert, and joined Poirot in the tent. My little friend
was beaming cheerfully.
“We can now sleep in peace,” he declared happily. “And I can do with
some sleep. My head, it aches abominably. Ah, for a good tisane!”
As though in answer to prayer, the flap of the tent was lifted and Hassan
appeared, bearing a steaming cup which he offered to Poirot. It proved to be
camomile tea, a beverage of which he is inordinately fond. Having thanked
Hassan and refused his offer of another cup for myself, we were left alone
once more. I stood at the door of the tent some time after undressing, looking
out over the desert.
“A wonderful place,” I said aloud, “and a wonderful work. I can feel the
fascination. This desert life, this probing into the heart of a vanished
civilization. Surely, Poirot, you, too, must feel the charm?”
I got no answer, and I turned, a little annoyed. My annoyance was quickly
changed to concern. Poirot was lying back across the rude couch, his face
horribly convulsed. Beside him was the empty cup. I rushed to his side, then
dashed out and across the camp to Dr. Ames’s tent.
“Dr. Ames!” I cried. “Come at once.”
“What’s the matter?” said the doctor, appearing in pyjamas.
“My friend. He’s ill. Dying. The camomile tea. Don’t let Hassan leave the
camp.”
Like a flash the doctor ran to our tent. Poirot was lying as I left him.
“Extraordinary,” cried Ames. “Looks like a seizure—or—what did you
say about something he drank?” He picked up the empty cup.
“Only I did not drink it!” said a placid voice.
We turned in amazement. Poirot was sitting up on the bed. He was
smiling.
“No,” he said gently. “I did not drink it. While my good friend Hastings
was apostrophizing the night, I took the opportunity of pouring it, not down
my throat, but into a little bottle. That little bottle will go to the analytical
chemist. No”—as the doctor made a sudden movement—“as a sensible man,
you will understand that violence will be of no avail. During Hastings’
absence to fetch you, I have had time to put the bottle in safe keeping. Ah,
quick, Hastings, hold him!”
I misunderstood Poirot’s anxiety. Eager to save my friend, I flung myself
in front of him. But the doctor’s swift movement had another meaning. His
hand went to his mouth, a smell of bitter almonds filled the air, and he swayed
forward and fell.
“Another victim,” said Poirot gravely, “but the last. Perhaps it is the best
way. He has three deaths on his head.”
“Dr. Ames?” I cried, stupefied. “But I thought you believed in some
occult influence?”
“You misunderstood me, Hastings. What I meant was that I believe in the
terrific force of superstition. Once get it firmly established that a series of
deaths are supernatural, and you might almost stab a man in broad daylight,
and it would still be put down to the curse, so strongly is the instinct of the
supernatural implanted in the human race. I suspected from the first that a
man was taking advantage of that instinct. The idea came to him, I imagine,
with the death of Sir John Willard. A fury of superstition arose at once. As far
as I could see, nobody could derive any particular profit from Sir John’s
death. Mr. Bleibner was a different case. He was a man of great wealth. The
information I received from New York contained several suggestive points.
To begin with, young Bleibner was reported to have said he had a good friend
in Egypt from whom he could borrow. It was tacitly understood that he meant
his uncle, but it seemed to me that in that case he would have said so outright.
The words suggest some boon companion of his own. Another thing, he
scraped up enough money to take him to Egypt, his uncle refused outright to
advance him a penny, yet he was able to pay the return passage to New York.
Someone must have lent him the money.”
“All that was very thin,” I objected.
“But there was more. Hastings, there occur often enough words spoken
metaphorically which are taken literally. The opposite can happen too. In this
case, words which were meant literally were taken metaphorically. Young
Bleibner wrote plainly enough: ‘I am a leper,’ but nobody realized that he shot
himself because he believed that he contracted the dread disease of leprosy.”
“What?” I ejaculated.
“It was the clever invention of a diabolical mind. Young Bleibner was
suffering from some minor skin trouble; he had lived in the South Sea Islands,
where the disease is common enough. Ames was a former friend of his, and a
well-known medical man, he would never dream of doubting his word. When
I arrived here, my suspicions were divided between Harper and Dr. Ames, but
I soon realized that only the doctor could have perpetrated and concealed the
crimes, and I learn from Harper that he was previously acquainted with young
Bleibner. Doubtless the latter at some time or another had made a will or had
insured his life in favour of the doctor. The latter saw his chance of acquiring
wealth. It was easy for him to inoculate Mr. Bleibner with the deadly germs.
Then the nephew, overcome with despair at the dread news his friend had
conveyed to him, shot himself. Mr. Bleibner, whatever his intentions, had
made no will. His fortune would pass to his nephew and from him to the
doctor.”
“And Mr. Schneider?”
“We cannot be sure. He knew young Bleibner too, remember, and may
have suspected something, or, again, the doctor may have thought that a
further death motiveless and purposeless would strengthen the coils of
superstition. Furthermore, I will tell you an interesting psychological fact,
Hastings. A murderer has always a strong desire to repeat his successful
crime, the performance of it grows upon him. Hence my fears for young
Willard. The figure of Anubis you saw tonight was Hassan dressed up by my
orders. I wanted to see if I could frighten the doctor. But it would take more
than the supernatural to frighten him. I could see that he was not entirely
taken in by my pretences of belief in the occult. The little comedy I played for
him did not deceive him. I suspected that he would endeavour to make me the
next victim. Ah, but in spite of la mer maudite, the heat abominable, and the
annoyances of the sand, the little grey cells still functioned!”
Poirot proved to be perfectly right in his premises. Young Bleibner, some
years ago, in a fit of drunken merriment, had made a jocular will, leaving “my
cigarette case you admire so much and everything else of which I die
possessed which will be principally debts to my good friend Robert Ames
who once saved my life from drowning.”
The case was hushed up as far as possible, and, to this day, people talk of
the remarkable series of deaths in connection with the Tomb of Men-her-Ra
as a triumphal proof of the vengeance of a bygone king upon the desecrators
of his tomb—a belief which, as Poirot pointed out to me, is contrary to all
Egyptian belief and thought.
Fourteen
THE VEILED LADY
“The Veiled Lady” was first published as “The Case of the Veiled Lady” in The Sketch,
October 3, 1923.
I
I had noticed that for some time Poirot had been growing increasingly
dissatisfied and restless. We had had no interesting cases of late, nothing on
which my little friend could exercise his keen wits and remarkable powers of
deduction. This morning he flung down the newspaper with an impatient
“Tchah!”—a favourite exclamation of his which sounded exactly like a cat
sneezing.
“They fear me, Hastings; the criminals of your England they fear me!
When the cat is there, the little mice, they come no more to the cheese!”
“I don’t suppose the greater part of them even know of your existence,” I
said, laughing.
Poirot looked at me reproachfully. He always imagines that the whole
world is thinking and talking of Hercule Poirot. He had certainly made a
name for himself in London, but I could hardly believe that his existence
struck terror into the criminal world.
“What about that daylight robbery of jewels in Bond Street the other
day?” I asked.
“A neat coup,” said Poirot approvingly, “though not in my line. Pas de
finesse, seulement de l’audace! A man with a loaded cane smashes the plateglass window of a jeweller’s shop and grabs a number of precious stones.
Worthy citizens immediately seize him; a policeman arrives. He is caught redhanded with the jewels on him. He is marched off to the police, and then it is
discovered that the stones are paste. He has passed the real ones to a
confederate—one of the aforementioned worthy citizens. He will go to prison
—true; but when he comes out, there will be a nice little fortune awaiting
him. Yes, not badly imagined. But I could do better than that. Sometimes,
Hastings, I regret that I am of such a moral disposition. To work against the
law, it would be pleasing, for a change.”
“Cheer up, Poirot; you know you are unique in your own line.”
“But what is there on hand in my own line?”
I picked up the paper.
“Here’s an Englishman mysteriously done to death in Holland,” I said.
“They always say that—and later they find that he ate the tinned fish and
that his death is perfectly natural.”
“Well, if you’re determined to grouse!”
“Tiens!” said Poirot, who had strolled across to the window. “Here in the
street is what they call in novels a ‘heavily veiled lady.’ She mounts the steps;
she rings the bell—she comes to consult us. Here is a possibility of something
interesting. When one is as young and pretty as that one, one does not veil the
face except for a big affair.”
A minute later our visitor was ushered in. As Poirot had said, she was
indeed heavily veiled. It was impossible to distinguish her features until she
raised her veil of black Spanish lace. Then I saw that Poirot’s intuition had
been right; the lady was extremely pretty, with fair hair and blue eyes. From
the costly simplicity of her attire, I deduced at once that she belonged to the
upper strata of society.
“Monsieur Poirot,” said the lady in a soft, musical voice, “I am in great
trouble. I can hardly believe that you can help me, but I have heard such
wonderful things of you that I come literally as the last hope to beg you to do
the impossible.”
“The impossible, it pleases me always,” said Poirot. “Continue, I beg of
you, mademoiselle.”
Our fair guest hesitated.
“But you must be frank,” added Poirot. “You must not leave me in the
dark on any point.”
“I will trust you,” said the girl suddenly. “You have heard of Lady
Millicent Castle Vaughan?”
I looked up with keen interest. The announcement of Lady Millicent’s
engagement to the young Duke of Southshire had appeared a few days
previously. She was, I knew, the fifth daughter of an impecunious Irish peer,
and the Duke of Southshire was one of the best matches in England.
“I am Lady Millicent,” continued the girl. “You may have read of my
engagement. I should be one of the happiest girls alive; but oh, M. Poirot, I
am in terrible trouble! There is a man, a horrible man—his name is
Lavington; and he—I hardly know how to tell you. There was a letter I wrote
—I was only sixteen at the time; and he—he—”
“A letter that you wrote to this Mr. Lavington?”
“Oh no—not to him! To a young soldier—I was very fond of him—he
was killed in the war.”
I understand,” said Poirot kindly.
“It was a foolish letter, an indiscreet letter, but indeed, M. Poirot, nothing
more. But there are phrases in it which—which might bear a different
interpretation.”
“I see,” said Poirot. “And this letter has come into the possession of Mr.
Lavington?”
“Yes, and he threatens, unless I pay him an enormous sum of money, a
sum that is quite impossible for me to raise, to send it to the Duke.”
“The dirty swine!” I ejaculated. “I beg your pardon, Lady Millicent.”
“Would it not be wiser to confess all to your future husband?”
“I dare not, M. Poirot. The Duke is a rather peculiar character, jealous and
suspicious and prone to believe the worst. I might as well break off my
engagement at once.”
“Dear, dear,” said Poirot with an expressive grimace. “And what do you
want me to do, milady?”
“I thought perhaps that I might ask Mr. Lavington to call upon you. I
would tell him that you were empowered by me to discuss the matter. Perhaps
you could reduce his demands.”
“What sum does he mention?”
“Twenty thousand pounds—an impossibility. I doubt if I could raise a
thousand, even.”
“You might perhaps borrow the money on the prospect of your
approaching marriage—but I doubt if you could get hold of half that sum.
Besides—eh bien, it is repungnant to me that you should pay! No, the
ingenuity of Hercule Poirot shall defeat your enemies! Send me this Mr.
Lavington. Is he likely to bring the letter with him?”
The girl shook her head.
“I do not think so. He is very cautious.”
“I suppose there is no doubt that he really has it?”
“He showed it to me when I went to his house.”
“You went to his house? That was very imprudent, milady.”
“Was it? I was so desperate. I hoped my entreaties might move him.”
“Oh, là là! The Lavingtons of this world are not moved by entreaties! He
would welcome them as showing how much importance you attached to the
document. Where does he live, this fine gentleman?”
“At Buona Vista, Wimbledon. I went there after dark—” Poirot groaned.
“I declared that I would inform the police in the end, but he only laughed in a
horrid, sneering manner. ‘By all means, my dear Lady Millicent, do so if you
wish,’ he said.”
“Yes, it is hardly an affair for the police,” murmured Poirot.
“ ‘But I think you will be wiser than that,’ he continued. ‘See, here is your
letter—in this little Chinese puzzle box!’ He held it so that I could see. I tried
to snatch at it, but he was too quick for me. With a horrid smile he folded it up
and replaced it in the little wooden box. ‘It will be quite safe here, I assure
you,’ he said, ‘and the box itself lives in such a clever place that you would
never find it.’ My eyes turned to the small wall safe, and he shook his head
and laughed. ‘I have a better safe than that,’ he said. Oh, he was odious! M.
Poirot, do you think that you can help me?”
“Have faith in Papa Poirot. I will find a way.”
These reassurances were all very well, I thought, as Poirot gallantly
ushered his fair client down the stairs, but it seemed to me that we had a tough
nut to crack. I said as much to Poirot when he returned. He nodded ruefully.
“Yes—the solution does not leap to the eye. He has the whip hand, this M.
Lavington. For the moment I do not see how we are to circumvent him.”
II
Mr. Lavington duly called upon us that afternoon. Lady Millicent had spoken
truly when she described him as an odious man. I felt a positive tingling in the
end of my boot, so keen was I to kick him down the stairs. He was blustering
and overbearing in manner, laughed Poirot’s gentle suggestions to scorn, and
generally showed himself as master of the situation. I could not help feeling
that Poirot was hardly appearing at his best. He looked discouraged and
crestfallen.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Lavington, as he took up his hat, “we don’t seem
to be getting much further. The case stands like this: I’ll let the Lady Millicent
off cheap, as she is such a charming young lady.” He leered odiously. “We’ll
say eighteen thousand. I’m off to Paris today—a little piece of business to
attend to over there. I shall be back on Tuesday. Unless the money is paid by
Tuesday evening, the letter goes to the Duke. Don’t tell me Lady Millicent
can’t raise the money. Some of her gentlemen friends would be only too
willing to oblige such a pretty woman with a loan—if she goes the right way
about it.”
My face flushed, and I took a step forward, but Lavington had wheeled
out of the room as he finished his sentence.
“My God!” I cried. “Something has got to be done. You seem to be taking
this lying down, Poirot.”
“You have an excellent heart, my friend—but your grey cells are in a
deplorable condition. I have no wish to impress Mr. Lavington with my
capabilities. The more pusillanimous he thinks me, the better.”
“Why?”
“It is curious,” murmured Poirot reminiscently, “that I should have uttered
a wish to work against the law just before Lady Millicent arrived!”
“You are going to burgle his house while he is away?” I gasped.
“Sometimes, Hastings, your mental processes are amazingly quick.”
“Suppose he takes the letter with him?”
Poirot shook his head.
“That is very unlikely. He has evidently a hiding place in his house that he
fancies to be pretty impregnable.”
“When do we—er—do the deed?”
“Tomorrow night. We will start from here about eleven o’clock.”
III
At the time appointed I was ready to set off. I had donned a dark suit, and a
soft dark hat. Poirot beamed kindly on me.
“You have dressed the part, I see,” he observed. “Come let us take the
underground to Wimbledon.”
“Aren’t we going to take anything with us? Tools to break in with?”
“My dear Hastings, Hercule Poirot does not adopt such crude methods.”
I retired, snubbed, but my curiosity was alert.
It was just on midnight that we entered the small suburban garden of
Buona Vista. The house was dark and silent. Poirot went straight to a window
at the back of the house, raised the sash noiselessly and bade me enter.
“How did you know this window would be open?” I whispered, for really
it seemed uncanny.
“Because I sawed through the catch this morning.”
“What?”
“But yes, it was most simple. I called, presented a fictitious card and one
of Inspector Japp’s official ones. I said I had been sent, recommended by
Scotland Yard, to attend to some burglar-proof fastenings that Mr. Lavington
wanted fixed while he was away. The housekeeper welcomed me with
enthusiasm. It seems they have had two attempted burglaries here lately—
evidently our little idea has occurred to other clients of Mr. Lavington’s—
with nothing of value taken. I examined all the windows, made my little
arrangement, forbade the servants to touch the windows until tomorrow, as
they were electrically connected up, and withdrew gracefully.”
“Really, Poirot, you are wonderful.”
“Mon ami, it was of the simplest. Now, to work! The servants sleep at the
top of the house, so we will run little risk of disturbing them.”
“I presume the safe is built into the wall somewhere?”
“Safe? Fiddlesticks! There is no safe. Mr. Lavington is an intelligent man.
You will see, he will have devised a hiding place much more intelligent than a
safe. A safe is the first thing everyone looks for.”
Whereupon we began a systematic search of the entire place. But after
several hours ransacking the house, our search had been unavailing. I saw
symptoms of anger gathering on Poirot’s face.
“Ah, sapristi, is Hercule Poirot to be beaten? Never! Let us be calm. Let
us reflect. Let us reason. Let us—enfin!—employ our little grey cells!”
He paused for some moments, bending his brows in concentration; then
the green light I knew so well stole into his eyes.
“I have been an imbecile! The kitchen!”
“The kitchen,” I cried. “But that’s impossible. The servants!”
“Exactly. Just what ninety-nine people out of a hundred would say! And
for that very reason the kitchen is the ideal place to choose. It is full of
various homely objects. En avant, to the kitchen!”
I followed him, completely sceptical, and watched whilst he dived into
bread bins, tapped saucepans, and put his head into the gas oven. In the end,
tired of watching him, I strolled back to the study. I was convinced that there,
and there only, would we find the cache. I made a further minute search,
noted that it was now a quarter past four and that therefore it would soon be
growing light, and then went back to the kitchen regions.
To my utter amazement, Poirot was now standing right inside the coal bin,
to the utter ruin of his neat light suit. He made a grimace.
“But yes, my friend, it is against all my instincts so to ruin my appearance,
but what will you?”
“But Lavington can’t have buried it under the coal?”
“If you would use your eyes, you would see that it is not the coal that I
examine.”
I then saw on a shelf behind the coal bunker some logs of wood were
piled. Poirot was dexterously taking them down one by one. Suddenly he
uttered a low exclamation.
“Your knife, Hastings!”
I handed it to him. He appeared to inset it in the wood, and suddenly the
log split in two. It had been neatly sawn in half and a cavity hollowed out in
the centre. From this cavity Poirot took a little wooden box of Chinese make.
“Well done!” I cried, carried out of myself.
“Gently, Hastings! Do not raise your voice too much. Come, let us be off,
before the daylight is upon us.”
Slipping the box into his pocket, he leaped lightly out of the coal-bunker,
brushed himself down as well as he could, and leaving the house by the same
way as we had come, we walked rapidly in the direction of London.
“But what an extraordinary place!” I expostulated. “Anyone might have
used the log.”
“In July, Hastings? And it was at the bottom of the pile—a very ingenious
hiding place. Ah, here is a taxi! Now for home, a wash, and a refreshing
sleep.”
IV
After the excitement of the night, I slept late. When I finally strolled into our
sitting room just before one o’clock, I was surprised to see Poirot, leaning
back in an armchair, the Chinese box open beside him, calmly reading the
letter he had taken from it.
He smiled at me affectionately, and tapped the sheet he held.
“She was right, the Lady Millicent; never would the Duke have pardoned
this letter! It contains some of the most extravagant terms of affection I have
ever come across.”
“Really, Poirot,” I said, rather disgustedly, “I don’t think you should have
read the letter. “That’s the sort of thing that isn’t done.”
“It is done by Hercule Poirot,” replied my friend imperturbably.
“And another thing,” I said. “I don’t think using Japp’s official card
yesterday was quite playing the game.”
“But I was not playing a game, Hastings. I was conducting a case.”
I shrugged my shoulders. One can’t argue with a point of view.
“A step on the stairs,” said Poirot. “That will be Lady Millicent.”
Our fair client came in with an anxious expression on her face which
changed to one of delight on seeing the letter and box which Poirot held up.
“Oh, M. Poirot. How wonderful of you! How did you do it?”
“By rather reprehensible methods, milady. But Mr. Lavington will not
prosecute. This is your letter, is it not?”
She glanced through it.
“Yes. Oh, how can I ever thank you! You are a wonderful, wonderful man.
Where was it hidden?”
Poirot told her.
“How very clever of you!” She took up the small box from the table. “I
shall keep this as a souvenir.”
“I had hoped, milady, that you would permit me to keep it—also as a
souvenir.”
“I hope to send you a better souvenir than that—on my wedding day. You
shall not find me ungrateful, M. Poirot.”
“The pleasure of doing you a service will be more to me than a cheque—
so you permit that I retain the box.”
“Oh no, M. Poirot, I simply must have that,” she cried laughingly.
She stretched out her hand, but Poirot was before her. His hand closed
over it.
“I think not.” His voice had changed.
“What do you mean?” Her voice seemed to have grown sharper.
“At any rate, permit me to abstract its further contents. You observed that
the original cavity has been reduced by half. In the top half, the compromising
letter; in the bottom—”
He made a nimble gesture, then held out his hand. On the palm were four
large glittering stones, and two big milky white pearls.
“The jewels stolen in Bond Street the other day, I rather fancy,” murmured
Poirot. “Japp will tell us.”
To my utter amazement, Japp himself stepped out from Poirot’s bedroom.
“An old friend of yours, I believe,” said Poirot politely to Lady Millicent.
“Nabbed, by the Lord!” said Lady Millicent, with a complete change of
manner. “You nippy old devil!” She looked at Poirot with almost affectionate
awe.
“Well, Gertie, my dear,” said Japp, “the game’s up this time, I fancy.
Fancy seeing you again so soon! We’ve got your pal, too, the gentleman who
called here the other day calling himself Lavington. As for Lavington himself,
alias Croker, alias Reed, I wonder which of the gang it was who stuck a knife
into him the other day in Holland? Thought he’d got the goods with him,
didn’t you? And he hadn’t. He double-crossed you properly—hid ’em in his
own house. You had two fellows looking for them, and then you tackled M.
Poirot here, and by a piece of amazing luck he found them.”
“You do like talking, don’t you?” said the late Lady Millicent. “Easy
there, now. I’ll go quietly. You can’t say that I’m not the perfect lady. Ta-ta,
all!”
“The shoes were wrong,” said Poirot dreamily, while I was still too
stupefied to speak. “I have made my little observations of your English
nation, and a lady, a born lady, is always particular about her shoes. She may
have shabby clothes, but she will be well shod. Now, this Lady Millicent had
smart, expensive clothes, and cheap shoes. It was not likely that either you or
I should have seen the real Lady Millicent; she has been very little in London,
and this girl had a certain superficial resemblance which would pass well
enough. As I say, the shoes first awakened my suspicions, and then her story
—and her veil—were a little melodramatic, eh? The Chinese box with a
bogus compromising letter in the top must have been known to all the gang,
but the log of wood was the late Mr. Lavington’s idea. Eh, par example,
Hastings, I hope you will not again wound my feelings as you did yesterday
by saying that I am unknown to the criminal classes. Ma foi, they even
employ me when they themselves fail!”
Fifteen
THE ADVENTURE OF JOHNNIE WAVERLY
“The Adventure of Johnnie Waverly” was first published as “The Kidnapping of Johnnie
Waverly” in The Sketch, October 10, 1923.
You can understand the feelings of a mother,” said Mrs. Waverly for
perhaps the sixth time.
She looked appealingly at Poirot. My little friend, always sympathetic to
motherhood in distress, gesticulated reassuringly.
“But yes, but yes, I comprehend perfectly. Have faith in Papa Poirot.”
“The police—” began Mr. Waverly.
His wife waved the interruption aside. “I won’t have anything more to do
with the police. We trusted to them and look what happened! But I’d heard so
much of M. Poirot and the wonderful things he’d done, that I felt he might
possibly be able to help us. A mother’s feelings—”
Poirot hastily stemmed the reiteration with an eloquent gesture. Mrs.
Waverly’s emotion was obviously genuine, but it assorted strangely with her
shrewd, rather hard type of countenance. When I heard later that she was the
daughter of a prominent steel manufacturer who had worked his way up in the
world from an office boy to his present eminence, I realized that she had
inherited many of the paternal qualities.
Mr. Waverly was a big, florid, jovial-looking man. He stood with his legs
straddled wide apart and looked the type of the country squire.
“I suppose you know all about this business, M. Poirot?”
The question was almost superfluous. For some days past the papers had
been full of the sensational kidnapping of little Johnnie Waverly, the threeyear-old son and heir of Marcus Waverly, Esq., of Waverly Court, Surrey, one
of the oldest families in England.
“The main facts I know, of course, but recount to me the whole story,
monsieur, I beg of you. And in detail if you please.”
“Well, I suppose the beginning of the whole thing was about ten days ago
when I got an anonymous letter—beastly things, anyway—that I couldn’t
make head or tail of. The writer had the impudence to demand that I should
pay him twenty-five thousand pounds—twenty-five thousand pounds, M.
Poirot! Failing my agreement, he threatened to kidnap Johnnie. Of course I
threw the thing into the wastepaper basket without more ado. Thought it was
some silly joke. Five days later I got another letter. ‘Unless you pay, your son
will be kidnapped on the twenty-ninth.’ That was on the twenty-seventh. Ada
was worried, but I couldn’t bring myself to treat the matter seriously. Damn it
all, we’re in England. Nobody goes about kidnapping children and holding
them up to ransom.”
“It is not a common practice, certainly,” said Poirot. “Proceed, monsieur.”
“Well, Ada gave me no peace, so—feeling a bit of a fool—I laid the
matter before Scotland Yard. They didn’t seem to take the thing very seriously
—inclined to my view that it was some silly joke. On the twenty-eighth I got
a third letter. ‘You have not paid. Your son will be taken from you at twelve
o’clock noon tomorrow, the twenty-ninth. It will cost you fifty thousand
pounds to recover him.’ Up I drove to Scotland Yard again. This time they
were more impressed. They inclined to the view that the letters were written
by a lunatic, and that in all probability an attempt of some kind would be
made at the hour stated. They assured me that they would take all due
precautions. Inspector McNeil and a sufficient force would come down to
Waverly on the morrow and take charge.
“I went home much relieved in mind. Yet we already had the feeling of
being in a state of siege. I gave orders that no stranger was to be admitted, and
that no one was to leave the house. The evening passed off without any
untoward incident, but on the following morning my wife was seriously
unwell. Alarmed by her condition, I sent for Doctor Dakers. Her symptoms
appeared to puzzle him. While hesitating to suggest that she had been
poisoned, I could see that that was what was in his mind. There was no
danger, he assured me, but it would be a day or two before she would be able
to get about again. Returning to my own room, I was startled and amazed to
find a note pinned to my pillow. It was in the same handwriting as the others
and contained just three words: ‘At twelve o’clock.’
“I admit, M. Poirot, that then I saw red! Someone in the house was in this
—one of the servants. I had them all up, blackguarded them right and left.
They never split on each other; it was Miss Collins, my wife’s companion,
who informed me that she had seen Johnnie’s nurse slip down the drive early
that morning. I taxed her with it, and she broke down. She had left the child
with the nursery maid and stolen out to meet a friend of hers—a man! Pretty
goings on! She denied having pinned the note to my pillow—she may have
been speaking the truth, I don’t know. I felt I couldn’t take the risk of the
child’s own nurse being in the plot. One of the servants was implicated—of
that I was sure. Finally I lost my temper and sacked the whole bunch, nurse
and all. I gave them an hour to pack their boxes and get out of the house.”
Mr. Waverly’s face was quite two shades redder as he remembered his just
wrath.
“Was not that a little injudicious, monsieur?” suggested Poirot. “For all
you know, you might have been playing into the enemy’s hands.”
Mr. Waverly stared at him. “I don’t see that. Send the whole lot packing,
that was my idea. I wired to London for a fresh lot to be sent down that
evening. In the meantime, there’d be only people I could trust in the house:
my wife’s secretary, Miss Collins, and Tredwell, the butler, who has been with
me since I was a boy.”
“And this Miss Collins, how long has she been with you?”
“Just a year,” said Mrs. Waverly. “She has been invaluable to me as a
secretary-companion, and is also a very efficient housekeeper.”
“The nurse?”
“She has been with me six months. She came to me with excellent
references. All the same, I never really liked her, although Johnnie was quite
devoted to her.”
“Still, I gather she had already left when the catastrophe occurred.
Perhaps, Monsieur Waverly, you will be so kind as to continue.”
Mr. Waverly resumed his narrative.
“Inspector McNeil arrived about ten thirty. The servants had all left by
then. He declared himself quite satisfied with the internal arrangements. He
had various men posted in the park outside, guarding all the approaches to the
house, and he assured me that if the whole thing were not a hoax, we should
undoubtedly catch my mysterious correspondent.
“I had Johnnie with me, and he and I and the inspector went together into
the room we call the council chamber. The inspector locked the door. There is
a big grandfather clock there, and as the hands drew near to twelve I don’t
mind confessing that I was as nervous as a cat. There was a whirring sound,
and the clock began to strike. I clutched at Johnnie. I had a feeling a man
might drop from the skies. The last stroke sounded, and as it did so, there was
a great commotion outside—shouting and running. The inspector flung up the
window, and a constable came running up.
“ ‘We’ve got him sir,’ he panted. ‘He was sneaking up through the bushes.
He’s got a whole dope outfit on him.’
“We hurried out on the terrace where two constables were holding a
ruffianly-looking fellow in shabby clothes, who was twisting and turning in a
vain endeavour to escape. One of the policemen held out an unrolled parcel
which they had wrested from their captive. It contained a pad of cotton wool
and a bottle of chloroform. It made my blood boil to see it. There was a note,
too, addressed to me. I tore it open. It bore the following words: ‘You should
have paid up. To ransom your son will now cost you fifty thousand. In spite of
all your precautions he has been abducted on the twenty-ninth as I said.’
“I gave a great laugh, the laugh of relief, but as I did so I heard the hum of
a motor and a shout. I turned my head. Racing down the drive towards the
south lodge at a furious speed was a low, long grey car. It was the man who
drove it who shouted, but that was not what gave me a shock of horror. It was
the sight of Johnnie’s flaxen curls. The child was in the car beside him.
“The inspector ripped out an oath. ‘The child was here not a minute ago,’
he cried. His eyes swept over us. We were all there: myself, Tredwell, Miss
Collins. ‘When did you last see him, Mr. Waverly?’
“I cast my mind back, trying to remember. When the constable had called
us, I had run out with the inspector, forgetting all about Johnnie.
“And then there came a sound that startled us, the chiming of a church
clock from the village. With an exclamation the inspector pulled out his
watch. It was exactly twelve o’clock. With one common accord we ran to the
council chamber; the clock there marked the hour as ten minutes past.
Someone must have deliberately tampered with it, for I have never known it
gain or lose before. It is a perfect timekeeper.”
Mr. Waverly paused. Poirot smiled to himself and straightened a little mat
which the anxious father had pushed askew.
“A pleasing little problem, obscure and charming,” murmured Poirot. “I
will investigate it for you with pleasure. Truly it was planned à merveille.”
Mrs. Waverly looked at him reproachfully. “But my boy,” she wailed.
Poirot hastily composed his face and looked the picture of earnest
sympathy again. “He is safe, madame, he is unharmed. Rest assured, these
miscreants will take the greatest care of him. Is he not to them the turkey—
no, the goose—that lays the golden eggs?”
“M. Poirot, I’m sure there’s only one thing to be done—pay up. I was all
against it at first—but now! A mother’s feelings—”
“But we have interrupted monsieur in his history,” cried Poirot hastily.
“I expect you know the rest pretty well from the papers,” said Mr.
Waverly. “Of course, Inspector McNeil got on to the telephone immediately.
A description of the car and the man was circulated all round, and it looked at
first as though everything was going to turn out all right. A car, answering to
the description, with a man and a small boy, had passed through various
villages, apparently making for London. At one place they had stopped, and it
was noticed that the child was crying and obviously afraid of his companion.
When Inspector McNeil announced that the car had been stopped and the man
and boy detained, I was almost ill with relief. You know the sequel. The boy
was not Johnnie, and the man was an ardent motorist, fond of children, who
had picked up a small child playing in the streets of Edenswell, a village
about fifteen miles from us, and was kindly giving him a ride. Thanks to the
cocksure blundering of the police, all traces have disappeared. Had they not
persistently followed the wrong car, they might by now have found the boy.”
“Calm yourself, monsieur. The police are a brave and intelligent force of
men. Their mistake was a very natural one. And altogether it was a clever
scheme. As to the man they caught in the grounds, I understand that his
defence has consisted all along of a persistent denial. He declared that the
note and parcel were given to him to deliver at Waverly Court. The man who
gave them to him handed him a ten-shilling note and promised him another if
it were delivered at exactly ten minutes to twelve. He was to approach the
house through the grounds and knock at the side door.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” declared Mrs. Waverly hotly. “It’s all a
parcel of lies.”
“En verité, it is a thin story,” said Poirot reflectively. “But so far they have
not shaken it. I understand, also, that he made a certain accusation?”
His glance interrogated Mr. Waverly. The latter got rather red again.
“The fellow had the impertinence to pretend that he recognized in
Tredwell the man who gave him the parcel. ‘Only the bloke has shaved off his
moustache.’ Tredwell, who was born on the estate!”
Poirot smiled a little at the country gentleman’s indignation. “Yet you
yourself suspect an inmate of the house to have been accessory to the
abduction.”
“Yes, but not Tredwell.”
“And you, madame?” asked Poirot, suddenly turning to her.
“It could not have been Tredwell who gave this tramp the letter and parcel
—if anybody ever did, which I don’t believe. It was given him at ten o’clock,
he says. At ten o’clock Tredwell was with my husband in the smoking room.”
“Were you able to see the face of the man in the car, monsieur? Did it
resemble that of Tredwell in any way?”
“It was too far away for me to see his face.”
“Has Tredwell a brother, do you know?”
“He had several, but they are all dead. The last one was killed in the war.”
“I am not yet clear as to the grounds of Waverly Court. The car was
heading for the south lodge. Is there another entrance?”
“Yes, what we call the east lodge. It can be seen from the other side of the
house.”
“It seems to me strange that nobody saw the car entering the grounds.”
“There is a right of way through, and access to a small chapel. A good
many cars pass through. The man must have stopped the car in a convenient
place and run up to the house just as the alarm was given and attention
attracted elsewhere.”
“Unless he was already inside the house,” mused Poirot. “Is there any
place where he could have hidden?”
“Well, we certainly didn’t make a thorough search of the house
beforehand. There seemed no need. I suppose he might have hidden himself
somewhere, but who would have let him in?”
“We shall come to that later. One thing at a time—let us be methodical.
There is no special hiding place in the house? Waverly Court is an old place,
and there are sometimes ‘priests’ holes,’ as they call them.”
“By gad, there is a priest’s hole. It opens from one of the panels in the
hall.”
“Near the council chamber?”
“Just outside the door.”
“Voilà!”
“But nobody knows of its existence except my wife and myself.”
“Tredwell?”
“Well—he might have heard of it.”
“Miss Collins?”
“I have never mentioned it to her.”
Poirot reflected for a minute.
“Well, monsieur, the next thing is for me to come down to Waverly Court.
If I arrive this afternoon, will it suit you?”
“Oh, as soon as possible, please, Monsieur Poirot!” cried Mrs. Waverly.
“Read this once more.”
She thrust into his hands the last missive from the enemy which had
reached the Waverlys that morning and which had sent her posthaste to
Poirot. It gave clever and explicit directions for the paying over of the money,
and ended with a threat that the boy’s life would pay for any treachery. It was
clear that a love of money warred with the essential mother love of Mrs.
Waverly, and that the latter was at last gaining the day.
Poirot detained Mrs. Waverly for a minute behind her husband.
“Madame, the truth, if you please. Do you share your husband’s faith in
the butler, Tredwell?”
“I have nothing against him, Monsieur Poirot, I cannot see how he can
have been concerned in this, but—well, I have never liked him—never!”
“One other thing, madame, can you give me the address of the child’s
nurse?”
“149 Netherall Road, Hammersmith. You don’t imagine—”
“Never do I imagine. Only—I employ the little grey cells. And
sometimes, just sometimes, I have a little idea.”
Poirot came back to me as the door closed.
“So madame has never liked the butler. It is interesting, that, eh,
Hastings?”
I refused to be drawn. Poirot has deceived me so often that I now go
warily. There is always a catch somewhere.
After completing an elaborate outdoor toilet, we set off for Netherall
Road. We were fortunate enough to find Miss Jessie Withers at home. She
was a pleasant-faced woman of thirty-five, capable and superior. I could not
believe that she could be mixed up in the affair. She was bitterly resentful of
the way she had been dismissed, but admitted that she had been in the wrong.
She was engaged to be married to a painter and decorator who happened to be
in the neighbourhood, and she had run out to meet him. The thing seemed
natural enough. I could not quite understand Poirot. All his questions seemed
to me quite irrelevant. They were concerned mainly with the daily routine of
her life at Waverly Court. I was frankly bored and glad when Poirot took his
departure.
“Kidnapping is an easy job, mon ami,” he observed, as he hailed a taxi in
the Hammersmith Road and ordered it to drive to Waterloo. “That child could
have been abducted with the greatest ease any day for the last three years.”
“I don’t see that that advances us much,” I remarked coldly.
“Au contraire, it advances us enormously, but enormously! If you must
wear a tie pin, Hastings, at least let it be in the exact centre of your tie. At
present it is at least a sixteenth of an inch too much to the right.”
Waverly Court was a fine old place and had recently been restored with
taste and care. Mr. Waverly showed us the council chamber, the terrace, and
all the various spots connected with the case. Finally, at Poirot’s request, he
pressed a spring in the wall, a panel slid aside, and a short passage led us into
the priest’s hole.
“You see,” said Waverly. “There is nothing here.”
The tiny room was bare enough, there was not even the mark of a footstep
on the floor. I joined Poirot where he was bending attentively over a mark in
the corner.
“What do you make of this, my friend?”
There were four imprints close together.
“A dog,” I cried.
“A very small dog, Hastings.”
“A Pom.”
“Smaller than a Pom.”
“A griffon?” I suggested doubtfully.
“Smaller even than a griffon. A species unknown to the Kennel Club.”
I looked at him. His face was alight with excitement and satisfaction.
“I was right,” he murmured. “I knew I was right. Come, Hastings.”
As we stepped out into the hall and the panel closed behind us, a young
lady came out of a door farther down the passage. Mr. Waverly presented her
to us.
“Miss Collins.”
Miss Collins was about thirty years of age, brisk and alert in manner. She
had fair, rather dull hair, and wore pince-nez.
At Poirot’s request, we passed into a small morning room, and he
questioned her closely as to the servants and particularly as to Tredwell. She
admitted that she did not like the butler.
“He gives himself airs,” she explained.
They then went into the question of the food eaten by Mrs. Waverly on the
night of the 28th. Miss Collins declared that she had partaken of the same
dishes upstairs in her sitting room and had felt no ill effects. As she was
departing I nudged Poirot.
“The dog,” I whispered.
“Ah, yes, the dog!” He smiled broadly. “Is there a dog kept here by any
chance, mademoiselle?”
“There are two retrievers in the kennels outside.”
“No, I mean a small dog, a toy dog.”
“No—nothing of the kind.”
Poirot permitted her to depart. Then, pressing the bell, he remarked to me,
“She lies, that Mademoiselle Collins. Possibly I should, also, in her place.
Now for the butler.”
Tredwell was a dignified individual. He told his story with perfect
aplomb, and it was essentially the same as that of Mr. Waverly. He admitted
that he knew the secret of the priest’s hole.
When he finally withdrew, pontifical to the last, I met Poirot’s quizzical
eyes.
“What do you make of it all, Hastings?”
“What do you?” I parried.
“How cautious you become. Never, never will the grey cells function
unless you stimulate them. Ah, but I will not tease you! Let us make our
deductions together. What points strike us specially as being difficult?”
“There is one thing that strikes me,” I said. “Why did the man who
kidnapped the child go out by the south lodge instead of by the east lodge
where no one would see him?”
“That is a very good point, Hastings, an excellent one. I will match it with
another. Why warn the Waverlys beforehand? Why not simply kidnap the
child and hold him to ransom?”
“Because they hoped to get the money without being forced to action.”
“Surely it was very unlikely that the money would be paid on a mere
threat?”
“Also they wanted to focus attention on twelve o’clock, so that when the
tramp man was seized, the other could emerge from his hiding place and get
away with the child unnoticed.”
“That does not alter the fact that they were making a thing difficult that
was perfectly easy. If they do not specify a time or date, nothing would be
easier than to wait their chance, and carry off the child in a motor one day
when he is out with his nurse.”
“Ye—es,” I admitted doubtfully.
“In fact, there is a deliberate playing of the farce! Now let us approach the
question from another side. Everything goes to show that there was an
accomplice inside the house. Point number one, the mysterious poisoning of
Mrs. Waverly. Point number two, the letter pinned to the pillow. Point number
three, the putting on of the clock ten minutes—all inside jobs. And an
additional fact that you may not have noticed. There was no dust in the
priest’s hole. It had been swept out with a broom.
“Now then, we have four people in the house. We can exclude the nurse,
since she could not have swept out the priest’s hole, though she could have
attended to the other three points. Four people, Mr. and Mrs. Waverly,
Tredwell, the butler, and Miss Collins. We will take Miss Collins first. We
have nothing much against her, except that we know very little about her, that
she is obviously an intelligent young woman, and that she has only been here
a year.”
“She lied about the dog, you said,” I reminded him.
“Ah, yes, the dog.” Poirot gave a peculiar smile. “Now let us pass to
Tredwell. There are several suspicious facts against him. For one thing, the
tramp declares that it was Tredwell who gave him the parcel in the village.”
“But Tredwell can prove an alibi on that point.”
“Even then, he could have poisoned Mrs. Waverly, pinned the note to the
pillow, put on the clock, and swept out the priest’s hole. On the other hand, he
has been born and bred in the service of the Waverlys. It seems unlikely in the
last degree that he should connive at the abduction of the son of the house. It
is not in the picture!”
“Well, then?”
“We must proceed logically—however absurd it may seem. We will
briefly consider Mrs. Waverly. But she is rich, the money is hers. It is her
money which has restored this impoverished estate. There would be no reason
for her to kidnap her son and pay over her money to herself. The husband, no,
is in a different position. He has a rich wife. It is not the same thing as being
rich himself—in fact I have a little idea that the lady is not very fond of
parting with her money, except on a very good pretext. But Mr. Waverly, you
can see at once, he is a bon viveur.”
“Impossible,” I spluttered.
“Not at all. Who sends away the servants? Mr. Waverly. He can write the
notes, drug his wife, put on the hands of the clock, and establish an excellent
alibi for his faithful retainer Tredwell. Tredwell has never liked Mrs. Waverly.
He is devoted to his master and is willing to obey his orders implicitly. There
were three of them in it. Waverly, Tredwell, and some friend of Waverly. That
is the mistake the police made, they made no further inquiries about the man
who drove the grey car with the wrong child in it. He was the third man. He
picks up a child in a village near by, a boy with flaxen curls. He drives in
through the east lodge and passes out through the south lodge just at the right
moment, waving his hand and shouting. They cannot see his face or the
number of the car, so obviously they cannot see the child’s face, either. Then
he lays a false trail to London. In the meantime, Tredwell has done his part in
arranging for the parcel and note to be delivered by a rough-looking
gentleman. His master can provide an alibi in the unlikely case of the man
recognizing him, in spite of the false moustache he wore. As for Mr. Waverly,
as soon as the hullabaloo occurs outside, and the inspector rushes out, he
quickly hides the child in the priest’s hole, follows him out. Later in the day,
when the inspector is gone and Miss Collins is out of the way, it will be easy
enough to drive him off to some safe place in his own car.”
“But what about the dog?” I asked. “And Miss Collins lying?”
“That was my little joke. I asked her if there were any toy dogs in the
house, and she said no—but doubtless there are some—in the nursery! You
see, Mr. Waverly placed some toys in the priest’s hole to keep Johnnie
amused and quiet.”
“M. Poirot—” Mr. Waverly entered the room—“have you discovered
anything? Have you any clue to where the boy has been taken?”
Poirot handed him a piece of paper. “Here is the address.”
“But this is a blank sheet.”
“Because I am waiting for you to write it down for me.”
“What the—” Mr. Waverly’s face turned purple.
“I know everything, monsieur. I give you twenty-four hours to return the
boy. Your ingenuity will be equal to the task of explaining his reappearance.
Otherwise, Mrs. Waverly will be informed of the exact sequence of events.”
Mr. Waverly sank down in a chair and buried his face in his hands. “He is
with my old nurse, ten miles away. He is happy and well cared for.”
“I have no doubt of that. If I did not believe you to be a good father at
heart, I should not be willing to give you another chance.”
“The scandal—”
“Exactly. Your name is an old and honoured one. Do not jeopardize it
again. Good evening, Mr. Waverly. Ah, by the way, one word of advice.
Always sweep in the corners!”
Sixteen
THE MARKET BASING MYSTERY
“The Market Basing Mystery” was first published in The Sketch, October 17, 1923.
I
After all, there’s nothing like the country, is there?” said Inspector Japp,
breathing in heavily through his nose and out through his mouth in the most
approved fashion.
Poirot and I applauded the sentiment heartily. It had been the Scotland
Yard inspector’s idea that we should all go for the weekend to the little
country town of Market Basing. When off duty, Japp was an ardent botanist,
and discoursed upon minute flowers possessed of unbelievably lengthy Latin
names (somewhat strangely pronounced) with an enthusiasm even greater
than that he gave to his cases.
“Nobody knows us, and we know nobody,” explained Japp. “That’s the
idea.”
This was not to prove quite the case, however, for the local constable
happened to have been transferred from a village fifteen miles away where a
case of arsenical poisoning had brought him into contact with the Scotland
Yard man. However, his delighted recognition of the great man only enhanced
Japp’s sense of well-being, and as we sat down to breakfast on Sunday
morning in the parlour of the village inn, with the sun shining, and tendrils of
honeysuckle thrusting themselves in at the window, we were all in the best of
spirits. The bacon and eggs were excellent, the coffee not so good, but
passable and boiling hot.
“This is the life,” said Japp. “When I retire, I shall have a little place in the
country. Far from crime, like this!”
“Le crime, il est partout,” remarked Poirot, helping himself to a neat
square of bread, and frowning at a sparrow which had balanced itself
impertinently on the windowsill.
I quoted lightly:
“That rabbit has a pleasant face,
His private life is a disgrace
I really could not tell to you
The awful things that rabbits do.”
“Lord,” said Japp, stretching himself backward, “I believe I could manage
another egg, and perhaps a rasher or two of bacon. What do you say,
Captain?”
“I’m with you,” I returned heartily. “What about you, Poirot?”
Poirot shook his head.
“One must not so replenish the stomach that the brain refuses to function,”
he remarked.
“I’ll risk replenishing the stomach a bit more,” laughed Japp. “I take a
large size in stomachs; and by the way, you’re getting stout yourself, M.
Poirot. Here, miss, eggs and bacon twice.”
At that moment, however, an imposing form blocked the doorway. It was
Constable Pollard.
“I hope you’ll excuse me troubling the inspector, gentlemen, but I’d be
glad of his advice.”
“I’m on holiday,” said Japp hastily. “No work for me. What is the case?”
“Gentleman up at Leigh House—shot himself—through the head.”
“Well, they will do it,” said Japp prosaically. “Debt, or a woman, I
suppose. Sorry I can’t help you, Pollard.”
“The point is,” said the constable, “that he can’t have shot himself.
Leastways, that’s what Dr. Giles says.”
Japp put down his cup.
“Can’t have shot himself? What do you mean?”
“That’s what Dr. Giles says,” repeated Pollard. “He says it’s plumb
impossible. He’s puzzled to death, the door being locked on the inside and the
windows bolted; but he sticks to it that the man couldn’t have committed
suicide.”
That settled it. The further supply of bacon and eggs was waved aside, and
a few minutes later we were all walking as fast as we could in the direction of
Leigh House, Japp eagerly questioning the constable.
The name of the deceased was Walter Protheroe; he was a man of middle
age and something of a recluse. He had come to Market Basing eight years
ago and rented Leigh House, a rambling, dilapidated old mansion fast falling
into ruin. He lived in a corner of it, his wants attended to by a housekeeper
whom he had brought with him. Miss Clegg was her name, and she was a
very superior woman and highly thought of in the village. Just lately Mr.
Protheroe had had visitors staying with him, a Mr. and Mrs. Parker from
London. This morning, unable to get a reply when she went to call her master,
and finding the door locked, Miss Clegg became alarmed, and telephoned for
the police and the doctor. Constable Pollard and Dr. Giles had arrived at the
same moment. Their united efforts had succeeded in breaking down the oak
door of his bedroom.
Mr. Protheroe was lying on the floor, shot through the head, and the pistol
was clasped in his right hand. It looked a clear case of suicide.
After examining the body, however, Dr. Giles became clearly perplexed,
and finally he drew the constable aside, and communicated his perplexities to
him; whereupon Pollard had at once thought of Japp. Leaving the doctor in
charge, he had hurried down to the inn.
By the time the constable’s recital was over, we had arrived at Leigh
House, a big, desolate house surrounded by an unkempt, weed-ridden garden.
The front door was open, and we passed at once into the hall and from there
into a small morning room whence proceeded the sound of voices. Four
people were in the room: a somewhat flashily dressed man with a shifty,
unpleasant face to whom I took an immediate dislike; a woman of much the
same type, though handsome in a coarse fashion; another woman dressed in
neat black who stood apart from the rest, and whom I took to be the
housekeeper; and a tall man dressed in sporting tweeds, with a clever, capable
face, and who was clearly in command of the situation.
“Dr. Giles,” said the constable, “this is Detective-Inspector Japp of
Scotland Yard, and his two friends.”
The doctor greeted us and made us known to Mr. and Mrs. Parker. Then
we accompanied them upstairs. Pollard, in obedience to a sign from Japp,
remained below, as it were on guard over the household. The doctor led us
upstairs and along a passage. A door was open at the end; splinters hung from
the hinges, and the door itself had crashed to the floor inside the room.
We went in. The body was still lying on the floor. Mr. Protheroe had been
a man of middle age, bearded, with hair grey at the temples. Japp went and
knelt by the body.
“Why couldn’t you leave it as you found it?” he grumbled.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“We thought it a clear case of suicide.”
“H’m!” said Japp. “Bullet entered the head behind the left ear.”
“Exactly,” said the doctor. “Clearly impossible for him to have fired it
himself. He’d have had to twist his hand right round his head. It couldn’t have
been done.”
“Yet you found the pistol clasped in his hand? Where is it, by the way?”
The doctor nodded to the table.
“But it wasn’t clasped in his hand,” he said. “It was inside the hand, but
the fingers weren’t closed over it.”
“Put there afterwards,” said Japp; “that’s clear enough.” He was
examining the weapon. “One cartridge fired. We’ll test it for fingerprints, but
I doubt if we’ll find any but yours, Dr. Giles. How long has he been dead?”
“Some time last night. I can’t give the time to an hour or so, as those
wonderful doctors in detective stories do. Roughly, he’s been dead about
twelve hours.”
So far, Poirot had not made a move of any kind. He had remained by my
side, watching Japp at work and listening to his questions. Only, from time to
time, he had sniffed the air very delicately, and as if puzzled. I too had sniffed,
but could detect nothing to arouse interest. The air seemed perfectly fresh and
devoid of odour. And yet, from time to time, Poirot continued to sniff it
dubiously, as though his keener nose detected something I had missed.
Now, as Japp moved away from the body, Poirot knelt down by it. He
took no interest in the wound. I thought at first that he was examining the
fingers of the hand that had held the pistol, but in a minute I saw that it was a
handkerchief carried in the coat-sleeve that interested him. Mr. Protheroe was
dressed in a dark grey lounge-suit. Finally Poirot got up from his knees, but
his eyes still strayed back to the handkerchief as though puzzled.
Japp called to him to come and help to lift the door. Seizing my
opportunity, I too knelt down, and taking the handkerchief from the sleeve,
scrutinized it minutely. It was a perfectly plain handkerchief of white
cambric; there was no mark or stain on it of any kind. I replaced it, shaking
my head and confessing myself baffled.
The others had raised the door. I realized that they were hunting for the
key. They looked in vain.
“That settles it,” said Japp. “The window’s shut and bolted. The murderer
left by the door, locking it and taking the key with him. He thought it would
be accepted that Protheroe had locked himself in and shot himself, and that
the absence of the key would not be noticed. You agree, M. Poirot?”
“I agree, yes; but it would have been simpler and better to slip the key
back inside the room under the door. Then it would look as though it had
fallen from the lock.”
“Ah, well, you can’t expect everybody to have the bright ideas that you
have. You’d have been a holy terror if you’d taken to crime. Any remarks to
make, M. Poirot?”
Poirot, it seemed to me, was somewhat at a loss. He looked round the
room and remarked mildly and almost apologetically: “He smoked a lot, this
monsieur.”
True enough, the grate was filled with cigarette stubs, as was an ashtray
that stood on a small table near the big armchair.
“He must have got through about twenty cigarettes last night,” remarked
Japp. Stooping down, he examined the contents of the grate carefully, then
transferred his attention to the ashtray. “They’re all the same kind,” he
announced, “and smoked by the same man. There’s nothing there, M. Poirot.”
“I did not suggest that there was,” murmured my friend.
“Ha,” cried Japp, “what’s this?” He pounced on something bright and
glittering that lay on the floor near the dead man. “A broken cuff-link. I
wonder who this belongs to. Dr. Giles, I’d be obliged if you’d go down and
send up the housekeeper.”
“What about the Parkers? He’s very anxious to leave the house—says he’s
got urgent business in London.”
“I dare say. It’ll have to get on without him. By the way things are going,
it’s likely that there’ll be some urgent business down here for him to attend
to! Send up the housekeeper, and don’t let either of the Parkers give you and
Pollard the slip. Did any of the household come in here this morning?”
The doctor reflected.
“No, they stood outside in the corridor while Pollard and I came in.”
“Sure of that?”
“Absolutely certain.”
The doctor departed on his mission.
“Good man, that,” said Japp approvingly. “Some of these sporting doctors
are first-class fellows. Well, I wonder who shot this chap. It looks like one of
the three in the house. I hardly suspect the housekeeper. She’s had eight years
to shoot him in if she wanted to. I wonder who these Parkers are? They’re not
a prepossessing-looking couple.”
Miss Clegg appeared at this juncture. She was a thin, gaunt woman with
neat grey hair parted in the middle, very staid and calm in manner.
Nevertheless there was an air of efficiency about her which commanded
respect. In answer to Japp’s questions, she explained that she had been with
the dead man for fourteen years. He had been a generous and considerate
master. She had never seen Mr. and Mrs. Parker until three days ago, when
they arrived unexpectedly to stay. She was of the opinion that they had asked
themselves—the master had certainly not seemed pleased to see them. The
cuff-links which Japp showed her had not belonged to Mr. Protheroe—she
was sure of that. Questioned about the pistol, she said that she believed her
master had a weapon of that kind. He kept it locked up. She had seen it once
some years ago, but could not say whether this was the same one. She had
heard no shot last night, but that was not surprising, as it was a big, rambling
house, and her rooms and those prepared for the Parkers were at the other end
of the building. She did not know what time Mr. Protheroe had gone to bed—
he was still up when she retired at half past nine. It was not his habit to go at
once to bed when he went to his room. Usually he would sit up half the night,
reading and smoking. He was a great smoker.
Then Poirot interposed a question:
“Did your master sleep with his window open or shut, as a rule?”
Miss Clegg considered.
“It was usually open, at any rate at the top.”
“Yet now it is closed. Can you explain that?”
“No, unless he felt a draught and shut it.”
Japp asked her a few more questions and then dismissed her. Next he
interviewed the Parkers separately. Mrs. Parker was inclined to be hysterical
and tearful; Mr. Parker was full of bluster and abuse. He denied that the cufflink was his, but as his wife had previously recognized it, this hardly
improved matters for him; and as he had also denied ever having been in
Protheroe’s room, Japp considered that he had sufficient evidence to apply for
a warrant.
Leaving Pollard in charge, Japp bustled back to the village and got into
telephonic communication with headquarters. Poirot and I strolled back to the
inn.
“You’re unusually quiet,” I said. “Doesn’t the case interest you?”
“Au contraire, it interests me enormously. But it puzzles me also.”
“The motive is obscure,” I said thoughtfully, “but I’m certain that Parker’s
a bad lot. The case against him seems pretty clear but for the lack of motive,
and that may come out later.”
“Nothing struck you as being especially significant, although overlooked
by Japp?”
I looked at him curiously.
“What have you got up your sleeve, Poirot?”
“What did the dead man have up his sleeve?”
“Oh, that handkerchief!”
“Exactly, that handkerchief.”
“A sailor carries his handkerchief in his sleeve,” I said thoughtfully.
“An excellent point, Hastings, though not the one I had in mind.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, over and over again I go back to the smell of cigarette smoke.”
“I didn’t smell any,” I cried wonderingly.
“No more did I, cher ami.”
I looked earnestly at him. It is so difficult to know when Poirot is pulling
one’s leg, but he seemed thoroughly in earnest and was frowning to himself.
II
The inquest took place two days later. In the meantime other evidence had
come to light. A tramp had admitted that he had climbed over the wall into the
Leigh House garden, where he often slept in a shed that was left unlocked. He
declared that at twelve o’clock he had heard two men quarrelling loudly in a
room on the first floor. One was demanding a sum of money; the other was
angrily refusing. Concealed behind a bush, he had seen the two men as they
passed and repassed the lighted window. One he knew well as being Mr.
Protheroe, the owner of the house; the other he identified positively as Mr.
Parker.
It was clear now that the Parkers had come to Leigh House to blackmail
Protheroe, and when later it was discovered that the dead man’s real name
was Wendover, and that he had been a lieutenant in the Navy and had been
concerned in the blowing up of the first-class cruiser Merrythought, in 1910,
the case seemed to be rapidly clearing. It was supposed that Parker, cognizant
of the part Wendover had played, had tracked him down and demanded hush
money which the other refused to pay. In the course of the quarrel, Wendover
drew his revolver, and Parker snatched it from him and shot him,
subsequently endeavouring to give it the appearance of suicide.
Parker was committed for trial, reserving his defence. We had attended the
police-court proceedings. As we left, Poirot nodded his head.
“It must be so,” he murmured to himself. “Yes, it must be so. I will delay
no longer.”
He went into the post office, and wrote off a note which he despatched by
special messenger. I did not see to whom it was addressed. Then we returned
to the inn where we had stayed on that memorable weekend.
Poirot was restless, going to and from the window.
“I await a visitor,” he explained. “It cannot be—surely it cannot be that I
am mistaken? No, here she is.”
To my utter astonishment, in another minute Miss Clegg walked into the
room. She was less calm than usual, and was breathing hard as though she
had been running. I saw the fear in her eyes as she looked at Poirot.
“Sit down, mademoiselle,” he said kindly. “I guessed rightly, did I not?”
For answer she burst into tears.
“Why did you do it?” asked Poirot gently. “Why?”
“I loved him so,” she answered. “I was nursemaid to him when he was a
little boy. Oh, be merciful to me!”
“I will do all I can. But you understand that I cannot permit an innocent
man to hang—even though he is an unpleasing scoundrel.”
She sat up and said in a low voice: “Perhaps in the end I could not have,
either. Do whatever must be done.”
Then, rising, she hurried from the room.
“Did she shoot him?” I asked utterly bewildered.
Poirot smiled and shook his head.
“He shot himself. Do you remember that he carried his handkerchief in his
right sleeve? That showed me that he was left-handed. Fearing exposure, after
his stormy interview with Mr. Parker, he shot himself. In the morning Miss
Clegg came to call him as usual and found him lying dead. As she has just
told us, she had known him from a little boy upward, and was filled with fury
against the Parkers, who had driven him to this shameful death. She regarded
them as murderers, and then suddenly she saw a chance of making them
suffer for the deed they had inspired. She alone knew that he was left-handed.
She changed the pistol to his right hand, closed and bolted the window,
dropped the bit of cuff-link she had picked up in one of the downstairs rooms,
and went out, locking the door and removing the key.”
“Poirot,” I said, in a burst of enthusiasm, “you are magnificent. All that
from the one little clue of the handkerchief.”
“And the cigarette smoke. If the window had been closed, and all those
cigarettes smoked, the room ought to have been full of stale tobacco. Instead,
it was perfectly fresh, so I deduced at once that the window must have been
open all night, and only closed in the morning, and that gave me a very
interesting line of speculation. I could conceive of no circumstances under
which a murderer could want to shut the window. It would be to his advantage
to leave it open, and pretend that the murderer had escaped that way, if the
theory of suicide did not go down. Of course, the tramp’s evidence, when I
heard it, confirmed my suspicions. He could never have overheard that
conversation unless the window had been open.”
“Splendid!” I said heartily. “Now, what about some tea?”
“Spoken like a true Englishman,” said Poirot with a sigh. “I suppose it is
not likely that I could obtain here a glass of sirop?”
Seventeen
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ITALIAN NOBLEMAN
“The Adventure of the Italian Nobleman” was first published in The Sketch, October 24,
1923.
Poirot and I had many friends and acquaintances of an informal nature.
Amongst these was to be numbered Dr. Hawker, a near neighbour of ours, and
a member of the medical profession. It was the genial doctor’s habit to drop in
sometimes of an evening and have a chat with Poirot, of whose genius he was
an ardent admirer. The doctor himself, frank and unsuspicious to the last
degree, admired the talents so far removed from his own.
On one particular evening in early June, he arrived about half past eight
and settled down to a comfortable discussion on the cheery topic of the
prevalence of arsenical poisoning in crimes. It must have been about a quarter
of an hour later when the door of our sitting room flew open, and a distracted
female precipitated herself into the room.
“Oh, doctor, you’re wanted! Such a terrible voice. It gave me a turn, it did
indeed.”
I recognized in our new visitor Dr. Hawker’s housekeeper, Miss Rider.
The doctor was a bachelor, and lived in a gloomy old house a few streets
away. The usually placid Miss Rider was now in a state bordering on
incoherence.
“What terrible voice? Who is it, and what’s the trouble?”
“It was the telephone, doctor. I answered it—and a voice spoke. ‘Help,’ it
said. ‘Doctor—help. They’ve killed me!’ Then it sort of tailed away. ‘Who’s
speaking?’ I said. ‘Who’s speaking?’ Then I got a reply, just a whisper, it
seemed, ‘Foscatine’—something like that—‘Regent’s Court.’ ”
The doctor uttered an exclamation.
“Count Foscatini. He has a flat in Regent’s Court. I must go at once. What
can have happened?”
“A patient of yours?” asked Poirot.
“I attended him for some slight ailment a few weeks ago. An Italian, but
he speaks English perfectly. Well, I must wish you good night, Monsieur
Poirot, unless—” He hesitated.
“I perceive the thought in your mind,” said Poirot, smiling. “I shall be
delighted to accompany you. Hastings, run down and get hold of a taxi.”
Taxis always make themselves sought for when one is particularly pressed
for time, but I captured one at last, and we were soon bowling along in the
direction of Regent’s Park. Regent’s Court was a new block of flats, situated
just off St. John’s Wood Road. They had only recently been built, and
contained the latest service devices.
There was no one in the hall. The doctor pressed the lift bell impatiently,
and when the lift arrived questioned the uniformed attendant sharply.
“Flat 11. Count Foscatini. There’s been an accident there, I understand.”
The man stared at him.
“First I’ve heard of it. Mr. Graves—that’s Count Foscatini’s man—went
out about half an hour ago, and he said nothing.”
“Is the Count alone in the flat?”
“No, sir, he’s got two gentlemen dining with him.”
“What are they like?” I asked eagerly.
We were in the lift now, ascending rapidly to the second floor, on which
Flat 11 was situated.
“I didn’t see them myself, sir, but I understand that they were foreign
gentlemen.”
He pulled back the iron door, and we stepped out on the landing. No. 11
was opposite to us. The doctor rang the bell. There was no reply, and we
could hear no sound from within. The doctor rang again and again; we could
hear the bell trilling within, but no sign of life rewarded us.
“This is getting serious,” muttered the doctor. He turned to the lift
attendant.
“Is there any passkey to this door?”
“There is one in the porter’s office downstairs.”
“Get it, then, and, look here, I think you’d better send for the police.”
Poirot approved with a nod of the head.
The man returned shortly; with him came the manager.
“Will you tell me, gentlemen, what is the meaning of all this?”
“Certainly. I received a telephone message from Count Foscatini stating
that he had been attacked and was dying. You can understand that we must
lose no time—if we are not already too late.”
The manager produced the key without more ado, and we all entered the
flat.
We passed first into the small square lounge hall. A door on the right of it
was half open. The manager indicated it with a nod.
“The dining room.”
Dr. Hawker led the way. We followed close on his heels. As we entered
the room I gave a gasp. The round table in the centre bore the remains of a
meal; three chairs were pushed back, as though their occupants had just risen.
In the corner, to the right of the fireplace, was a big writing table, and sitting
at it was a man—or what had been a man. His right hand still grasped the base
of the telephone, but he had fallen forward, struck down by a terrific blow on
the head from behind. The weapon was not far to seek. A marble statue stood
where it had been hurriedly put down, the base of it stained with blood.
The doctor’s examination did not take a minute. “Stone dead. Must have
been almost instantaneous. I wonder he even managed to telephone. It will be
better not to move him until the police arrive.”
On the manager’s suggestion we searched the flat, but the result was a
foregone conclusion. It was not likely that the murderers would be concealed
there when all they had to do was to walk out.
We came back to the dining room. Poirot had not accompanied us in our
tour. I found him studying the centre table with close attention. I joined him.
It was a well-polished round mahogany table. A bowl of roses decorated the
centre, and white lace mats reposed on the gleaming surface. There was a dish
of fruit, but the three dessert plates were untouched. There were three coffee
cups with remains of coffee in them—two black, one with milk. All three men
had taken port, and the decanter, half full, stood before the centre plate. One
of the men had smoked a cigar, the other two cigarettes. A tortoiseshell-andsilver box, holding cigars and cigarettes, stood open upon the table.
I enumerated all these facts to myself, but I was forced to admit that they
did not shed any brilliant light on the situation. I wondered what Poirot saw in
them to make him so intent. I asked him.
“Mon ami,” he replied, “you miss the point. I am looking for something
that I do not see.”
“What is that?”
“A mistake—even a little mistake—on the part of the murderer.”
He stepped swiftly to the small adjoining kitchen, looked in, and shook
his head.
“Monsieur,” he said to the manager, “explain to me, I pray, your system of
serving meals here.”
The manager stepped to a small hatch in the wall.
“This is the service lift,” he explained. “It runs to the kitchens at the top of
the building. You order through this telephone, and the dishes are sent down
in the lift, one course at a time. The dirty plates and dishes are sent up in the
same manner. No domestic worries, you understand, and at the same time you
avoid the wearying publicity of always dining in a restaurant.”
Poirot nodded.
“Then the plates and dishes that were used tonight are on high in the
kitchen. You permit that I mount there?”
“Oh, certainly, if you like! Roberts, the lift man, will take you up and
introduce you; but I’m afraid you won’t find anything that’s of any use.
They’re handling hundreds of plates and dishes, and they’ll be all lumped
together.”
Poirot remained firm, however, and together we visited the kitchens and
questioned the man who had taken the order from Flat 11.
“The order was given from the à la carte menu—for three,” he explained.
“Soup julienne, filet de sole normande, tournedos of beef, and a rice soufflé.
What time? Just about eight o’clock, I should say. No, I’m afraid the plates
and dishes have been all washed up by now. Unfortunate. You were thinking
of fingerprints, I suppose?”
“Not exactly,” said Poirot, with an enigmatical smile. “I am more
interested in Count Foscatini’s appetite. Did he partake of every dish?”
“Yes; but of course I can’t say how much of each he ate. The plates were
all soiled, and the dishes empty—that is to say, with the exception of the rice
soufflé. There was a fair amount of that left.”
“Ah!” said Poirot, and seemed satisfied with the fact.
As we descended to the flat again he remarked in a low tone:
“We have decidedly to do with a man of method.”
“Do you mean the murderer, or Count Foscatini?”
“The latter was undoubtedly an orderly gentleman. After imploring help
and announcing his approaching demise, he carefully hung up the telephone
receiver.”
I stared at Poirot. His words now and his recent inquiries gave me the
glimmering of an idea.
“You suspect poison?” I breathed. “The blow on the head was a blind.”
Poirot merely smiled.
We reentered the flat to find the local inspector of police had arrived with
two constables. He was inclined to resent our appearance, but Poirot calmed
him with the mention of our Scotland Yard friend, Inspector Japp, and we
were accorded a grudging permission to remain. It was a lucky thing we were,
for we had not been back five minutes before an agitated middle-aged man
came rushing into the room with every appearance of grief and agitation.
This was Graves, valet-butler to the late Count Foscatini. The story he had
to tell was a sensational one.
On the previous morning, two gentlemen had called to see his master.
They were Italians, and the elder of the two, a man of about forty, gave his
name as Signor Ascanio. The younger was a well-dressed lad of about
twenty-four.
Count Foscatini was evidently prepared for their visit and immediately
sent Graves out upon some trivial errand. Here the man paused and hesitated
in his story. In the end, however, he admitted that, curious as to the purport of
the interview, he had not obeyed immediately, but had lingered about
endeavouring to hear something of what was going on.
The conversation was carried on in so low a tone that he was not as
successful as he had hoped; but he gathered enough to make it clear that some
kind of monetary proposition was being discussed, and that the basis of it was
a threat. The discussion was anything but amicable. In the end, Count
Foscatini raised his voice slightly, and the listener heard these words clearly:
“I have no time to argue further now, gentlemen. If you will dine with
me tomorrow night at eight o’clock, we will resume the discussion.”
Afraid of being discovered listening, Graves had then hurried out to do his
master’s errand. This evening the two men had arrived punctually at eight.
During dinner they had talked of indifferent matters—politics, the weather,
and the theatrical world. When Graves had placed the port upon the table and
brought in the coffee his master told him that he might have the evening off.
“Was that a usual proceeding of his when he had guests?” asked the
inspector.
“No, sir; it wasn’t. That’s what made me think it must be some business of
a very unusual kind that he was going to discuss with these gentlemen.”
That finished Graves’s story. He had gone out about 8:30, and meeting a
friend, had accompanied him to the Metropolitan Music Hall in Edgware
Road.
Nobody had seen the two men leave, but the time of the murder was fixed
clearly enough at 8:47. A small clock on the writing-table had been swept off
by Foscatini’s arm, and had stopped at that hour, which agreed with Miss
Rider’s telephone summons.
The police surgeon had made his examination of the body, and it was now
lying on the couch. I saw the face for the first time—the olive complexion,
the long nose, the luxuriant black moustache, and the full red lips drawn back
from the dazzlingly white teeth. Not altogether a pleasant face.
“Well,” said the inspector, refastening his notebook. “The case seems
clear enough. The only difficulty will be to lay our hands on this Signor
Ascanio. I suppose his address is not in the dead man’s pocketbook by any
chance?”
As Poirot had said, the late Foscatini was an orderly man. Neatly written
in small, precise handwriting was the inscription, “Signor Paolo Ascanio,
Grosvenor Hotel.”
The inspector busied himself with the telephone, then turned to us with a
grin.
“Just in time. Our fine gentleman was off to catch the boat train to the
Continent. Well, gentlemen, that’s about all we can do here. It’s a bad
business, but straightforward enough. One of these Italian vendetta things, as
likely as not.”
Thus airily dismissed, we found our way downstairs. Dr. Hawker was full
of excitement.
“Like the beginning of a novel, eh? Real exciting stuff. Wouldn’t believe
it if you read about it.”
Poirot did not speak. He was very thoughtful. All the evening he had
hardly opened his lips.
“What says the master detective, eh?” asked Hawker, clapping him on the
back. “Nothing to work your grey cells over this time.”
“You think not?”
“What could there be?”
“Well, for example, there is the window.”
“The window? But it was fastened. Nobody could have got out or in that
way. I noticed it specially.”
“And why were you able to notice it?”
The doctor looked puzzled. Poirot hastened to explain.
“It is to the curtains that I refer. They were not drawn. A little odd, that.
And then there was the coffee. It was very black coffee.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Very black,” repeated Poirot. “In conjunction with that let us remember
that very little of the rice soufflé was eaten, and we get—what?”
“Moonshine,” laughed the doctor. “You’re pulling my leg.”
“Never do I pull the leg. Hastings here knows that I am perfectly serious.”
“I don’t know what you are getting at, all the same,” I confessed. “You
don’t suspect the manservant, do you? He might have been in with the gang,
and put some dope in the coffee. I suppose they’ll test his alibi?”
“Without doubt, my friend; but it is the alibi of Signor Ascanio that
interests me.”
“You think he has an alibi?”
“That is just what worries me. I have no doubt that we shall soon be
enlightened on that point.”
The Daily Newsmonger enabled us to become conversant with succeeding
events.
Signor Ascanio was arrested and charged with the murder of Count
Foscatini. When arrested, he denied knowing the Count, and declared he had
never been near Regent’s Court either on the evening of the crime or on the
previous morning. The younger man had disappeared entirely. Signor Ascanio
had arrived alone at the Grosvenor Hotel from the Continent two days before
the murder. All efforts to trace the second man failed.
Ascanio, however, was not sent for trial. No less a personage than the
Italian Ambassador himself came forward and testified at the police court
proceedings that Ascanio had been with him at the Embassy from eight till
nine that evening. The prisoner was discharged. Naturally, a lot of people
thought that the crime was a political one, and was being deliberately hushed
up.
Poirot had taken a keen interest in all these points. Nevertheless, I was
somewhat surprised when he suddenly informed me one morning that he was
expecting a visitor at eleven o’clock, and that the visitor was none other than
Ascanio himself.
“He wishes to consult you?”
“Du tout, Hastings, I wish to consult him.”
“What about?”
“The Regent’s Court murder.”
“You are going to prove that he did it?”
“A man cannot be tried twice for murder, Hastings. Endeavour to have the
common sense. Ah, that is our friend’s ring.”
A few minutes later Signor Ascanio was ushered in—a small, thin man
with a secretive and furtive glance in his eyes. He remained standing, darting
suspicious glances from one to the other of us.
“Monsieur Poirot?”
My little friend tapped himself gently on the chest.
“Be seated, signor. You received my note. I am determined to get to the
bottom of this mystery. In some small measure you can aid me. Let us
commence. You—in company with a friend—visited the late Count Foscatini
on the morning of Tuesday the 9th—”
The Italian made an angry gesture.
“I did nothing of the sort. I have sworn in court—”
“Précisément—and I have a little idea that you have sworn falsely.”
“You threaten me? Bah! I have nothing to fear from you. I have been
acquitted.”
“Exactly; and as I am not an imbecile, it is not with the gallows I threaten
you—but with publicity. Publicity! I see that you do not like the word. I had
an idea that you would not. My little ideas, you know, they are very valuable
to me. Come, signor, your only chance is to be frank with me. I do not ask to
know whose indiscretions brought you to England. I know this much, you
came for the special purpose of seeing Count Foscatini.”
“He was not a count,” growled the Italian.
“I have already noted the fact that his name does not appear in the
Almanach de Gotha. Never mind, the title of count is often useful in the
profession of blackmailing.”
“I suppose I might as well be frank. You seem to know a good deal.”
“I have employed my grey cells to some advantage. Come, Signor
Ascanio, you visited the dead man on the Tuesday morning—that is so, is it
not?”
“Yes; but I never went there on the following evening. There was no need.
I will tell you all. Certain information concerning a man of great position in
Italy had come into this scoundrel’s possession. He demanded a big sum of
money in return for the papers. I came over to England to arrange the matter. I
called upon him by appointment that morning. One of the young secretaries of
the Embassy was with me. The Count was more reasonable than I had hoped,
although even then the sum of money I paid him was a huge one.”
“Pardon, how was it paid?”
“In Italian notes of comparatively small denomination. I paid over the
money then and there. He handed me the incriminating papers. I never saw
him again.”
“Why did you not say all this when you were arrested?”
“In my delicate position I was forced to deny any association with the
man.”
“And how do you account for the events of the evening then?”
“I can only think that someone must have deliberately impersonated me. I
understand that no money was found in the flat.”
Poirot looked at him and shook his head.
“Strange,” he murmured. “We all have the little grey cells. And so few of
us know how to use them. Good morning, Signor Ascanio. I believe your
story. It is very much as I had imagined. But I had to make sure.”
After bowing his guest out, Poirot returned to his armchair and smiled at
me.
“Let us hear M. le Capitaine Hastings on the case.”
“Well, I suppose Ascanio is right—somebody impersonated him.”
“Never, never will you use the brains the good God has given you. Recall
to yourself some words I uttered after leaving the flat that night. I referred to
the window curtains not being drawn. We are in the month of June. It is still
light at eight o’clock. The light is failing by half past. Ça vous dit quelque
chose? I perceive a struggling impression that you will arrive some day. Now
let us continue. The coffee was, as I said, very black. Count Foscatini’s teeth
were magnificently white. Coffee stains the teeth. We reason from that that
Count Foscatini did not drink any coffee. Yet there was coffee in all three
cups. Why should anyone pretend Count Foscatini had drunk coffee when he
had not done so?”
I shook my head, utterly bewildered.
“Come, I will help you. What evidence have we that Ascanio and his
friend, or two men posing as them, ever came to the flat that night? Nobody
saw them go in; nobody saw them go out. We have the evidence of one man
and of a host of inanimate objects.”
“You mean?”
“I mean knives and forks and plates and empty dishes. Ah, but it was a
clever idea! Graves is a thief and a scoundrel, but what a man of method! He
overhears a portion of the conversation in the morning, enough to realize that
Ascanio will be in an awkward position to defend himself. The following
evening, about eight o’clock, he tells his master he is wanted at the telephone.
Foscatini sits down, stretches out his hand to the telephone, and from behind
Graves strikes him down with the marble figure. Then quickly to the service
telephone—dinner for three! It comes, he lays the table, dirties the plates,
knives, and forks, etc. But he has to get rid of the food too. Not only is he a
man of brain; he has a resolute and capacious stomach! But after eating three
tournedos, the rice soufflé is too much for him! He even smokes a cigar and
two cigarettes to carry out the illusion. Ah, but it was magnificently thorough!
Then, having moved on the hands of the clock to 8:47, he smashes it and
stops it. The one thing he does not do is to draw the curtains. But if there had
been a real dinner party the curtains would have been drawn as soon as the
light began to fail. Then he hurries out, mentioning the guests to the lift man
in passing. He hurries to a telephone box, and as near as possible to 8:47 rings
up the doctor with his master’s dying cry. So successful is his idea that no one
ever inquires if a call was put through from Flat 11 at that time.”
“Except Hercule Poirot, I suppose?” I said sarcastically.
“Not even Hercule Poirot,” said my friend, with a smile. “I am about to
inquire now. I had to prove my point to you first. But you will see, I shall be
right; and then Japp, to whom I have already given a hint, will be able to
arrest the respectable Graves. I wonder how much of the money he has
spent.”
Poirot was right. He always is, confound him!
Eighteen
THE CASE OF THE MISSING WILL
“The Case of the Missing Will” was first published in The Sketch, October 31, 1923.
The problem presented to us by Miss Violet Marsh made rather a pleasant
change from our usual routine work. Poirot had received a brisk and
businesslike note from the lady asking for an appointment, and had replied
asking her to call upon him at eleven o’clock the following day.
She arrived punctually—a tall, handsome young woman, plainly but
neatly dressed, with an assured and businesslike manner. Clearly a young
woman who meant to get on in the world. I am not a great admirer of the socalled New Woman myself, and, in spite of her good looks, I was not
particularly prepossessed in her favour.
“My business is of a somewhat unusual nature, Monsieur Poirot,” she
began, after she had accepted a chair. “I had better begin at the beginning and
tell you the whole story.”
“If you please, mademoiselle.”
“I am an orphan. My father was one of two brothers, sons of a small
yeoman farmer in Devonshire. The farm was a poor one, and the elder
brother, Andrew, emigrated to Australia, where he did very well indeed, and
by means of successful speculation in land became a very rich man. The
younger brother, Roger (my father), had no leanings towards the agricultural
life. He managed to educate himself a little, and obtained a post as clerk with
a small firm. He married slightly above him; my mother was the daughter of a
poor artist. My father died when I was six years old. When I was fourteen, my
mother followed him to the grave. My only living relation then was my uncle
Andrew, who had recently returned from Australia and bought a small place,
Crabtree Manor, in his native county. He was exceedingly kind to his
brother’s orphan child, took me to live with him, and treated me in every way
as though I was his own daughter.
“Crabtree Manor, in spite of its name, is really only an old farmhouse.
Farming was in my uncle’s blood, and he was intensely interested in various
modern farming experiments. Although kindness itself to me, he had certain
peculiar and deeply-rooted ideas as to the upbringing of women. Himself a
man of little or no education, though possessing remarkable shrewdness, he
placed little value on what he called ‘book knowledge.’ He was especially
opposed to the education of women. In his opinion, girls should learn
practical housework and dairy work, be useful about the home, and have as
little to do with book learning as possible. He proposed to bring me up on
these lines, to my bitter disappointment and annoyance. I rebelled frankly. I
knew that I possessed a good brain, and had absolutely no talent for domestic
duties. My uncle and I had many bitter arguments on the subject, for, though
much attached to each other, we were both self-willed. I was lucky enough to
win a scholarship, and up to a certain point was successful in getting my own
way. The crisis arose when I resolved to go to Girton. I had a little money of
my own, left me by my mother, and I was quite determined to make the best
use of the gifts God had given me. I had one long, final argument with my
uncle. He put the facts plainly before me. He had no other relations, and he
had intended me to be his sole heiress. As I have told you, he was a very rich
man. If I persisted in these ‘newfangled notions’ of mine, however, I need
look for nothing from him. I remained polite, but firm. I should always be
deeply attached to him, I told him, but I must lead my own life. We parted on
that note. ‘You fancy your brains, my girl,’ were his last words. ‘I’ve no book
learning, but, for all that, I’ll pit mine against yours any day. We’ll see what
we shall see.’
“That was nine years ago. I have stayed with him for a weekend
occasionally, and our relations were perfectly amicable, though his views
remained unaltered. He never referred to my having matriculated, nor to my
BSc. For the last three years his health had been failing, and a month ago he
died.
“I am now coming to the point of my visit. My uncle left a most
extraordinary will. By its terms, Crabtree Manor and its contents are to be at
my disposal for a year from his death—‘during which time my clever niece
may prove her wits,’ the actual words run. At the end of that period, ‘my wits
having been proved better than hers,’ the house and all my uncle’s large
fortune pass to various charitable institutions.”
“That is a little hard on you, mademoiselle, seeing that you were Mr.
Marsh’s only blood relation.”
“I do not look on it in that way. Uncle Andrew warned me fairly, and I
chose my own path. Since I would not fall in with his wishes, he was at
perfect liberty to leave his money to whom he pleased.”
“Was the will drawn up by a lawyer?”
“No; it was written on a printed will form and witnessed by the man and
his wife who live at the house and do for my uncle.”
“There might be a possibility of upsetting such a will?”
“I would not even attempt to do such a thing.”
“You regard it then as a sporting challenge on the part of your uncle?”
“That is exactly how I look upon it.”
“It bears that interpretation, certainly,” said Poirot thoughtfully.
“Somewhere in this rambling old manor house your uncle has concealed
either a sum of money in notes or possibly a second will, and has given you a
year in which to exercise your ingenuity to find it.”
“Exactly, Monsieur Poirot; and I am paying you the compliment of
assuming that your ingenuity will be greater than mine.”
“Eh, eh! but that is very charming of you. My grey cells are at your
disposal. You have made no search yourself?”
“Only a cursory one; but I have too much respect for my uncle’s
undoubted abilities to fancy that the task will be an easy one.”
“Have you the will or a copy of it with you?”
Miss March handed a document across the table. Poirot ran through it,
nodding to himself.
“Made three years ago. Dated March 25; and the time is given also—11
a.m.—that is very suggestive. It narrows the field of search. Assuredly it is
another will we have to seek for. A will made even half an hour later would
upset this. Eh bien, mademoiselle, it is a problem charming and ingenious that
you have presented to me here. I shall have all the pleasure in the world in
solving it for you. Granted that your uncle was a man of ability, his grey cells
cannot have been of the quality of Hercule Poirot’s!”
(Really, Poirot’s vanity is blatant!)
“Fortunately, I have nothing of moment on hand at the minute. Hastings
and I will go down to Crabtree Manor tonight. The man and wife who
attended on your uncle are still there, I presume?”
“Yes, their name is Baker.”
II
The following morning saw us started on the hunt proper. We had arrived late
the night before. Mr. and Mrs. Baker, having received a telegram from Miss
Marsh, were expecting us. They were a pleasant couple, the man gnarled and
pink-cheeked, like a shrivelled pippin, and his wife a woman of vast
proportion and true Devonshire calm.
Tired with our journey and the eight-mile drive from the station, we had
retired at once to bed after a supper of roast chicken, apple pie, and
Devonshire cream. We had now disposed of an excellent breakfast, and were
sitting in a small panelled room which had been the late Mr. Marsh’s study
and living room. A rolltop desk stuffed with papers, all neatly docketed, stood
against the wall, and a big leather armchair showed plainly that it had been its
owner’s constant resting place. A big chintz-covered settee ran along the
opposite wall, and the deep low window seats were covered with the same
faded chintz of an old-fashioned pattern.
“Eh bien, mon ami,” said Poirot, lighting one of his tiny cigarettes, “we
must map out our plan of campaign. Already I have made a rough survey of
the house, but I am of the opinion that any clue will be found in this room. We
shall have to go through the documents in the desk with meticulous care.
Naturally, I do not expect to find the will amongst them, but it is likely that
some apparently innocent paper may conceal the clue to its hiding place. But
first we must have a little information. Ring the bell, I pray of you.”
I did so. While we were waiting for it to be answered, Poirot walked up
and down, looking about him approvingly.
“A man of method, this Mr. Marsh. See how neatly the packets of papers
are docketed; then the key to each drawer has its ivory label—so has the key
of the china cabinet on the wall; and see with what precision the china within
is arranged. It rejoices the heart. Nothing here offends the eye—”
He came to an abrupt pause, as his eye was caught by the key of the desk
itself, to which a dirty envelope was affixed. Poirot frowned at it and
withdrew it from the lock. On it were scrawled the words: “Key of Roll Top
Desk,” in a crabbed handwriting, quite unlike the neat superscriptions on the
other keys.
“An alien note,” said Poirot, frowning. “I could swear that here we have
no longer the personality of Mr. Marsh. But who else has been in the house?
Only Miss Marsh, and she, if I mistake not, is also a young lady of method
and order.”
Baker came in answer to the bell.
“Will you fetch madame your wife, and answer a few questions?”
Baker departed, and in a few moments returned with Mrs. Baker, wiping
her hands on her apron and beaming all over her face.
In a few clear words Poirot set forth the object of his mission. The Bakers
were immediately sympathetic.
“Us don’t want to see Miss Violet done out of what’s hers,” declared the
woman. “Cruel hard ’twould be for hospitals to get it all.”
Poirot proceeded with his questions. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Baker remembered
perfectly witnessing the will. Baker had previously been sent into the
neighbouring town to get two printed will forms.
“Two?” said Poirot sharply.
“Yes, sir, for safety like, I suppose, in case he should spoil one—and sure
enough, so he did do. Us had signed one—”
“What time of day was that?”
Baker scratched his head, but his wife was quicker.
“Why, to be sure, I’d just put the milk on for the cocoa at eleven. Don’t ee
remember? It had all boiled over on the stove when us got back to kitchen.”
“And afterwards?”
“ ’Twould be about an hour later. Us had to go in again. ‘I’ve made a
mistake,’ said old master, ‘had to tear the whole thing up. I’ll trouble you to
sign again,’ and us did. And afterwards master gave us a tidy sum of money
each. ‘I’ve left you nothing in my will,’ says he, ‘but each year I live you’ll
have this to be a nest egg when I’m gone’: and sure enough, so he did.”
Poirot reflected.
“After you had signed the second time, what did Mr. Marsh do? Do you
know?”
“Went out to the village to pay tradesmen’s books.”
That did not seem very promising. Poirot tried another tack. He held out
the key of the desk.
“Is that your master’s writing?”
I may have imagined it, but I fancied that a moment or two elapsed before
Baker replied: “Yes, sir, it is.”
“He’s lying,” I thought. “But why?”
“Has your master let the house?—have there been any strangers in it
during the last three years?”
“No, sir.”
“No visitors?”
“Only Miss Violet.”
“No strangers of any kind been inside this room?”
“No, sir.”
“You forget the workmen, Jim,” his wife reminded him.
“Workmen?” Poirot wheeled round on her. “What workmen?”
The woman explained that about two years and a half ago workmen had
been in the house to do certain repairs. She was quite vague as to what the
repairs were. Her view seemed to be that the whole thing was a fad of her
master’s and quite unnecessary. Part of the time the workmen had been in the
study; but what they had done there she could not say, as her master had not
let either of them into the room whilst the work was in progress.
Unfortunately, they could not remember the name of the firm employed,
beyond the fact that it was a Plymouth one.
“We progress, Hastings,” said Poirot, rubbing his hands as the Bakers left
the room. “Clearly he made a second will and then had workmen from
Plymouth in to make a suitable hiding place. Instead of wasting time taking
up the floor and tapping the walls, we will go to Plymouth.”
With a little trouble, we were able to get the information we wanted. After
one or two essays we found the firm employed by Mr. Marsh.
Their employees had all been with them many years, and it was easy to
find the two men who had worked under Mr. Marsh’s orders. They
remembered the job perfectly. Amongst various other minor jobs, they had
taken up one of the bricks of the old-fashioned fireplace, made a cavity
beneath, and so cut the brick that it was impossible to see the join. By
pressing on the second brick from the end, the whole thing was raised. It had
been quite a complicated piece of work, and the old gentleman had been very
fussy about it. Our informant was a man called Coghan, a big, gaunt man with
a grizzled moustache. He seemed an intelligent fellow.
We returned to Crabtree Manor in high spirits, and, locking the study
door, proceeded to put our newly acquired knowledge into effect. It was
impossible to see any sign on the bricks, but when we pressed in the manner
indicated, a deep cavity was at once disclosed.
Eagerly Poirot plunged in his hand. Suddenly his face fell from
complacent elation to consternation. All he held was a charred fragment of
stiff paper. But for it, the cavity was empty.
“Sacre!” cried Poirot angrily. “Someone has been before us.”
We examined the scrap of paper anxiously. Clearly it was a fragment of
what we sought. A portion of Baker’s signature remained, but no indication of
what the terms of the will had been.
Poirot sat back on his heels. His expression would have been comical if
we had not been so overcome. “I understand it not,” he growled. “Who
destroyed this? And what was their object?”
“The Bakers?” I suggested.
“Pourquoi? Neither will makes any provision for them, and they are more
likely to be kept on with Miss Marsh than if the place became the property of
a hospital. How could it be to anyone’s advantage to destroy the will? The
hospitals benefit—yes; but one cannot suspect institutions.”
“Perhaps the old man changed his mind and destroyed it himself,” I
suggested.
Poirot rose to his feet, dusting his knees with his usual care.
“That may be,” he admitted, “one of your more sensible observations,
Hastings. Well, we can do no more here. We have done all that mortal man
can do. We have successfully pitted our wits against the late Andrew Marsh’s;
but, unfortunately, his niece is not better off for our success.”
By driving to the station at once, we were just able to catch a train to
London, though not the principal express. Poirot was sad and dissatisfied. For
my part, I was tired and dozed in a corner. Suddenly, as we were just moving
out of Taunton, Poirot uttered a piercing squeal.
“Vite, Hastings! Awake and jump! But jump I say!”
Before I knew where I was we were standing on the platform, bareheaded
and minus our valises, whilst the train disappeared into the night. I was
furious. But Poirot paid no attention.
“Imbecile that I have been!” he cried. “Triple imbecile! Not again will I
vaunt my little grey cells!”
“That’s a good job at any rate,” I said grumpily. “But what is this all
about?”
As usual, when following out his own ideas, Poirot paid absolutely no
attention to me.
“The tradesmen’s books—I have left them entirely out of account? Yes,
but where? Where? Never mind, I cannot be mistaken. We must return at
once.”
Easier said than done. We managed to get a slow train to Exeter, and there
Poirot hired a car. We arrived back at Crabtree Manor in the small hours of
the morning. I pass over the bewilderment of the Bakers when we had at last
aroused them. Paying no attention to anybody, Poirot strode at once to the
study.
“I have been, not a triple imbecile, but thirty-six times one, my friend,” he
deigned to remark. “Now, behold!”
Going straight to the desk he drew out the key, and detached the envelope
from it. I stared at him stupidly. How could he possibly hope to find a big will
form in that tiny envelope? With great care he cut open the envelope, laying it
out flat. Then he lighted the fire and held the plain inside surface of the
envelope to the flame. In a few minutes faint characters began to appear.
“Look, mon ami!” cried Poirot in triumph.
I looked. There were just a few lines of faint writing stating briefly that he
left everything to his niece, Violet Marsh. It was dated March 25 12:30 p.m.,
and witnessed by Albert Pike, confectioner, and Jessie Pike, married woman.
“But is it legal?” I gasped.
“As far as I know, there is no law against writing your will in a blend of
disappearing and sympathetic ink. The intention of the testator is clear, and
the beneficiary is his only living relation. But the cleverness of him! He
foresaw every step that a searcher would take—that I, miserable imbecile,
took. He gets two will forms, makes the servants sign twice, then sallies out
with his will written on the inside of a dirty envelope and a fountain pen
containing his little ink mixture. On some excuse he gets the confectioner and
his wife to sign their names under his own signature, then he ties it to the key
of his desk and chuckles to himself. If his niece sees through his little ruse,
she will have justified her choice of life and elaborate education and be
thoroughly welcome to his money.”
“She didn’t see through it, did she?” I said slowly. “It seems rather unfair.
The old man really won.”
“But no, Hastings. It is your wits that go astray. Miss Marsh proved the
astuteness of her wits and the value of the higher education for women by at
once putting the matter in my hands. Always employ the expert. She has
amply proved her right to the money.”
I wonder—I very much wonder—what old Andrew Marsh would have
thought!
Nineteen
THE INCREDIBLE THEFT
“The Incredible Theft” is an expanded version of the story “The Submarine Plans,” which was
first published in The Sketch, November 7, 1923.
As the butler handed round the soufflé, Lord Mayfield leaned confidentially
towards his neighbour on the right, Lady Julia Carrington. Known as a perfect
host, Lord Mayfield took trouble to live up to his reputation. Although
unmarried, he was always charming to women.
Lady Julia Carrington was a woman of forty, tall, dark and vivacious. She
was very thin, but still beautiful. Her hands and feet in particular were
exquisite. Her manner was abrupt and restless, that of a woman who lived on
her nerves.
About opposite to her at the round table sat her husband, Air Marshal Sir
George Carrington. His career had begun in the Navy, and he still retained the
bluff breeziness of the ex-Naval man. He was laughing and chaffing the
beautiful Mrs. Vanderlyn, who was sitting on the other side of her host.
Mrs. Vanderlyn was an extremely good-looking blonde. Her voice held a
soupçon of American accent, just enough to be pleasant without undue
exaggeration.
On the other side of Sir George Carrington sat Mrs. Macatta, M.P. Mrs.
Macatta was a great authority on Housing and Infant Welfare. She barked out
short sentences rather than spoke them, and was generally of somewhat
alarming aspect. It was perhaps natural that the Air Marshal would find his
right-hand neighbour the pleasanter to talk to.
Mrs. Macatta, who always talked shop wherever she was, barked out short
spates of information on her special subjects to her left-hand neighbour,
young Reggie Carrington.
Reggie Carrington was twenty-one, and completely uninterested in
Housing, Infant Welfare, and indeed any political subject. He said at intervals,
“How frightful!” and “I absolutely agree with you,” and his mind was clearly
elsewhere. Mr. Carlile, Lord Mayfield’s private secretary, sat between young
Reggie and his mother. A pale young man with pince-nez and an air of
intelligent reserve, he talked little, but was always ready to fling himself into
any conversational breach. Noticing that Reggie Carrington was struggling
with a yawn, he leaned forward and adroitly asked Mrs. Macatta a question
about her “Fitness for Children” scheme.
Round the table, moving silently in the subdued amber light, a butler and
two footmen offered dishes and filled up wine glasses. Lord Mayfield paid a
very high salary to his chef, and was noted as a connoisseur of wines.
The table was a round one, but there was no mistaking who was the host.
Where Lord Mayfield sat was so very decidedly the head of the table. A big
man, square-shouldered, with thick silvery hair, a big straight nose and a
slightly prominent chin. It was a face that lent itself easily to caricature. As
Sir Charles McLaughlin, Lord Mayfield had combined a political career with
being the head of a big engineering firm. He was himself a first-class
engineer. His peerage had come a year ago, and at the same time he had been
created first Minister of Armaments, a new ministry which had only just come
into being.
The dessert had been placed on the table. The port had circulated once.
Catching Mrs. Vanderlyn’s eye, Lady Julia rose. The three women left the
room.
The port passed once more, and Lord Mayfield referred lightly to
pheasants. The conversation for five minutes or so was sporting. Then Sir
George said:
“Expect you’d like to join the others in the drawing room, Reggie, my
boy. Lord Mayfield won’t mind.”
The boy took the hint easily enough.
“Thanks, Lord Mayfield, I think I will.”
Mr. Carlile mumured:
“If you’ll excuse me, Lord Mayfield—certain memoranda and other work
to get through. . . .”
Lord Mayfield nodded. The two young men left the room. The servants
had retired some time before. The Minister for Armaments and the head of
the Air Force were alone.
After a minute or two, Carrington said:
“Well—O.K.?”
“Absolutely! There’s nothing to touch this new bomber in any country in
Europe.”
“Make rings round ’em, eh? That’s what I thought.”
“Supremacy of the air,” said Lord Mayfield decisively.
Sir George Carrington gave a deep sigh.
“About time! You know, Charles, we’ve been through a ticklish spell.
Lots of gunpowder everywhere all over Europe. And we weren’t ready, damn
it! We’ve had a narrow squeak. And we’re not out of the wood yet, however
much we hurry on construction.”
Lord Mayfield murmured:
“Nevertheless, George, there are some advantages in starting late. A lot of
the European stuff is out of date already—and they’re perilously near
bankruptcy.”
“I don’t believe that means anything,” said Sir George gloomily. “One’s
always hearing this nation and that is bankrupt! But they carry on just the
same. You know, finance is an absolute mystery to me.”
Lord Mayfield’s eyes twinkled a little. Sir George Carrington was always
so very much the old-fashioned “bluff, honest old sea dog.” There were
people who said that it was a pose he deliberately adopted.
Changing the subject, Carrington said in a slightly overcasual manner:
“Attractive woman, Mrs. Vanderlyn—eh?”
Lord Mayfield said:
“Are you wondering what she’s doing here?”
His eyes were amused.
Carrington looked a little confused.
“Not at all—not at all.”
“Oh, yes, you were! Don’t be an old humbug, George. You were
wondering, in a slightly dismayed fashion, whether I was the latest victim!”
Carrington said slowly:
“I’ll admit that it did seem a trifle odd to me that she should be here—
well, this particular weekend.”
Lord Mayfield nodded.
“Where the carcass is, there are the vultures gathered together. We’ve got
a very definite carcass, and Mrs. Vanderlyn might be described as Vulture No.
1.”
The Air Marshal said abruptly:
“Know anything about this Vanderlyn woman?”
Lord Mayfield clipped off the end of a cigar, lit it with precision and,
throwing his head back, dropped out his words with careful deliberation.
“What do I know about Mrs. Vanderlyn? I know that she’s an American
subject. I know that she’s had three husbands, one Italian, one German and
one Russian, and that in consequence she has made useful what I think are
called ‘contacts’ in three countries. I know that she manages to buy very
expensive clothes and live in a very luxurious manner, and that there is some
slight uncertainty as to where the income comes from which permits her to do
so.”
With a grin, Sir George Carrington murmured:
“Your spies have not been inactive, Charles, I see.”
“I know,” Lord Mayfield continued, “that in addition to having a
seductive type of beauty, Mrs. Vanderlyn is also a very good listener, and that
she can display a fascinating interest in what we call ‘shop.’ That is to say, a
man can tell her all about his job and feel that he is being intensely interesting
to the lady! Sundry young officers have gone a little too far in their zeal to be
interesting, and their careers have suffered in consequence. They have told
Mrs. Vanderlyn a little more than they should have done. Nearly all the lady’s
friends are in the Services—but last winter she was hunting in a certain
county near one of our largest armament firms, and she formed various
friendships not at all sporting in character. To put it briefly, Mrs. Vanderlyn is
a very useful person to . . .” He described a circle in the air with his cigar.
“Perhaps we had better not say to whom! We will just say to a European
power—and perhaps to more than one European power.”
Carrington drew a deep breath.
“You take a great load off my mind, Charles.”
“You thought I had fallen for the siren? My dear George! Mrs. Vanderlyn
is just a little too obvious in her methods for a wary old bird like me. Besides,
she is, as they say, not quite so young as she once was. Your young squadron
leaders wouldn’t notice that. But I am fifty-six, my boy. In another four years
I shall probably be a nasty old man continually haunting the society of
unwilling debutantes.”
“I was a fool,” said Carrington apologetically, “but it seemed a bit odd—”
“It seemed to you odd that she should be here, in a somewhat intimate
family party just at the moment when you and I were to hold an unofficial
conference over a discovery that will probably revolutionize the whole
problem of air defence?”
Sir George Carrington nodded.
Lord Mayfield said, smiling:
“That’s exactly it. That’s the bait.”
“The bait?”
“You see, George, to use the language of the movies, we’ve nothing
actually ‘on’ the woman. And we want something! She’s got away with rather
more than she should in the past. But she’s been careful—damnably careful.
We know what she’s been up to, but we’ve got no definite proof of it. We’ve
got to tempt her with something big.”
“Something big being the specification of the new bomber?”
“Exactly. It’s got to be something big enough to induce her to take a risk
—to come out into the open. And then—we’ve got her!”
Sir George grunted.
“Oh, well,” he said. “I dare say it’s all right. But suppose she won’t take
the risk?”
“That would be a pity,” said Lord Mayfield. Then he added: “But I think
she will. . . .”
He rose.
“Shall we join the ladies in the drawing room? We mustn’t deprive your
wife of her bridge.”
Sir George grunted:
“Julia’s a damned sight too fond of her bridge. Drops a packet over it. She
can’t afford to play as high as she does, and I’ve told her so. The trouble is,
Julia’s a born gambler.”
Coming round the table to join his host, he said:
“Well, I hope your plan comes off, Charles.”
II
In the drawing room conversation had flagged more than once. Mrs.
Vanderlyn was usually at a disadvantage when left alone with members of her
own sex. That charming sympathetic manner of hers, so much appreciated by
members of the male sex, did not for some reason or other commend itself to
women. Lady Julia was a woman whose manners were either very good or
very bad. On this occasion she disliked Mrs. Vanderlyn, and was bored by
Mrs. Macatta, and made no secret of her feelings. Conversation languished,
and might have ceased altogether but for the latter.
Mrs. Macatta was a woman of great earnestness of purpose. Mrs.
Vanderlyn she dismissed immediately as a useless and parasitic type. Lady
Julia she tried to interest in a forthcoming charity entertainment which she
was organizing. Lady Julia answered vaguely, stifled a yawn or two and
retired into her own inner preoccupation. Why didn’t Charles and George
come? How tiresome men were. Her comments became even more
perfunctory as she became absorbed in her own thoughts and worries.
The three women were sitting in silence when the men finally entered the
room.
Lord Mayfield thought to himself:
“Julia looks ill tonight. What a mass of nerves the woman is.”
Aloud he said:
“What about a rubber—eh?”
Lady Julia brightened at once. Bridge was as the breath of life to her.
Reggie Carrington entered the room at that minute, and a four was
arranged. Lady Julia, Mrs. Vanderlyn, Sir George and young Reggie sat down
to the card table. Lord Mayfield devoted himself to the task of entertaining
Mrs. Macatta.
When two rubbers had been played, Sir George looked ostentatiously at
the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Hardly worth while beginning another,” he remarked.
His wife looked annoyed.
“It’s only a quarter to eleven. A short one.”
“They never are, my dear,” said Sir George good-temperedly. “Anyway,
Charles and I have some work to do.”
Mrs. Vanderlyn murmured:
“How important that sounds! I suppose you clever men who are at the top
of things never get a real rest.”
“No forty-eight hour week for us,” said Sir George.
Mrs. Vanderlyn murmured:
“You know, I feel rather ashamed of myself as a raw American, but I do
get so thrilled at meeting people who control the destinies of a country. I
expect that seems a very crude point of view to you, Sir George.”
“My dear Mrs. Vanderlyn, I should never think of you as ‘crude’ or ‘raw.’
”
He smiled into her eyes. There was, perhaps, a hint of irony in the voice
which she did not miss. Adroitly she turned to Reggie, smiling sweetly into
his eyes.
“I’m sorry we’re not continuing our partnership. That was a frightfully
clever four no-trump call of yours.”
Flushed and pleased, Reggie mumbled:
“Bit of a fluke that it came off.”
“Oh, no, it was really a clever bit of deduction on your part. You’d
deduced from the bidding exactly where the cards must be, and you played
accordingly. I thought it was brilliant.”
Lady Julia rose abruptly.
“The woman lays it on with a palette knife,” she thought disgustedly.
Then her eyes softened as they rested on her son. He believed it all. How
pathetically young and pleased he looked. How incredibly naïve he was. No
wonder he got into scrapes. He was too trusting. The truth of it was he had too
sweet a nature. George didn’t understand him in the least. Men were so
unsympathetic in their judgments. They forgot that they had ever been young
themselves. George was much too harsh with Reggie.
Mrs. Macatta had risen. Goodnights were said.
The three women went out of the room. Lord Mayfield helped himself to
a drink after giving one to Sir George, then he looked up as Mr. Carlile
appeared at the door.
“Get out the files and all the papers, will you, Carlile? Including the plans
and the prints. The Air Marshal and I will be along shortly. We’ll just take a
turn outside first, eh, George? It’s stopped raining.”
Mr. Carlile, turning to depart, murmured an apology as he almost collided
with Mrs. Vanderlyn.
She drifted towards them, murmuring:
“My book, I was reading it before dinner.”
Reggie sprang forward and held up a book.
“Is this it? On the sofa?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you so much.”
She smiled sweetly, said goodnight again and went out of the room.
Sir George had opened one of the French windows.
“Beautiful night now,” he announced. “Good idea of yours to take a turn.”
Reggie said:
“Well, goodnight, sir. I’ll be toddling off to bed.”
“Goodnight, my boy,” said Lord Mayfield.
Reggie picked up a detective story which he had begun earlier in the
evening and left the room.
Lord Mayfield and Sir George stepped out upon the terrace.
It was a beautiful night, with a clear sky studded with stars.
Sir George drew a deep breath.
“Phew, that woman uses a lot of scent,” he remarked.
Lord Mayfield laughed.
“Anyway, it’s not cheap scent. One of the most expensive brands on the
market, I should say.”
Sir George gave a grimace.
“I suppose one should be thankful for that.”
“You should, indeed. I think a woman smothered in cheap scent is one of
the greatest abominations known to mankind.”
Sir George glanced up at the sky.
“Extraordinary the way it’s cleared. I heard the rain beating down when
we were at dinner.”
The two men strolled gently along the terrace.
The terrace ran the whole length of the house. Below it the ground sloped
gently away, permitting a magnificent view over the Sussex weald.
Sir George lit a cigar.
“About this metal alloy—” he began.
The talk became technical.
As they approached the far end of the terrace for the fifth time, Lord
Mayfield said with a sigh:
“Oh, well, I suppose we’d better get down to it.”
“Yes, good bit of work to get through.”
The two men turned, and Lord Mayfield uttered a surprised ejaculation.
“Hallo! See that?”
“See what?” asked Sir George.
“Thought I saw someone slip across the terrace from my study window.”
“Nonsense, old boy. I didn’t see anything.”
“Well, I did—or I thought I did.”
“Your eyes are playing tricks on you. I was looking straight down the
terrace, and I’d have seen anything there was to be seen. There’s precious
little I don’t see—even if I do have to hold a newspaper at arm’s length.”
Lord Mayfield chuckled.
“I can put one over on you there, George. I read easily without glasses.”
“But you can’t always distinguish the fellow on the other side of the
House. Or is that eyeglass of yours sheer intimidation?”
Laughing, the two men entered Lord Mayfield’s study, the French window
of which was open.
Mr. Carlile was busy arranging some papers in a file by the safe.
He looked up as they entered.
“Ha, Carlile, everything ready?”
“Yes, Lord Mayfield, all the papers are on your desk.”
The desk in question was a big important-looking writing table of
mahogany set across a corner by the window. Lord Mayfield went over to it,
and began sorting through the various documents laid out.
“Lovely night now,” said Sir George.
Mr. Carlile agreed.
“Yes, indeed. Remarkable the way it’s cleared up after the rain.”
Putting away his file, Mr. Carlile asked:
“Will you want me any more tonight, Lord Mayfield?”
“No, I don’t think so, Carlile. I’ll put all these away myself. We shall
probably be late. You’d better turn in.”
“Thank you. Goodnight, Lord Mayfield. Goodnight, Sir George.”
“Goodnight, Carlile.”
As the secretary was about to leave the room, Lord Mayfield said sharply:
“Just a minute, Carlile. You’ve forgotten the most important of the lot.”
“I beg your pardon, Lord Mayfield.”
“The actual plans of the bomber, man.”
The secretary stared.
“They’re right on the top, sir.”
“They’re nothing of the sort.”
“But I’ve just put them there.”
“Look for yourself, man.”
With a bewildered expression, the young man came forward and joined
Lord Mayfield at the desk.
Somewhat impatiently the Minister indicated the pile of papers. Carlile
sorted through them, his expression of bewilderment growing.
“You see, they’re not there.”
The secretary stammered:
“But—but it’s incredible. I laid them there not three minutes ago.”
Lord Mayfield said good-humouredly:
“You must have made a mistake, they must be still in the safe.”
“I don’t see how—I know I put them there!”
Lord Mayfield brushed past him to the open safe. Sir George joined them.
A very few minutes sufficed to show that the plans of the bomber were not
there.
Dazed and unbelieving, the three men returned to the desk and once more
turned over the papers.
“My God!” said Mayfield. “They’re gone!”
Mr. Carlile cried:
“But it’s impossible!”
“Who’s been in this room?” snapped out the Minister.
“No one. No one at all.”
“Look here, Carlile, those plans haven’t vanished into thin air. Someone
has taken them. Has Mrs. Vanderlyn been in here?”
“Mrs. Vanderlyn? Oh, no, sir.”
“I’ll back that,” said Carrington. He sniffed the air! “You’d soon smell if
she had. That scent of hers.”
“Nobody has been in here,” insisted Carlile. “I can’t understand it.”
“Look here, Carlile,” said Lord Mayfield. “Pull yourself together. We’ve
got to get to the bottom of this. You’re absolutely sure the plans were in the
safe?”
“Absolutely.”
“You actually saw them? You didn’t just assume they were among the
others?”
“No, no, Lord Mayfield. I saw them. I put them on top of the others on the
desk.”
“And since then, you say, nobody has been in the room. Have you been
out of the room?”
“No—at least—yes.”
“Ah!” cried Sir George. “Now we’re getting at it!”
Lord Mayfield said sharply:
“What on earth—” when Carlile interrupted.
“In the normal course of events, Lord Mayfield, I should not, of course,
have dreamt of leaving the room when important papers were lying about, but
hearing a woman scream—”
“A woman scream?” ejaculated Lord Mayfield in a surprised voice.
“Yes, Lord Mayfield. It startled me more than I can say. I was just laying
the papers on the desk when I heard it, and naturally I ran out into the hall.”
“Who screamed?”
“Mrs. Vanderlyn’s French maid. She was standing halfway up the stairs,
looking very white and upset and shaking all over. She said she had seen a
ghost.”
“Seen a ghost?”
“Yes, a tall woman dressed all in white who moved without a sound and
floated in the air.”
“What a ridiculous story!”
“Yes, Lord Mayfield, that is what I told her. I must say she seemed rather
ashamed of herself. She went off upstairs and I came back in here.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Just a minute or two before you and Sir George came in.”
“And you were out of the room—how long?”
The secretary considered.
“Two minutes—at the most three.”
“Long enough,” groaned Lord Mayfield. Suddenly he clutched his friend’s
arm.
“George, that shadow I saw—slinking away from this window. That was
it! As soon as Carlile left the room, he nipped in, seized the plans and made
off.”
“Dirty work,” said Sir George.
Then he seized his friend by the arm.
“Look here, Charles, this is the devil of a business. What the hell are we
going to do about it?”
III
“At any rate give it a trial, Charles.”
It was half an hour later. The two men were in Lord Mayfield’s study, and
Sir George had been expending a considerable amount of persuasion to
induce his friend to adopt a certain course.
Lord Mayfield, at first most unwilling, was gradually becoming less
averse to the idea.
Sir George went on:
“Don’t be so damned pigheaded, Charles.”
Lord Mayfield said slowly:
“Why drag in a wretched foreigner we know nothing about?”
“But I happen to know a lot about him. The man’s a marvel.”
“Humph.”
“Look here, Charles. It’s a chance! Discretion is the essence of this
business. If it leaks out—”
“When it leaks out is what you mean!”
“Not necessarily. This man, Hercule Poirot—”
“Will come down here and produce the plans like a conjurer taking rabbits
out of his hat, I suppose?”
“He’ll get at the truth. And the truth is what we want. Look here, Charles,
I take all responsibility on myself.”
Lord Mayfield said slowly:
“Oh, well, have it your own way, but I don’t see what the fellow can do.
. . .”
Sir George picked up the phone.
“I’m going to get through to him—now.”
“He’ll be in bed.”
“He can get up. Dash it all, Charles, you can’t let that woman get away
with it.”
“Mrs. Vanderlyn, you mean?”
“Yes. You don’t doubt, do you, that she’s at the bottom of this?”
“No, I don’t. She’s turned the tables on me with a vengeance. I don’t like
admitting, George, that a woman’s been too clever for us. It goes against the
grain. But it’s true. We shan’t be able to prove anything against her, and yet
we both know that she’s been the prime mover in the affair.”
“Women are the devil,” said Carrington with feeling.
“Nothing to connect her with it, damn it all! We may believe that she put
the girl up to that screaming trick, and that the man lurking outside was her
accomplice, but the devil of it is we can’t prove it.”
“Perhaps Hercule Poirot can.”
Suddenly Lord Mayfield laughed.
“By the Lord, George, I thought you were too much of an old John Bull to
put your trust in a Frenchman, however clever.”
“He’s not even a Frenchman, he’s a Belgian,” said Sir George in a rather
shamefaced manner.
“Well, have your Belgian down. Let him try his wits on this business. I’ll
bet he can’t make more of it than we can.”
Without replying, Sir George stretched a hand to the telephone.
IV
Blinking a little, Hercule Poirot turned his head from one man to the other.
Very delicately he smothered a yawn.
It was half past two in the morning. He had been roused from sleep and
rushed down through the darkness in a big Rolls-Royce. Now he had just
finished hearing what the two men had to tell him.
“Those are the facts, M. Poirot,” said Lord Mayfield.
He leaned back in his chair, and slowly fixed his monocle in one eye.
Through it a shrewd, pale-blue eye watched Poirot attentively. Besides being
shrewd the eye was definitely sceptical. Poirot cast a swift glance at Sir
George Carrington.
That gentleman was leaning forward with an expression of almost
childlike hopefulness on his face.
Poirot said slowly:
“I have the facts, yes. The maid screams, the secretary goes out, the
nameless watcher comes in, the plans are there on top of the desk, he snatches
them up and goes. The facts—they are all very convenient.”
Something in the way he uttered the last phrase seemed to attract Lord
Mayfield’s attention. He sat up a little straighter, his monocle dropped. It was
as though a new alertness came to him.
“I beg your pardon, M. Poirot?”
“I said, Lord Mayfield, that the facts were all very convenient—for the
thief. By the way, you are sure it was a man you saw?”
Lord Mayfield shook his head.
“That I couldn’t say. It was just a—shadow. In fact, I was almost doubtful
if I had seen anyone.”
Poirot transferred his gaze to the Air Marshal.
“And you, Sir George? Could you say if it was a man or a woman?”
“I didn’t see anyone myself.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Then he skipped suddenly to his feet and went
over to the writing table.
“I can assure you that the plans are not there,” said Lord Mayfield. “We
have all three been through those papers half a dozen times.”
“All three? You mean, your secretary also?”
“Yes, Carlile.”
Poirot turned suddenly.
“Tell me, Lord Mayfield, which paper was on top when you went over to
the desk?”
Mayfield frowned a little in the effort of remembrance.
“Let me see—yes, it was a rough memorandum of some sort of our air
defence positions.”
Deftly, Poirot nipped out a paper and brought it over.
“Is this the one, Lord Mayfield?”
Lord Mayfield took it and glanced over it.
“Yes, that’s the one.”
Poirot took it over to Carrington.
“Did you notice this paper on the desk?”
Sir George took it, held it away from him, then slipped on his pince-nez.
“Yes, that’s right. I looked through them too, with Carlile and Mayfield.
This was on top.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. He replaced the paper on the desk. Mayfield
looked at him in a slightly puzzled manner.
“If there are any other questions—” he began.
“But yes, certainly there is a question. Carlile. Carlile is the question!”
Lord Mayfield’s colour rose a little.
“Carlile, M. Poirot, is quite above suspicion! He has been my confidential
secretary for nine years. He has access to all my private papers, and I may
point out to you that he could have made a copy of the plans and a tracing of
the specifications quite easily without anyone being the wiser.”
“I appreciate your point,” said Poirot. “If he had been guilty there would
be no need for him to stage a clumsy robbery.”
“In any case,” said Lord Mayfield, “I am sure of Carlile. I will guarantee
him.”
“Carlile,” said Carrington gruffly, “is all right.”
Poirot spread out his hands gracefully.
“And this Mrs. Vanderlyn—she is all wrong?”
“She’s a wrong ’un all right,” said Sir George.
Lord Mayfield said in more measured tones:
“I think, M. Poirot, that there can be no doubt of Mrs. Vanderlyn’s—well
—activities. The Foreign Office can give you more precious data as to that.”
“And the maid, you take it, is in with her mistress?”
“Not a doubt of it,” said Sir George.
“It seems to me a plausible assumption,” said Lord Mayfield more
cautiously.
There was a pause. Poirot sighed, and absentmindedly rearranged one or
two articles on a table at his right hand. Then he said:
“I take it that these papers represented money? That is, the stolen papers
would be definitely worth a large sum in cash.”
“If presented in a certain quarter—yes.”
“Such as?”
Sir George mentioned the names of two European powers.
Poirot nodded.
“That fact would be known to anyone, I take it?”
“Mrs. Vanderlyn would know it all right.”
“I said to anyone?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Anyone with a minimum of intelligence would appreciate the cash value
of the plans?”
“Yes, but M. Poirot—” Lord Mayfield was looking rather uncomfortable.
Poirot held up a hand.
“I do what you call explore all the avenues.”
Suddenly he rose again, stepped nimbly out of the window and with a
flashlight examined the edge of the grass at the farther side of the terrace.
The two men watched him.
He came in again, sat down and said:
“Tell me, Lord Mayfield, this malefactor, this skulker in the shadows, you
do not have him pursued?”
Lord Mayfield shrugged his shoulders.
“At the bottom of the garden he could make his way out to a main road. If
he had a car waiting there, he would soon be out of reach—”
“But there are the police—the A.A. scouts—”
Sir George interrupted.
“You forget, M. Poirot. We cannot risk publicity. If it were to get out that
these plans had been stolen, the result would be extremely unfavourable to the
Party.”
“Ah, yes,” said Poirot. “One must remember La Politique. The great
discretion must be observed. You send instead for me. Ah well, perhaps it is
simpler.”
“You are hopeful of success, M. Poirot?” Lord Mayfield sounded a trifle
incredulous.
The little man shrugged his shoulders.
“Why not? One has only to reason—to reflect.”
He paused a moment and then said:
“I would like now to speak to Mr. Carlile.”
“Certainly.” Lord Mayfield rose. “I asked him to wait up. He will be
somewhere at hand.”
He went out of the room.
Poirot looked at Sir George.
“Eh bien,” he said. “What about this man on the terrace?”
“My dear M. Poirot. Don’t ask me! I didn’t see him, and I can’t describe
him.”
Poirot leaned forward.
“So you have already said. But it is a little different from that is it not?”
“What d’you mean?” asked Sir George abruptly.
“How shall I say it? Your disbelief, it is more profound.”
Sir George started to speak, then stopped.
“But yes,” said Poirot encouragingly. “Tell me. You are both at the end of
the terrace. Lord Mayfield sees a shadow slip from the window and across the
grass. Why do you not see that shadow?”
Carrington stared at him.
“You’ve hit it, M. Poirot. I’ve been worrying about that ever since. You
see, I’d swear that no one did leave this window. I thought Mayfield had
imagined it—branch of a tree waving—something of that kind. And then
when we came in here and found there had been a robbery, it seemed as
though Mayfield must have been right and I’d been wrong. And yet—”
Poirot smiled.
“And yet you still in your heart of hearts believe in the evidence (the
negative evidence) of your own eyes?”
“You’re right, M. Poirot, I do.”
Poirot gave a sudden smile.
“How wise you are.”
Sir George said sharply:
“There were no footprints on the grass edge?”
Poirot nodded.
“Exactly. Lord Mayfield, he fancies he sees a shadow. Then there comes
the robbery and he is sure—but sure! It is no longer a fancy—he actually saw
the man. But that is not so. Me, I do not concern myself much with footprints
and such things but for what it is worth we have that negative evidence. There
were no footprints on the grass. It had rained heavily this evening. If a man
had crossed the terrace to the grass this evening his footprints would have
shown.”
Sir George said, staring: “But then—but then—”
“It brings us back to the house. To the people in the house.”
He broke off as the door opened and Lord Mayfield entered with Mr.
Carlile.
Though still looking very pale and worried, the secretary had regained a
certain composure of manner. Adjusting his pince-nez he sat down and looked
at Poirot inquiringly.
“How long had you been in this room when you heard the scream,
monsieur?”
Carlile considered.
“Between five and ten minutes, I should say.”
“And before that there had been no disturbance of any kind?”
“No.”
“I understand that the house party had been in one room for the greater
part of the evening.”
“Yes, the drawing room.”
Poirot consulted his notebook.
“Sir George Carrington and his wife. Mrs. Macatta. Mrs. Vanderlyn. Mr.
Reggie Carrington. Lord Mayfield and yourself. Is that right?”
“I myself was not in the drawing room. I was working here the greater
part of the evening.”
Poirot turned to Lord Mayfield.
“Who went up to bed first?”
“Lady Julia Carrington, I think. As a matter of fact, the three ladies went
out together.”
“And then?”
“Mr. Carlile came in and I told him to get out the papers as Sir George and
I would be along in a minute.”
“It was then that you decided to take a turn on the terrace?”
“It was.”
“Was anything said in Mrs. Vanderlyn’s hearing as to your working in the
study?”
“The matter was mentioned, yes.”
“But she was not in the room when you instructed Mr. Carlile to get out
the papers?”
“No.”
“Excuse me, Lord Mayfield,” said Carlile. “Just after you had said that, I
collided with her in the doorway. She had come back for a book.”
“So you think she might have overheard?”
“I think it quite possible, yes.”
“She came back for a book,” mused Poirot. “Did you find her her book,
Lord Mayfield?”
“Yes, Reggie gave it to her.”
“Ah, yes, it is what you call the old gasp—no, pardon, the old wheeze—
that—to come back for a book. It is often useful!”
“You think it was deliberate?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“And after that, you two gentlemen go out on the terrace. And Mrs.
Vanderlyn?”
“She went off with her book.”
“And the young M. Reggie. He went to bed also?”
“Yes.”
“And Mr. Carlile he comes here and sometime between five and ten
minutes later he heard a scream. Continue, M. Carlile. You heard a scream
and you went out into the hall. Ah, perhaps it would be simplest if you
reproduced exactly your actions.”
Mr. Carlile got up a little awkwardly.
“Here I scream,” said Poirot helpfully. He opened his mouth and emitted a
shrill bleat. Lord Mayfield turned his head away to hide a smile and Mr.
Carlile looked extremely uncomfortable.
“Allez! Forward! March!” cried Poirot. “It is your cue that I give you
there.”
Mr. Carlile walked stiffly to the door, opened it and went out. Poirot
followed him. The other two came behind.
“The door, did you close it after you or leave it open?”
“I can’t really remember. I think I must have left it open.”
“No matter. Proceed.”
Still with extreme stiffness, Mr. Carlile walked to the bottom of the
staircase and stood there looking up.
Poirot said:
“The maid, you say, was on the stairs. Whereabouts?”
“About halfway up.”
“And she was looking upset.”
“Definitely so.”
“Eh bien, me, I am the maid.” Poirot ran nimbly up the stairs. “About
here?”
“A step or two higher.”
“Like this?”
Poirot struck an attitude.
“Well—er—not quite like that.”
“How then?”
“Well, she had her hands to her head.”
“Ah, her hands to her head. That is very interesting. Like this?” Poirot
raised his arms, his hands rested on his head just above each ear.
“Yes that’s it.”
“Aha! And tell me, M. Carlile, she was a pretty girl—yes?”
“Really, I didn’t notice.”
Carlile’s voice was repressive.
“Aha, you did not notice? But you are a young man. Does not a young
man notice when a girl is pretty?”
“Really, M. Poirot, I can only repeat that I did not do so.”
Carlile cast an agonized glance at his employer. Sir George Carrington
gave a sudden chuckle.
“M. Poirot seems determined to make you out a gay dog, Carlile,” he
remarked.
“Me, I always notice when a girl is pretty,” announced Poirot as he
descended the stairs.
The silence with which Mr. Carlile greeted this remark was somewhat
pointed. Poirot went on:
“And it was then she told this tale of having seen a ghost?”
“Yes.”
“Did you believe the story?”
“Well, hardly, M. Poirot!”
“I do not mean, do you believe in ghosts. I mean, did it strike you that the
girl herself really thought she had seen something?”
“Oh, as to that, I couldn’t say. She was certainly breathing fast and
seemed upset.”
“You did not see or hear anything of her mistress?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I did. She came out of her room in the gallery
above and called, ‘Leonie.’ ”
“And then?”
“The girl ran up to her and I went back to the study.”
“Whilst you were standing at the foot of the stairs here, could anyone
have entered the study by the door you had left open?”
Carlile shook his head.
“Not without passing me. The study door is at the end of the passage, as
you see.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Mr. Carlile went on in his careful, precise
voice.
“I may say that I am very thankful that Lord Mayfield actually saw the
thief leaving the window. Otherwise I myself should be in a very unpleasant
position.”
“Nonsense, my dear Carlile,” broke in Lord Mayfield impatiently. “No
suspicion could possibly attach to you.”
“It is very kind of you to say so, Lord Mayfield, but facts are facts, and I
can quite see that it looks badly for me. In any case I hope that my belongings
and myself may be searched.”
“Nonsense, my dear fellow,” said Mayfield.
Poirot murmured:
“You are serious in wishing that?”
“I should infinitely prefer it.”
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a minute or two and murmured, “I
see.”
Then he asked:
“Where is Mrs. Vanderlyn’s room situated in regard to the study?”
“It is directly over it.”
“With a window looking out over the terrace?”
“Yes.”
Again Poirot nodded. Then he said:
“Let us go to the drawing room.”
Here he wandered round the room, examined the fastenings of the
windows, glanced at the scorers on the bridge table and then finally addressed
Lord Mayfield.
“This affair,” he said, “is more complicated than it appears. But one thing
is quite certain. The stolen plans have not left this house.”
Lord Mayfield stared at him.
“But, my dear M. Poirot, the man I saw leaving the study—”
“There was no man.”
“But I saw him—”
“With the greatest respect, Lord Mayfield, you imagined you saw him.
The shadow cast by the branch of a tree deceived you. The fact that a robbery
occurred naturally seemed a proof that what you had imagined was true.”
“Really, M. Poirot, the evidence of my own eyes—”
“Back my eyes against yours any day, old boy,” put in Sir George.
“You must permit me, Lord Mayfield, to be very definite on that point. No
one crossed the terrace to the grass.”
Looking very pale and speaking stiffly, Mr. Carlile said:
“In that case, if M. Poirot is correct, suspicion automatically attaches itself
to me. I am the only person who could possibly have committed the robbery.”
Lord Mayfield sprang up.
“Nonsense. Whatever M. Poirot thinks about it, I don’t agree with him. I
am convinced of your innocence, my dear Carlile. In fact, I’m willing to
guarantee it.”
Poirot murmured mildly:
“But I have not said that I suspect M. Carlile.”
Carlile answered:
“No, but you’ve made it perfectly clear that no one else had a chance to
commit the robbery.”
“Du tout! Du tout!”
“But I have told you nobody passed me in the hall to get to the study
door.”
“I agree. But someone might have come in through the study window.”
“But that is just what you said did not happen?”
“I said that no one from outside could have come and left without leaving
marks on the grass. But it could have been managed from inside the house.
Someone could have gone out from his room by one of these windows,
slipped along the terrace, in at the study window, and back again in here.”
Mr. Carlile objected:
“But Lord Mayfield and Sir George Carrington were on the terrace.”
“They were on the terrace, yes, but they were en promenade. Sir George
Carrington’s eyes may be of the most reliable”—Poirot made a little bow
—“but he does not keep them in the back of his head! The study window is at
the extreme left of the terrace, the windows of this room come next, but the
terrace continues to the right past one, two, three, perhaps four rooms?”
“Dining room, billiard room, morning room and library,” said Lord
Mayfield.
“And you walked up and down the terrace, how many times?”
“At least five or six.”
“You see, it is easy enough, the thief has only to watch for the right
moment!”
Carlile said slowly:
“You mean that when I was in the hall, talking to the French girl, the thief
was waiting in the drawing room?”
“That is my suggestion. It is, of course, only a suggestion.”
“It doesn’t sound very probable to me,” said Lord Mayfield. “Too risky.”
The Air Marshal demurred.
“I don’t agree with you, Charles. It’s perfectly possible. Wonder I hadn’t
the wits to think of it for myself.”
“So you see,” said Poirot, “why I believe that the plans are still in the
house. The problem now is to find them!”
Sir George snorted.
“That’s simple enough. Search everybody.”
Lord Mayfield made a movement of dissent, but Poirot spoke before he
could.
“No, no, it is not so simple as that. The person who took those plans will
anticipate that a search will be made and will make quite sure that they are not
found amongst his or her belongings. They will have been hidden in neutral
ground.”
“Do you suggest that we’ve got to go playing hide and seek all over the
bally house?”
Poirot smiled.
“No, no, we need not be so crude as that. We can arrive at the hiding place
(or alternatively at the identity of the guilty person) by reflection. That will
simplify matters. In the morning I would like an interview with every person
in the house. It would, I think, be unwise to seek those interviews now.”
Lord Mayfield nodded.
“Cause too much comment,” he said, “if we dragged everybody out of
their beds at three in the morning. In any case you’ll have to proceed with a
good deal of camouflage, M. Poirot. This matter has got to be kept dark.”
Poirot waved an airy hand.
“Leave it to Hercule Poirot. The lies I invent are always most delicate and
most convincing. Tomorrow, then, I conduct my investigations. But tonight, I
should like to begin by interviewing you, Sir George and you, Lord
Mayfield.”
He bowed to them both.
“You mean—alone?”
“That was my meaning.”
Lord Mayfield raised his eyes slightly, then he said:
“Certainly. I’ll leave you alone with Sir George. When you want me,
you’ll find me in my study. Come, Carlile.”
He and the secretary went out, shutting the door behind them.
Sir George sat down, reaching mechanically for a cigarette. He turned a
puzzled face to Poirot.
“You know,” he said slowly. “I don’t quite get this.”
“That is very simply explained,” said Poirot with a smile. “In two words,
to be accurate. Mrs. Vanderlyn!”
“Oh,” said Carrington. “I think I see. Mrs. Vanderlyn?”
“Precisely. It might be, you see, that it would not be very delicate to ask
Lord Mayfield the question I want to ask. Why Mrs. Vanderlyn? This lady, she
is known to be a suspicious character. Why, then, should she be here? I say to
myself there are three explanations. One, that Lord Mayfield has a penchant
for the lady (and that is why I seek to talk to you alone. I do not wish to
embarrass him). Two, that Mrs. Vanderlyn is perhaps the dear friend of
someone else in the house?”
“You can count me out!” said Sir George with a grin.
“Then, if neither of those cases is true, the question returns in redoubled
force. Why Mrs. Vanderlyn? And it seems to me I perceive a shadowy answer.
There was a reason. Her presence at this particular juncture was definitely
desired by Lord Mayfield for a special reason. Am I right?”
Sir George nodded.
“You’re quite right,” he said. “Mayfield is too old a bird to fall for her
wiles. He wanted her here for quite another reason. It was like this.”
He retailed the conversation that had taken place at the dinner table. Poirot
listened attentively.
“Ah,” he said. “I comprehend now. Nevertheless, it seems that the lady
has turned the tables on you both rather neatly!”
Sir George swore freely.
Poirot watched him with some slight amusement, then he said:
“You do not doubt that this theft is her doing—I mean, that she is
responsible for it, whether or no she played an active part?”
Sir George stared.
“Of course not! There isn’t any doubt of that. Why, who else would have
any interest in stealing those plans?”
“Ah!” said Hercule Poirot. He leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “And
yet, Sir George, we agreed, not a quarter of an hour ago, that these papers
represented very definitely money. Not perhaps, in quite so obvious a form as
banknotes, or gold, or jewellery, but nevertheless they were potential money.
If there were anyone here who was hard up—”
The other interrupted him with a snort.
“Who isn’t these days? I suppose I can say it without incriminating
myself.”
He smiled and Poirot smiled politely back at him and murmured:
“Mais oui, you can say what you like, for you, Sir George, have the one
unimpeachable alibi in this affair.”
“But I’m damned hard up myself!”
Poirot shook his head sadly.
“Yes, indeed, a man in your position has heavy living expenses. Then you
have a young son at a most expensive age—”
Sir George groaned.
“Education’s bad enough, then debts on top of it. Mind you, this lad’s not
a bad lad.”
Poirot listened sympathetically. He heard a lot of the Air Marshal’s
accumulated grievances. The lack of grit and stamina in the younger
generation, the fantastic way in which mothers spoilt their children and
always took their side, the curse of gambling once it got hold of a woman, the
folly of playing for higher stakes than you could afford. It was couched in
general terms, Sir George did not allude directly to either his wife or his son,
but his natural transparency made his generalizations very easy to see
through.
He broke off suddenly.
“Sorry, mustn’t take up your time with something that’s right off the
subject, especially at this hour of the night—or rather, morning.”
He stifled a yawn.
“I suggest, Sir George, that you should go to bed. You have been most
kind and helpful.”
“Right, think I will turn in. You really think there is a chance of getting
the plans back?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“I mean to try. I do not see why not.”
“Well, I’ll be off. Goodnight.”
He left the room.
Poirot remained in his chair staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, then he
took out a little notebook and turning to a clean page, he wrote:
Mrs. Vanderlyn?
Lady Julia Carrington?
Mrs. Macatta?
Reggie Carrington?
Mr. Carlile?
Underneath he wrote:
Mrs. Vanderlyn and Mr. Reggie Carrington?
Mrs. Vanderlyn and Lady Julia?
Mrs. Vanderlyn and Mr. Carlile?
He shook his head in a dissatisifed manner, murmuring: “C’est plus
simple que ça.”
Then he added a few short sentences.
Did Lord Mayfield see a “shadow?” If not, why did he say he did?
Did Sir George see anything? He was positive he had seen nothing
AFTER I examined flower bed. Note: Lord Mayfield is nearsighted,
can read without glasses but has to use a monocle to look across a
room. Sir George is long-sighted. Therefore, from the far end of the
terrace, his sight is more to be depended upon than Lord Mayfield’s.
Yet Lord Mayfield is very positive that he DID see something and is
quite unshaken by his friend’s denial.
Can anyone be quite as above suspicion as Mr. Carlile appears to
be? Lord Mayfield is very emphatic as to his innocence. Too much so.
Why? Because he secretly suspects him and is ashamed of his
suspicions? Or because he definitely suspects some other person?
That is to say, some person OTHER than Mrs. Vanderlyn?
He put the notebook away.
Then, getting up, he went along to the study.
V
Lord Mayfield was seated at his desk when Poirot entered the study. He
swung round, laid down his pen, and looked up inquiringly.
“Well, M. Poirot, had your interview with Carrington?”
Poirot smiled and sat down.
“Yes, Lord Mayfield. He cleared up a point that had puzzled me.”
“What was that?”
“The reason for Mrs. Vanderlyn’s presence here. You comprehend, I
thought it possible—”
Mayfield was quick to realize the cause of Poirot’s somewhat exaggerated
embarrassment.
“You thought I had a weakness for the lady? Not at all. Far from it.
Funnily enough, Carrington thought the same.”
“Yes, he has told me of the conversation he held with you on the subject.”
Lord Mayfield looked rather rueful.
“My little scheme didn’t come off. Always annoying to have to admit that
a woman has got the better of you.”
“Ah, but she has not got the better of you yet, Lord Mayfield.”
“You think we may yet win? Well, I’m glad to hear you say so. I’d like to
think it was true.”
He sighed.
“I feel I’ve acted like a complete fool—so pleased with my stratagem for
entrapping the lady.”
Hercule Poirot said, as he lit one of his tiny cigarettes:
“What was your stratagem exactly, Lord Mayfield?”
“Well,” Lord Mayfield hesitated. “I hadn’t exactly got down to details.”
“You didn’t discuss it with anyone?”
“No.”
“Not even with Mr. Carlile?”
“No.”
Poirot smiled.
“You prefer to play a lone hand, Lord Mayfield.”
“I have usually found it the best way,” said the other a little grimly.
“Yes, you are wise. Trust no one. But you did mention the matter to Sir
George Carrington?”
“Simply because I realized that the dear fellow was seriously perturbed
about me.”
Lord Mayfield smiled at the remembrance.
“He is an old friend of yours?”
“Yes. I have known him for over twenty years.”
“And his wife?”
“I have known his wife also, of course.”
“But (pardon me if I am impertinent) you are not on the same terms of
intimacy with her?”
“I don’t really see what my personal relationships to people has to do with
the matter in hand, M. Poirot.”
“But I think, Lord Mayfield, that they may have a good deal to do with it.
You agreed, did you not, that my theory of someone in the drawing room was
a possible one?”
“Yes. In fact, I agree with you that that is what must have happened.”
“We will not say ‘must.’ That is too self-confident a word. But if that
theory of mine is true, who do you think the person in the drawing room
could have been?”
“Obviously Mrs. Vanderlyn. She had been back there once for a book. She
could have come back for another book, or a handbag, or a dropped
handkerchief—one of a dozen feminine excuses. She arranges with her maid
to scream and get Carlile away from the study. Then she slips in and out by
the windows as you said.”
“You forget it could not have been Mrs. Vanderlyn. Carlile heard her call
the maid from upstairs while he was talking to the girl.”
Lord Mayfield bit his lip.
“True. I forgot that.” He looked thoroughly annoyed.
“You see,” said Poirot gently. “We progress. We have first the simple
explanation of a thief who comes from outside and makes off with the booty.
A very convenient theory as I said at the time, too convenient to be readily
accepted. We have disposed of that. Then we come to the theory of the
foreign agent, Mrs. Vanderlyn, and that again seems to fit together beautifully
up to a certain point. But now it looks as though that, too, was too easy—too
convenient—to be accepted.”
“You’d wash Mrs. Vanderlyn out of it altogether?”
“It was not Mrs. Vanderlyn in the drawing room. It may have been an ally
of Mrs. Vanderlyn’s who committed the theft, but it is just possible that it was
committed by another person altogether. If so, we have to consider the
question of motive.”
“Isn’t this rather far-fetched, M. Poirot?”
“I do not think so. Now what motives could there be? There is the motive
of money. The papers may have been stolen with the object of turning them
into cash. That is the simplest motive to consider. But the motive might
possibly be something quite different.”
“Such as—”
Poirot said slowly:
“It might have been done definitely with the idea of damaging someone.”
“Who?”
“Possibly Mr. Carlile. He would be the obvious suspect. But there might
be more to it than that. The men who control the destiny of a country, Lord
Mayfield, are particularly vulnerable to displays of popular feeling.”
“Meaning that the theft was aimed at damaging me?”
Poirot nodded.
“I think I am correct in saying, Lord Mayfield, that about five years ago
you passed through a somewhat trying time. You were suspected of friendship
with a European Power at that time bitterly unpopular with the electorate of
this country.”
“Quite true, M. Poirot.”
“A statesman in these days has a difficult task. He has to pursue the policy
he deems advantageous to his country, but he has at the same time to
recognize the force of popular feeling. Popular feeling is very often
sentimental, muddleheaded, and eminently unsound, but it cannot be
disregarded for all that.”
“How well you express it! That is exactly the curse of a politician’s life.
He has to bow to the country’s feeling, however dangerous and foolhardy he
knows it to be.”
“That was your dilemma, I think. There were rumours that you had
concluded an agreement with the country in question. This country and the
newspapers were up in arms about it. Fortunately the Prime Minister was able
categorically to deny the story, and you repudiated it, though still making no
secret of the way your sympathies lay.”
“All this is quite true, M. Poirot, but why rake up past history?”
“Because I consider it possible that an enemy, disappointed in the way
you surmounted that crisis, might endeavour to stage a further dilemma. You
soon regained public confidence. Those particular circumstances have passed
away, you are now, deservedly, one of the most popular figures in political
life. You are spoken of freely as the next Prime Minister when Mr. Hunberly
retires.”
“You think this is an attempt to discredit me? Nonsense!”
“Tout de même, Lord Mayfield, it would not look well if it were known
that the plans of Britain’s new bomber had been stolen during a weekend
when a certain very charming lady had been your guest. Little hints in the
newspapers as to your relationship with that lady would create a feeling of
distrust in you.”
“Such a thing could not really be taken seriously.”
“My dear Lord Mayfield, you know perfectly well it could! It takes so
little to undermine public confidence in a man.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Lord Mayfield. He looked suddenly very worried.
“God! how desperately complicated this business is becoming. Do you really
think—but it’s impossible—impossible.”
“You know of nobody who is—jealous of you?”
“Absurd!”
“At any rate you will admit that my questions about your personal
relationships with the members of this house party are not totally irrelevant.”
“Oh, perhaps—perhaps. You asked me about Julia Carrington. There’s
really not very much to say. I’ve never taken to her very much, and I don’t
think she cares for me. She’s one of these restless, nervy women, recklessly
extravagant and mad about cards. She’s old-fashioned enough, I think, to
despise me as being a self-made man.”
Poirot said:
“I looked you up in Who’s Who before I came down. You were the head of
a famous engineering firm and you are yourself a first-class engineer.”
“There’s certainly nothing I don’t know about the practical side. I’ve
worked my way up from the bottom.”
Lord Mayfield spoke rather grimly.
“Oh la la!” cried Poirot. “I have been a fool—but a fool!”
The other stared at him.
“I beg your pardon, M. Poirot?”
“It is that a portion of the puzzle has become clear to me. Something I did
not see before . . . But it all fits in. Yes—it fits in with beautiful precision.”
Lord Mayfield looked at him in somewhat astonished inquiry.
But with a slight smile Poirot shook his head.
“No, no, not now. I must arrange my ideas a little more clearly.”
He rose.
“Goodnight, Lord Mayfield. I think I know where those plans are.”
Lord Mayfield cried out:
“You know? Then let us get hold of them at once!”
Poirot shook his head.
“No, no, that would not do. Precipitancy would be fatal. But leave it all to
Hercule Poirot.”
He went out of the room. Lord Mayfield raised his shoulders in contempt.
“Man’s a mountebank,” he muttered. Then, putting away his papers and
turning out the lights, he, too, made his way up to bed.
VI
“If there’s been a burglary, why the devil doesn’t old Mayfield send for the
police?” demanded Reggie Carrington.
He pushed his chair slightly back from the breakfast table.
He was the last down. His host, Mrs. Macatta and Sir George had finished
their breakfasts some time before. His mother and Mrs. Vanderlyn were
breakfasting in bed.
Sir George, repeating his statement on the lines agreed upon between
Lord Mayfield and Hercule Poirot, had a feeling that he was not managing it
as well as he might have done.
“To send for a queer foreigner like this seems very odd to me,” said
Reggie. “What has been taken, Father?”
“I don’t know exactly, my boy.”
Reggie got up. He looked rather nervy and on edge this morning.
“Nothing—important? No—papers or anything like that?”
“To tell you the truth, Reggie, I can’t tell you exactly.”
“Very hush-hush, is it? I see.”
Reggie ran up the stairs, paused for a moment halfway with a frown on his
face, and then continued his ascent and tapped on his mother’s door. Her
voice bade him enter.
Lady Julia was sitting up in bed, scribbling figures on the back of an
envelope.
“Good morning, darling.” She looked up, then said sharply:
“Reggie, is anything the matter?”
“Nothing much, but it seems there was a burglary last night.”
“A burglary? What was taken?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s all very hush-hush. There’s some odd kind of
private inquiry agent downstairs asking everybody questions.”
“How extraordinary!”
“It’s rather unpleasant,” said Reggie slowly, “staying in a house when that
kind of thing happens.”
“What did happen exactly?”
“Don’t know. It was some time after we all went to bed. Look out,
Mother, you’ll have that tray off.”
He rescued the breakfast tray and carried it to a table by the window.
“Was money taken?”
“I tell you I don’t know.”
Lady Julia said slowly:
“I suppose this inquiry man is asking everybody questions?”
“I suppose so.”
“Where they were last night? All that kind of thing?”
“Probably. Well, I can’t tell him much. I went straight up to bed and was
asleep in next to no time.”
Lady Julia did not answer.
“I say, Mother, I suppose you couldn’t let me have a spot of cash. I’m
absolutely broke.”
“No, I couldn’t,” his mother replied decisively. “I’ve got the most frightful
overdraft myself. I don’t know what your father will say when he hears about
it.”
There was a tap at the door and Sir George entered.
“Ah, there you are, Reggie. Will you go down to the library? M. Hercule
Poirot wants to see you.”
Poirot had just concluded an interview with the redoubtable Mrs. Macatta.
A few brief questions had elicited the information that Mrs. Macatta had
gone up to bed just before eleven, and had heard or seen nothing helpful.
Poirot slid gently from the topic of the burglary to more personal matters.
He himself had a great admiration for Lord Mayfield. As a member of the
general public he felt that Lord Mayfield was a truly great man. Of course,
Mrs. Macatta, being in the know, would have a far better means of estimating
that than himself.
“Lord Mayfield has brains,” allowed Mrs. Macatta. “And he has carved
his career out entirely for himself. He owes nothing to hereditary influence.
He has a certain lack of vision, perhaps. In that I find all men sadly alike.
They lack the breadth of a woman’s imagination. Woman, M. Poirot, is going
to be the great force in government in ten years’ time.”
Poirot said that he was sure of it.
He slid to the topic of Mrs. Vanderlyn. Was it true, as he had heard hinted,
that she and Lord Mayfield were very close friends?
“Not in the least. To tell you the truth I was very surprised to meet her
here. Very surprised indeed.”
Poirot invited Mrs. Macatta’s opinion of Mrs. Vanderlyn—and got it.
“One of those absolutely useless women, M. Poirot. Women that make
one despair of one’s own sex! A parasite, first and last a parasite.”
“Men admired her?”
“Men!” Mrs. Macatta spoke the word with contempt. “Men are always
taken in by those very obvious good looks. That boy, now, young Reggie
Carrington, flushing up every time she spoke to him, absurdly flattered by
being taken notice of by her. And the silly way she flattered him too. Praising
his bridge—which actually was far from brilliant.”
“He is not a good player?”
“He made all sorts of mistakes last night.”
“Lady Julia is a good player, is she not?”
“Much too good in my opinion,” said Mrs. Macatta. “It’s almost a
profession with her. She plays morning, noon, and night.”
“For high stakes?”
“Yes, indeed, much higher than I would care to play. Indeed I shouldn’t
consider it right.”
“She makes a good deal of money at the game?”
Mrs. Macatta gave a loud and virtuous snort.
“She reckons on paying her debts that way. But she’s been having a run of
bad luck lately, so I’ve heard. She looked last night as though she had
something on her mind. The evils of gambling, M. Poirot, are only slightly
less than the evils caused by drink. If I had my way this country should be
purified—”
Poirot was forced to listen to a somewhat lengthy discussion on the
purification of England’s morals. Then he closed the conversation adroitly
and sent for Reggie Carrington.
He summed the young man up carefully as he entered the room, the weak
mouth camouflaged by the rather charming smile, the indecisive chin, the
eyes set far apart, the rather narrow head. He thought that he knew Reggie
Carrington’s type fairly well.
“Mr. Reggie Carrington?”
“Yes. Anything I can do?”
“Just tell me what you can about last night?”
“Well, let me see, we played bridge—in the drawing room. After that I
went up to bed.”
“That was at what time?”
“Just before eleven. I suppose the robbery took place after that?”
“Yes, after that. You did not hear or see anything?”
Reggie shook his head regretfully.
“I’m afraid not. I went straight to bed and I sleep pretty soundly.”
“You went straight up from the drawing room to your bedroom and
remained there until the morning?”
“That’s right.”
“Curious,” said Poirot.
Reggie said sharply:
“What do you mean, curious?”
“You did not, for instance, hear a scream?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Ah, very curious.”
“Look here, I don’t know what you mean.”
“You are, perhaps, slightly deaf?”
“Certainly not.”
Poirot’s lips moved. It was possible that he was repeating the word
curious for the third time. Then he said:
“Well, thank you, Mr. Carrington, that is all.”
Reggie got up and stood rather irresolutely.
“You know,” he said, “now you come to mention it, I believe I did hear
something of the kind.”
“Ah, you did hear something?”
“Yes, but you see, I was reading a book—a detective story as a matter of
fact—and I—well, I didn’t really quite take it in.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “a most satisfying explanation.”
His face was quite impassive.
Reggie still hesitated, then he turned and walked slowly to the door. There
he paused and asked:
“I say, what was stolen?”
“Something of great value, Mr. Carrington. That is all I am at liberty to
say.”
“Oh,” said Reggie rather blankly.
He went out.
Poirot nodded his head.
“It fits,” he murmured. “It fits very nicely.”
He touched a bell and inquired courteously if Mrs. Vanderlyn was up yet.
VII
Mrs. Vanderlyn swept into the room looking very handsome. She was wearing
an artfully-cut russet sports suit that showed up the warm lights of her hair.
She swept to a chair and smiled in a dazzling fashion at the little man in front
of her.
For a moment something showed through the smile. It might have been
triumph, it might almost have been mockery. It was gone almost immediately,
but it had been there. Poirot found the suggestion of it interesting.
“Burglars? Last night? But how dreadful! Why no, I never heard a thing.
What about the police? Can’t they do anything?”
Again, just for a moment, the mockery showed in her eyes.
Hercule Poirot thought:
“It is very clear that you are not afraid of the police, my lady. You know
very well that they are not going to be called in.”
And from that followed—what?
He said soberly:
“You comprehend, madame, it is an affair of the most discreet.”
“Why, naturally, M.—Poirot—isn’t it?—I shouldn’t dream of breathing a
word. I’m much too great an admirer of dear Lord Mayfield’s to do anything
to cause him the least little bit of worry.”
She crossed her knees. A highly-polished slipper of brown leather dangled
on the tip of her silk-shod foot.
She smiled, a warm, compelling smile of perfect health and deep
satisfaction.
“Do tell me if there’s anything at all I can do?”
“I thank you, madame. You played bridge in the drawing room last
night?”
“Yes.”
“I understand that then all the ladies went up to bed?”
“That is right.”
“But someone came back to fetch a book. That was you, was it not, Mrs.
Vanderlyn?”
“I was the first one to come back—yes.”
“What do you mean—the first one?” said Poirot sharply.
“I came back right away,” explained Mrs. Vanderlyn. “Then I went up and
rang for my maid. She was a long time in coming. I rang again. Then I went
out on the landing. I heard her voice and I called her. After she had brushed
my hair I sent her away, she was in a nervous, upset state and tangled the
brush in my hair once or twice. It was then, just as I sent her away, that I saw
Lady Julia coming up the stairs. She told me she had been down again for a
book, too. Curious, wasn’t it?”
Mrs. Vanderlyn smiled as she finished, a wide, rather feline smile. Hercule
Poirot thought to himself that Mrs. Vanderlyn did not like Lady Julia
Carrington.
“As you say, madame. Tell me, did you hear your maid scream?”
“Why, yes, I did hear something of that kind.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
“Yes. She told me she thought she had seen a floating figure in white—
such nonsense!”
“What was Lady Julia wearing last night?”
“Oh, you think perhaps—Yes, I see. She was wearing a white evening
dress. Of course, that explains it. She must have caught sight of her in the
darkness just as a white figure. These girls are so superstitious.”
“Your maid has been with you a long time, madame?”
“Oh, no.” Mrs. Vanderlyn opened her eyes rather wide. “Only about five
months.”
“I should like to see her presently, if you do not mind, madame.”
Mrs. Vanderlyn raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, certainly,” she said rather coldly.
“I should like, you understand, to question her.”
“Oh, yes.”
Again a flicker of amusement.
Poirot rose and bowed.
“Madame,” he said. “You have my complete admiration.”
Mrs. Vanderlyn for once seemed a trifle taken aback.
“Oh, M. Poirot, how nice of you, but why?”
“You are, madame, so perfectly armoured, so completely sure of
yourself.”
Mrs. Vanderlyn laughed a little uncertainly.
“Now I wonder,” she said, “if I am to take that as a compliment?”
Poirot said:
“It is, perhaps, a warning—not to treat life with arrogance.”
Mrs. Vanderlyn laughed with more assurance. She got up and held out a
hand.
“Dear M. Poirot, I do wish you all success. Thank you for all the
charming things you have said to me.”
She went out. Poirot murmured to himself:
“You wish me success, do you? Ah, but you are very sure I am not going
to meet with success! Yes, you are very sure indeed. That, it annoys me very
much.”
With a certain petulance, he pulled the bell and asked that Mademoiselle
Leonie might be sent to him.
His eyes roamed over her appreciatively as she stood hesitating in the
doorway, demure in her black dress with her neatly parted black waves of hair
and her modestly-dropped eyelids. He nodded slow approval.
“Come in, Mademoiselle Leonie,” he said. “Do not be afraid.”
She came in and stood demurely before him.
“Do you know,” said Poirot with a sudden change of tone, “that I find you
very good to look at.”
Leonie responded promptly. She flashed him a glance out of the corner of
her eyes and murmured softly:
“Monsieur is very kind.”
“Figure to yourself,” said Poirot. “I demand of M. Carlile whether you are
or not good-looking and he replies that he does not know!”
Leonie cocked her chin up contemptuously.
“That image!”
“That describes him very well.”
“I do not believe he has ever looked at a girl in his life, that one.”
“Probably not. A pity. He has missed a lot. But there are others in this
house who are more appreciative, is it not so?”
“Really, I do not know what monsieur means.”
“Oh, yes, Mademoiselle Leonie, you know very well. A pretty history that
you recount last night about a ghost that you have seen. As soon as I hear that
you are standing there with your hands to your head, I know very well that
there is no question of ghosts. If a girl is frightened she clasps her heart, or
she raises her hands to her mouth to stifle a cry, but if her hands are on her
hair it means something very different. It means that her hair has been ruffled
and that she is hastily getting it into shape again! Now then, mademoiselle,
let us have the truth. Why did you scream on the stairs?”
“But monsieur it is true, I saw a tall figure all in white—”
“Mademoiselle, do not insult my intelligence. That story, it may have
been good enough for M. Carlile, but it is not good enough for Hercule Poirot.
The truth is that you had just been kissed, is it not so? And I will make a
guess that it was M. Reggie Carrington who kissed you.”
Leonie twinkled an unabashed eye at him.
“Eh bien,” she demanded, “after all, what is a kiss?”
“What, indeed?” said Poirot gallantly.
“You see, the young gentleman he came up behind me and caught me
round the waist—and so naturally he startled me and I screamed. If I had
known—well, then naturally I would not have screamed.”
“Naturally,” agreed Poirot.
“But he came upon me like a cat. Then the study door opened and out
came M. le secrétaire and the young gentleman slipped away upstairs and
there I was looking like a fool. Naturally I had to say something—especially
to—” she broke into French, “un jeune homme comme ça, tellement comme il
faut!”
“So you invent a ghost?”
“Indeed, monsieur, it was all I could think of. A tall figure all in white,
that floated. It is ridiculous but what else could I do?”
“Nothing. So now, all is explained. I had my suspicions from the first.”
Leonie shot him a provocative glance.
“Monsieur is very clever, and very sympathetic.”
“And since I am not going to make you any embarrassments over the
affair you will do something for me in return?”
“Most willingly, monsieur.”
“How much do you know of your mistress’s affairs?”
The girl shrugged her shoulders.
“Not very much, monsieur. I have my ideas, of course.”
“And those ideas?”
“Well, it does not escape me that the friends of madame are always
soldiers or sailors or airmen. And then there are other friends—foreign
gentlemen who come to see her very quietly sometimes. Madame is very
handsome, though I do not think she will be so much longer. The young men,
they find her very attractive. Sometimes I think, they say too much. But it is
only my idea, that. Madame does not confide in me.”
“What you would have me to understand is that madame plays a lone
hand?”
“That is right, monsieur.”
“In other words, you cannot help me.”
“I fear not, monsieur. I would do if I could.”
“Tell me, your mistress is in a good mood today?”
“Decidedly, monsieur.”
“Something has happened to please her?”
“She has been in good spirits ever since she came here.”
“Well, Leonie, you should know.”
The girl answered confidently:
“Yes, monsieur. I could not be mistaken there. I know all madame’s
moods. She is in high spirits.”
“Positively triumphant?”
“That is exactly the word, monsieur.”
Poirot nodded gloomily.
“I find that—a little hard to bear. Yet I perceive that it is inevitable. Thank
you, mademoiselle, that is all.”
Leonie threw him a coquettish glance.
“Thank you, monsieur. If I meet monsieur on the stairs, be well-assured
that I shall not scream.”
“My child,” said Poirot with dignity. “I am of advanced years. What have
I to do with such frivolities?”
But with a little twitter of laughter, Leonie took herself off.
Poirot paced slowly up and down the room. His face became grave and
anxious.
“And now,” he said at last, “for Lady Julia. What will she say, I wonder?”
Lady Julia came into the room with a quiet air of assurance. She bent her
head graciously, accepted the chair that Poirot drew forward and spoke in a
low, well-bred voice.
“Lord Mayfield says that you wish to ask me some questions.”
“Yes, madame. It is about last night.”
“About last night, yes?”
“What happened after you had finished your game of bridge?”
“My husband thought it was too late to begin another. I went up to bed.”
“And then?”
“I went to sleep.”
“That is all?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything of much interest. When did
this”—she hesitated—“burglary occur?”
“Very soon after you went upstairs.”
“I see. And what exactly was taken?”
“Some private papers, madame.”
“Important papers?”
“Very important.”
She frowned a little and then said:
“They were—valuable?”
“Yes, madame, they were worth a good deal of money.”
“I see.”
There was a pause, and then Poirot said:
“What about your book, madame?”
“My book?” She raised bewildered eyes to him.
“Yes, I understand Mrs. Vanderlyn to say that some time after you three
ladies had retired you went down again to fetch a book.”
“Yes, of course, so I did.”
“So that, as a matter of fact, you did not go straight to bed when you went
upstairs? You returned to the drawing room?”
“Yes, that is true. I had forgotten.”
“While you were in the drawing room, did you hear someone scream?”
“No—yes—I don’t think so.”
“Surely, madame. You could not have failed to hear it in the drawing
room.”
Lady Julia flung her head back and said firmly:
“I heard nothing.”
Poirot raised his eyebrows, but did not reply.
The silence grew uncomfortable. Lady Julia asked abruptly:
“What is being done?”
“Being done? I do not understand you, madame.”
“I mean about the robbery. Surely the police must be doing something.”
Poirot shook his head.
“The police have not been called in. I am in charge.”
She stared at him, her restless haggard face sharpened and tense. Her eyes,
dark and searching, sought to pierce his impassivity.
They fell at last—defeated.
“You cannot tell me what is being done?”
“I can only assure you, madame, that I am leaving no stone unturned.”
“To catch the thief—or to—recover the papers?”
“The recovery of the papers is the main thing, madame.”
Her manner changed. It became bored, listless.
“Yes,” she said indifferently. “I suppose it is.”
There was another pause.
“Is there anything else, M. Poirot?”
“No, madame. I will not detain you further.”
“Thank you.”
He opened the door for her. She passed out without glancing at him.
Poirot went back to the fireplace and carefully rearranged the ornaments
on the mantelpiece. He was still at it when Lord Mayfield came in through the
window.
“Well?” said the latter.
“Very well, I think. Events are shaping themselves as they should.”
Lord Mayfield said, staring at him:
“You are pleased.”
“No, I am not pleased. But I am content.”
“Really, M. Poirot, I cannot make you out.”
“I am not such a charlatan as you think.”
“I never said—”
“No, but you thought! No matter. I am not offended. It is sometimes
necessary for me to adopt a certain pose.”
Lord Mayfield looked at him doubtfully with a certain amount of distrust.
Hercule Poirot was a man he did not understand. He wanted to despise him,
but something warned him that this ridiculous little man was not so futile as
he appeared. Charles McLaughlin had always been able to recognize
capability when he saw it.
“Well,” he said, “we are in your hands. What do you advise next?”
“Can you get rid of your guests?”
“I think it might be arranged . . . I could explain that I have to go to
London over this affair. They will then probably offer to leave.”
“Very good. Try and arrange it like that.”
Lord Mayfield hesitated.
“You don’t think—?”
“I am quite sure that that would be the wise course to take.”
Lord Mayfield shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, if you say so.”
He went out.
VIII
The guests left after lunch. Mrs. Vanderlyn and Mrs. Macatta went by train,
the Carringtons had their car. Poirot was standing in the hall as Mrs.
Vanderlyn bade her host a charming farewell.
“So terribly sorry for you having this bother and anxiety. I do hope it will
turn out all right for you. I shan’t breathe a word of anything.”
She pressed his hand and went out to where the Rolls was waiting to take
her to the station. Mrs. Macatta was already inside. Her adieu had been curt
and unsympathetic.
Suddenly Leonie, who had been getting in front with the chauffeur, came
running back into the hall.
“The dressing case of madame, it is not in the car,” she exclaimed.
There was a hurried search. At last Lord Mayfield discovered it where it
had been put down in the shadow of an old oak chest. Leonie uttered a glad
little cry as she seized the elegant affair of green morocco, and hurried out
with it.
Then Mrs. Vanderlyn leaned out of the car.
“Lord Mayfield, Lord Mayfield.” She handed him a letter. “Would you
mind putting this in your postbag? If I keep it meaning to post it in town, I’m
sure to forget. Letters just stay in my bag for days.”
Sir George Carrington was fidgeting with his watch, opening and shutting
it. He was a maniac for punctuality.
“They’re cutting it fine,” he murmured. “Very fine. Unless they’re careful,
they’ll miss the train—”
His wife said irritably:
“Oh, don’t fuss, George. After all, it’s their train, not ours!”
He looked at her reproachfully.
The Rolls drove off.
Reggie drew up at the front door in the Carringtons’ Morris.
“All ready, Father,” he said.
The servants began bringing out the Carringtons’ luggage. Reggie
supervised its disposal in the dickey.
Poirot moved out of the front door, watching the proceedings.
Suddenly he felt a hand on his arm. Lady Julia’s voice spoke in an
agitated whisper.
“M. Poirot. I must speak to you—at once.”
He yielded to her insistent hand. She drew him into a small morning room
and closed the door. She came close to him.
“Is it true what you said—that the discovery of the papers is what matters
most to Lord Mayfield?”
Poirot looked at her curiously.
“It is quite true, madame.”
“If—if those papers were returned to you, would you undertake that they
should be given back to Lord Mayfield, and no question asked?”
“I am not sure that I understand you.”
“You must! I am sure that you do! I am suggesting that the—the thief
should remain anonymous if the papers are returned.”
Poirot asked:
“How soon would that be, madame?”
“Definitely within twelve hours.”
“You can promise that?”
“I can promise it.”
As he did not answer, she repeated urgently:
“Will you guarantee that there will be no publicity?”
He answered then—very gravely:
“Yes, madame, I will guarantee that.”
“Then everything can be arranged.”
She passed abruptly from the room. A moment later Poirot heard the car
drive away.
He crossed the hall and went along the passage to the study. Lord
Mayfield was there. He looked up as Poirot entered.
“Well?” he said.
Poirot spread out his hands.
“The case is ended, Lord Mayfield.”
“What?”
Poirot repeated word for word the scene between himself and Lady Julia.
Lord Mayfield looked at him with a stupefied expression.
“But what does it mean? I don’t understand.”
“It is very clear, is it not? Lady Julia knows who stole the plans.”
“You don’t mean she took them herself?”
“Certainly not. Lady Julia may be a gambler. She is not a thief. But if she
offers to return the plans, it means that they were taken by her husband or her
son. Now Sir George Carrington was out on the terrace with you. That leaves
us the son. I think I can reconstruct the happenings of last night fairly
accurately. Lady Julia went to her son’s room last night and found it empty.
She came downstairs to look for him, but did not find him. This morning she
hears of the theft, and she also hears that her son declares that he went straight
to his room and never left it. That, she knows, is not true. And she knows
something else about her son. She knows that he is weak, that he is
desperately hard up for money. She has observed his infatuation for Mrs.
Vanderlyn. The whole thing is clear to her. Mrs. Vanderlyn has persuaded
Reggie to steal the plans. But she determines to play her part also. She will
tackle Reggie, get hold of the papers and return them.”
“But the whole thing is quite impossible,” cried Lord Mayfield.
“Yes, it is impossible, but Lady Julia does not know that. She does not
know what I, Hercule Poirot, know, that young Reggie Carrington was not
stealing papers last night, but instead was philandering with Mrs. Vanderlyn’s
French maid.”
“The whole thing is a mare’s nest!”
“Exactly.”
“And the case is not ended at all!”
“Yes, it is ended. I, Hercule Poirot, know the truth. You do not believe
me? You did not believe me yesterday when I said I knew where the plans
were. But I did know. They were very close at hand.”
“Where?”
“They were in your pocket, my lord.”
There was a pause, then Lord Mayfield said:
“Do you really know what you are saying, M. Poirot?”
“Yes, I know. I know that I am speaking to a very clever man. From the
first it worried me that you, who were admittedly shortsighted, should be so
positive about the figure you had seen leaving the window. You wanted that
solution—the convenient solution—to be accepted. Why? Later, one by one, I
eliminated everyone else. Mrs. Vanderlyn was upstairs, Sir George was with
you on the terrace, Reggie Carrington was with the French girl on the stairs,
Mrs. Macatta was blamelessly in her bedroom. (It is next to the housekeeper’s
room, and Mrs. Macatta snores!) Lady Julia clearly believed her son guilty.
So there remained only two possibilities. Either Carlile did not put the papers
on the desk but into his own pocket (and that is not reasonable, because, as
you pointed out, he could have taken a tracing of them), or else—or else the
plans were there when you walked over to the desk, and the only place they
could have gone was into your pocket. In that case everything was clear. Your
insistence on the figure you had seen, your insistence on Carlile’s innocence,
your disinclination to have me summoned.
“One thing did puzzle me—the motive. You were, I was convinced, an
honest man, a man of integrity. That showed in your anxiety that no innocent
person should be suspected. It was also obvious that the theft of the plans
might easily affect your career unfavourably. Why, then, this wholly
unreasonable theft? And at last the answer came to me. The crisis in your
career, some years ago, the assurances given to the world by the Prime
Minister that you had had no negotiations with the power in question.
Suppose that that was not strictly true, that there remained some record—a
letter, perhaps—showing that in actual fact you had done what you had
publicly denied. Such a denial was necessary in the interests of public policy.
But it is doubtful if the man in the street would see it that way. It might mean
that at the moment when supreme power might be given into your hands,
some stupid echo from the past would undo everything.
“I suspect that that letter has been preserved in the hands of a certain
government, that that government offered to trade with you—the letter in
exchange for the plans of the new bomber. Some men would have refused.
You—did not! You agreed. Mrs. Vanderlyn was the agent in the matter. She
came here by arrangement to make the exchange. You gave yourself away
when you admitted that you had formed no definite stratagem for entrapping
her. That admission made your reason for inviting her here incredibly weak.
“You arranged the robbery. Pretended to see the thief on the terrace—
thereby clearing Carlile of suspicion. Even if he had not left the room, the
desk was so near the window that a thief might have taken the plans while
Carlile was busy at the safe with his back turned. You walked over to the
desk, took the plans and kept them on your own person until the moment
when, by prearranged plan, you slipped them into Mrs. Vanderlyn’s dressing
case. In return she handed you the fatal letter disguised as an unposted letter
of her own.”
Poirot stopped.
Lord Mayfield said:
“Your knowledge is very complete, M. Poirot. You must think me an
unutterable skunk.”
Poirot made a quick gesture.
“No, no, Lord Mayfield. I think, as I said, that you are a very clever man.
It came to me suddenly as we talked here last night. You are a first-class
engineer. There will be, I think, some subtle alterations in the specifications of
that bomber, alterations done so skilfully that it will be difficult to grasp why
the machine is not the success it ought to be. A certain foreign power will find
the type a failure . . . It will be a disappointment to them, I am sure. . . .”
Again there was a silence—then Lord Mayfield said:
“You are much too clever, M. Poirot. I will only ask you to believe one
thing. I have faith in myself. I believe that I am the man to guide England
through the days of crisis that I see coming. If I did not honestly believe that I
am needed by my country to steer the ship of state, I would not have done
what I have done—made the best of both worlds—saved myself from disaster
by a clever trick.”
“My lord,” said Poirot, “if you could not make the best of both worlds,
you could not be a politician!”
Twenty
THE ADVENTURE OF THE CLAPHAM COOK
“The Adventure of the Clapham Cook” was first published in The Sketch, November 14,
1923.
I
At the time that I was sharing rooms with my friend Hercule Poirot, it was
my custom to read aloud to him the headlines in the morning newspaper, the
Daily Blare.
The Daily Blare was a paper that made the most of any opportunity for
sensationalism. Robberies and murders did not lurk obscurely in its back
pages. Instead they hit you in the eye in large type on the front page.
ABSCONDING BANK CLERK DISAPPEARS WITH FIFTY THOUSAND POUNDS’
WORTH OF NEGOTIABLE SECURITIES,
I read.
HUSBAND PUTS HIS HEAD IN GAS-OVEN. UNHAPPY HOME LIFE. MISSING
TYPIST. PRETTY GIRL OF TWENTY-ONE. WHERE IS EDNA FIELD?
“There you are, Poirot, plenty to choose from. An absconding bank clerk,
a mysterious suicide, a missing typist—which will you have?”
My friend was in a placid mood. He quietly shook his head.
“I am not greatly attracted to any of them, mon ami. Today I feel inclined
for the life of ease. It would have to be a very interesting problem to tempt me
from my chair. See you, I have affairs of importance of my own to attend to.”
“Such as?”
“My wardrobe, Hastings. If I mistake not, there is on my new grey suit the
spot of grease—only the unique spot, but it is sufficient to trouble me. Then
there is my winter overcoat—I must lay him aside in the powder of Keatings.
And I think—yes, I think—the moment is ripe for the trimmings of my
moustaches—and afterwards I must apply the pomade.”
“Well,” I said, strolling to the window, “I doubt if you’ll be able to carry
out this delirious programme. That was a ring at the bell. You have a client.”
“Unless the affair is one of national importance, I touch it not,” declared
Poirot with dignity.
A moment later our privacy was invaded by a stout red-faced lady who
panted audibly as a result of her rapid ascent of the stairs.
“You’re M. Poirot?” she demanded, as she sank into a chair.
“I am Hercule Poirot, yes, madame.”
“You’re not a bit like what I thought you’d be,” said the lady, eyeing him
with some disfavour. “Did you pay for the bit in the paper saying what a
clever detective you were, or did they put it in themselves?”
“Madame!” said Poirot, drawing himself up.
“I’m sorry, I’m sure, but you know what these papers are nowadays. You
begin reading a nice article: ‘What a bride said to her plain unmarried friend,’
and it’s all about a simple thing you buy at the chemist’s and shampoo your
hair with. Nothing but puff. But no offence taken, I hope? I’ll tell you what I
want you to do for me. I want you to find my cook.”
Poirot stared at her; for once his ready tongue failed him. I turned aside to
hide the broadening smile I could not control.
“It’s all this wicked dole,” continued the lady. “Putting ideas into servants’
heads, wanting to be typists and what nots. Stop the dole, that’s what I say. I’d
like to know what my servants have to complain of—afternoon and evening
off a week, alternate Sundays, washing put out, same food as we have—and
never a bit of margarine in the house, nothing but the very best butter.”
She paused for want of breath and Poirot seized his opportunity. He spoke
in his haughtiest manner, rising to his feet as he did so.
“I fear you are making a mistake, madame. I am not holding an inquiry
into the conditions of domestic service. I am a private detective.”
“I know that,” said our visitor. “Didn’t I tell you I wanted you to find my
cook for me? Walked out of the house on Wednesday, without so much as a
word to me, and never came back.”
“I am sorry, madame, but I do not touch this particular kind of business. I
wish you good morning.”
Our visitor snorted with indignation.
“That’s it, is it, my fine fellow? Too proud, eh? Only deal with
Government secrets and countesses’ jewels? Let me tell you a servant’s every
bit as important as a tiara to a woman in my position. We can’t all be fine
ladies going out in our motors with our diamonds and our pearls. A good
cook’s a good cook—and when you lose her, it’s as much to you as her pearls
are to some fine lady.”
For a moment or two it appeared to be a toss up between Poirot’s dignity
and his sense of humour. Finally he laughed and sat down again.
“Madame, you are in the right, and I am in the wrong. Your remarks are
just and intelligent. This case will be a novelty. Never yet have I hunted a
missing domestic. Truly here is the problem of national importance that I was
demanding of fate just before your arrival. En avant! You say this jewel of a
cook went out on Wednesday and did not return. That is the day before
yesterday.”
“Yes, it was her day out.”
“But probably, madame, she has met with some accident. Have you
inquired at any of the hospitals?”
“That’s exactly what I thought yesterday, but this morning, if you please,
she sent for her box. And not so much as a line to me! If I’d been at home, I’d
not have let it go—treating me like that! But I’d just stepped out to the
butcher.”
“Will you describe her to me?”
“She was middle-aged, stout, black hair turning grey—most respectable.
She’d been ten years in her last place. Eliza Dunn, her name was.”
“And you had had—no disagreement with her on the Wednesday?”
“None whatsoever. That’s what makes it all so queer.”
“How many servants do you keep, madame?”
“Two. The house-parlourmaid, Annie, is a very nice girl. A bit forgetful
and her head full of young men, but a good servant if you keep her up to her
work.”
“Did she and the cook get on well together?”
“They had their ups and downs, of course—but on the whole, very well.”
“And the girl can throw no light on the mystery?”
“She says not—but you know what servants are—they all hang together.”
“Well, well, we must look into this. Where did you say you resided,
madame?”
“At Clapham; 88 Prince Albert Road.”
“Bien, madame, I will wish you good morning, and you may count upon
seeing me at your residence during the course of the day.”
Mrs. Todd, for such was our new friend’s name, then took her departure.
Poirot looked at me somewhat ruefully.
“Well, well, Hastings, this is a novel affair that we have here. The
Disappearance of the Clapham Cook! Never, never, must our friend Inspector
Japp get to hear of this!”
He then proceeded to heat an iron and carefully removed the grease spot
from his grey suit by means of a piece of blotting paper. His moustaches he
regretfully postponed to another day, and we set out for Clapham.
Prince Albert Road proved to be a street of small prim houses, all exactly
alike, with neat lace curtains veiling the windows, and well-polished brass
knockers on the doors.
We rang the bell at No. 88, and the door was opened by a neat maid with a
pretty face. Mrs. Todd came out in the hall to greet us.
“Don’t go, Annie,” she cried. “This gentleman’s a detective and he’ll want
to ask you some questions.”
Annie’s face displayed a struggle between alarm and a pleasurable
excitement.
“I thank you, madame,” said Poirot bowing. “I would like to question
your maid now—and to see her alone, if I may.”
We were shown into a small drawing room, and when Mrs. Todd, with
obvious reluctance, had left the room, Poirot commenced his crossexamination.
“Voyons, Mademoiselle Annie, all that you shall tell us will be of the
greatest importance. You alone can shed any light on the case. Without your
assistance I can do nothing.”
The alarm vanished from the girl’s face and the pleasurable excitement
became more strongly marked.
“I’m sure, sir,” she said, “I’ll tell you anything I can.”
“That is good.” Poirot beamed approval on her. “Now, first of all what is
your own idea? You are a girl of remarkable intelligence. That can be seen at
once! What is your own explanation of Eliza’s disappearance?”
Thus encouraged, Annie fairly flowed into excited speech.
“White slavers, sir, I’ve said so all along! Cook was always warning me
against them. ‘Don’t you sniff no scent, or eat any sweets—no matter how
gentlemanly the fellow!’ Those were her words to me. And now they’ve got
her! I’m sure of it. As likely as not, she’s been shipped to Turkey or one of
them Eastern places where I’ve heard they like them fat!”
Poirot preserved an admirable gravity.
“But in that case—and it is indeed an idea!—would she have sent for her
trunk?”
“Well, I don’t know, sir. She’d want her things—even in those foreign
places.”
“Who came for the trunk—a man?”
“It was Carter Paterson, sir.”
“Did you pack it?”
“No, sir, it was already packed and corded.”
“Ah! That’s interesting. That shows that when she left the house on
Wednesday, she had already determined not to return. You see that, do you
not?”
“Yes, sir.” Annie looked slightly taken aback. “I hadn’t thought of that.
But it might still have been white slavers, mightn’t it, sir?” she added
wistfully.
“Undoubtedly!” said Poirot gravely. He went on: “Did you both occupy
the same bedroom?”
“No, sir, we had separate rooms.”
“And had Eliza expressed any dissatisfaction with her present post to you
at all? Were you both happy here?”
“She’d never mentioned leaving. The place is all right—” The girl
hesitated.
“Speak freely,” said Poirot kindly. “I shall not tell your mistress.”
“Well, of course, sir, she’s a caution, Missus is. But the food’s good.
Plenty of it, and no stinting. Something hot for supper, good outings, and as
much frying-fat as you like. And anyway, if Eliza did want to make a change,
she’d never have gone off this way, I’m sure. She’d have stayed her month.
Why, Missus could have a month’s wages out of her for doing this!”
“And the work, it is not too hard?”
“Well, she’s particular—always poking round in corners and looking for
dust. And then there’s the lodger, or paying guest as he’s always called. But
that’s only breakfast and dinner, same as Master. They’re out all day in the
City.”
“You like your master?”
“He’s all right—very quiet and a bit on the stingy side.”
“You can’t remember, I suppose, the last thing Eliza said before she went
out?”
“Yes, I can. ‘If there’s any stewed peaches over from the dining room,’
she says, ‘we’ll have them for supper, and a bit of bacon and some fried
potatoes.’ Mad over stewed peaches, she was. I shouldn’t wonder if they
didn’t get her that way.”
“Was Wednesday her regular day out?”
“Yes, she had Wednesdays and I had Thursdays.”
Poirot asked a few more questions, then declared himself satisfied. Annie
departed, and Mrs. Todd hurried in, her face alight with curiosity. She had, I
felt certain, bitterly resented her exclusion from the room during our
conversation with Annie. Poirot, however, was careful to soothe her feelings
tactfully.
“It is difficult,” he explained, “for a woman of exceptional intelligence
such as yourself, madame, to bear patiently the roundabout methods we poor
detectives are forced to use. To have patience with stupidity is difficult for the
quick-witted.”
Having thus charmed away any little resentment on Mrs. Todd’s part, he
brought the conversation round to her husband and elicited the information
that he worked with a firm in the City and would not be home until after six.
“Doubtless he is very disturbed and worried by this unaccountable
business, eh? It is not so?”
“He’s never worried,” declared Mrs. Todd. “ ‘Well, well, get another, my
dear.’ That’s all he said! He’s so calm that it drives me to distraction
sometimes. ‘An ungrateful woman,’ he said. ‘We are well rid of her.’ ”
“What about the other inmates of the house, madame?”
“You mean Mr. Simpson, our paying guest? Well, as long as he gets his
breakfast and his evening meal all right, he doesn’t worry.”
“What is his profession, madame?”
“He works in a bank.” She mentioned its name, and I started slightly,
remembering my perusal of the Daily Blare.
“A young man?”
“Twenty-eight, I believe. Nice quiet young fellow.”
“I should like to have a few words with him, and also with your husband,
if I may. I will return for that purpose this evening. I venture to suggest that
you should repose yourself a little, madame, you look fatigued.”
“I should just think I am! First the worry about Eliza, and then I was at the
sales practically all yesterday, and you know what that is, M. Poirot, and what
with one thing and another and a lot to do in the house, because of course
Annie can’t do it all—and very likely she’ll give notice anyway, being
unsettled in this way—well, what with it all, I’m tired out!”
Poirot murmured sympathetically, and we took our leave.
“It’s a curious coincidence,” I said, “but that absconding clerk, Davis, was
from the same bank as Simpson. Can there be any connection, do you think?”
Poirot smiled.
“At the one end, a defaulting clerk, at the other a vanishing cook. It is
hard to see any relation between the two, unless possibly Davis visited
Simpson, fell in love with the cook, and persuaded her to accompany him on
his flight!”
I laughed. But Poirot remained grave.
“He might have done worse,” he said reprovingly. “Remember, Hastings,
if you are going into exile, a good cook may be of more comfort than a pretty
face!” He paused for a moment and then went on. “It is a curious case, full of
contradictory features. I am interested—yes, I am distinctly interested.”
II
That evening we returned to 88 Prince Albert Road and interviewed both
Todd and Simpson. The former was a melancholy lantern-jawed man of fortyodd.
“Oh! Yes, yes,” he said vaguely. “Eliza. Yes. A good cook, I believe. And
economical. I make a strong point of economy.”
“Can you imagine any reason for her leaving you so suddenly?”
“Oh, well,” said Mr. Todd vaguely. “Servants, you know. My wife worries
too much. Worn out from always worrying. The whole problem’s quite simple
really. ‘Get another, my dear,’ I say. ‘Get another.’ That’s all there is to it. No
good crying over spilt milk.”
Mr. Simpson was equally unhelpful. He was a quiet inconspicuous young
man with spectacles.
“I must have seen her, I suppose,” he said. “Elderly woman, wasn’t she?
Of course, it’s the other one I see always, Annie. Nice girl. Very obliging.”
“Were those two on good terms with each other?”
Mr. Simpson said he couldn’t say, he was sure. He supposed so.
“Well, we get nothing of interest there, mon ami,” said Poirot as we left
the house. Our departure had been delayed by a burst of vociferous repetition
from Mrs. Todd, who repeated everything she had said that morning at rather
greater length.
“Are you disappointed?” I asked. “Did you expect to hear something?”
Poirot shook his head.
“There was a possibility, of course,” he said. “But I hardly thought it
likely.”
The next development was a letter which Poirot received on the following
morning. He read it, turned purple with indignation, and handed it to me.
Mrs. Todd regrets that after all she will not avail herself of Mr.
Poirot’s services. After talking the matter over with her husband she
sees that it is foolish to call in a detective about a purely domestic
affair. Mrs. Todd encloses a guinea for consultation fee.
III
“Aha!” cried Poirot angrily. “And they think to get rid of Hercule Poirot like
that! As a favour—a great favour—I consent to investigate their miserable
little twopenny-halfpenny affair—and they dismiss me comme ça! Here, I
mistake not, is the hand of Mr. Todd. But I say no!—thirty-six times no! I will
spend my own guineas, thirty-six hundred of them if need be, but I will get to
the bottom of this matter!”
“Yes,” I said. “But how?”
Poirot calmed down a little.
“D’abord,” he said, “we will advertise in the papers. Let me see—yes—
something like this: ‘If Eliza Dunn will communicate with this address, she
will hear of something to her advantage.’ Put it in all the papers you can think
of, Hastings. Then I will make some little inquiries of my own. Go, go—all
must be done as quickly as possible!”
I did not see him again until the evening, when he condescended to tell me
what he had been doing.
“I have made inquiries at the firm of Mr. Todd. He was not absent on
Wednesday, and he bears a good character—so much for him. Then Simpson,
on Thursday he was ill and did not come to the bank, but he was there on
Wednesday. He was moderately friendly with Davis. Nothing out of the
common. There does not seem to be anything there. No. We must place our
reliance on the advertisement.”
The advertisement duly appeared in all the principal daily papers. By
Poirot’s orders it was to be continued every day for a week. His eagerness
over this uninteresting matter of a defaulting cook was extraordinary, but I
realized that he considered it a point of honour to persevere until he finally
succeeded. Several extremely interesting cases were brought to him about this
time, but he declined them all. Every morning he would rush at his letters,
scrutinize them earnestly and then lay them down with a sigh.
But our patience was rewarded at last. On the Wednesday following Mrs.
Todd’s visit, our landlady informed us that a person of the name of Eliza
Dunn had called.
“Enfin!” cried Poirot. “But make her mount then! At once. Immediately.”
Thus admonished, our landlady hurried out and returned a moment or two
later, ushering in Miss Dunn. Our quarry was much as described: tall, stout,
and eminently respectable.
“I came in answer to the advertisement,” she explained. “I thought there
must be some muddle or other, and that perhaps you didn’t know I’d already
got my legacy.”
Poirot was studying her attentively. He drew forward a chair with a
flourish.
“The truth of the matter is,” he explained, “that your late mistress, Mrs.
Todd, was much concerned about you. She feared some accident might have
befallen you.”
Eliza Dunn seemed very much surprised.
“Didn’t she get my letter then?”
“She got no word of any kind.” He paused, and then said persuasively:
“Recount to me the whole story, will you not?”
Eliza Dunn needed no encouragement. She plunged at once into a lengthy
narrative.
“I was just coming home on Wednesday night and had nearly got to the
house, when a gentleman stopped me. A tall gentleman he was, with a beard
and a big hat. ‘Miss Eliza Dunn?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve been inquiring
for you at No. 88,’ he said. ‘They told me I might meet you coming along
here. Miss Dunn, I have come from Australia specially to find you. Do you
happen to know the maiden name of your maternal grandmother?’ ‘Jane
Emmott,’ I said. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Now, Miss Dunn, although you may
never have heard of the fact, your grandmother had a great friend, Eliza
Leech. This friend went to Australia where she married a very wealthy settler.
Her two children died in infancy, and she inherited all her husband’s property.
She died a few months ago, and by her will you inherit a house in this country
and a considerable sum of money.’
“You could have knocked me down with a feather,” continued Miss Dunn.
“For a minute, I was suspicious, and he must have seen it, for he smiled.
‘Quite right to be on your guard, Miss Dunn,’ he said. ‘Here are my
credentials.’ He handed me a letter from some lawyers in Melbourne, Hurst
and Crotchet, and a card. He was Mr. Crotchet. ‘There are one or two
conditions,’ he said. ‘Our client was a little eccentric, you know. The bequest
is conditional on your taking possession of the house (it is in Cumberland)
before twelve o’clock tomorrow. The other condition is of no importance—it
is merely a stipulation that you should not be in domestic service.’ My face
fell. ‘Oh, Mr. Crotchet,’ I said. ‘I’m a cook. Didn’t they tell you at the house?’
‘Dear, dear,’ he said. ‘I had no idea of such a thing. I thought you might
possibly be a companion or governess there. This is very unfortunate—very
unfortunate indeed.’
“ ‘Shall I have to lose all the money?’ I said, anxious like. He thought for
a minute or two. ‘There are always ways of getting round the law, Miss
Dunn,’ he said at last. ‘We as lawyers know that. The way out here is for you
to have left your employment this afternoon.’ ‘But my month?’ I said. ‘My
dear Miss Dunn,’ he said with a smile. ‘You can leave an employer any
minute by forfeiting a month’s wages. Your mistress will understand in view
of the circumstances. The difficulty is time! It is imperative that you should
catch the 11.05 from King’s Cross to the north. I can advance you ten pounds
or so for the fare, and you can write a note at the station to your employer. I
will take it to her myself and explain the whole circumstances.’ I agreed, of
course, and an hour later I was in the train, so flustered that I didn’t know
whether I was on my head or heels. Indeed by the time I got to Carlisle, I was
half inclined to think the whole thing was one of those confidence tricks you
read about. But I went to the address he had given me—solicitors they were,
and it was all right. A nice little house, and an income of three hundred a year.
These lawyers knew very little, they’d just got a letter from a gentleman in
London instructing them to hand over the house to me and £150 for the first
six months. Mr. Crotchet sent up my things to me, but there was no word
from Missus. I supposed she was angry and grudged me my bit of luck. She
kept back my box too, and sent my clothes in paper parcels. But there, of
course if she never had my letter, she might think it a bit cool of me.”
Poirot had listened attentively to this long history. Now he nodded his
head as though completely satisfied.
“Thank you, mademoiselle. There had been, as you say, a little muddle.
Permit me to recompense you for your trouble.” He handed her an envelope.
“You return to Cumberland immediately? A little word in your ear. Do not
forget how to cook. It is always useful to have something to fall back upon in
case things go wrong.”
“Credulous,” he murmured, as our visitor departed, “but perhaps not more
than most of her class.” His face grew grave. “Come, Hastings, there is no
time to be lost. Get a taxi while I write a note to Japp.”
Poirot was waiting on the doorstep when I returned with the taxi.
“Where are we going?” I asked anxiously.
“First, to despatch this note by special messenger.”
This was done, and reentering the taxi Poirot gave the address to the
driver.
“Eighty-eight Prince Albert Road, Clapham.”
“So we are going there?”
“Mais oui. Though frankly I fear we shall be too late. Our bird will have
flown, Hastings.”
“Who is our bird?”
Poirot smiled.
“The inconspicuous Mr. Simpson.”
“What?” I exclaimed.
“Oh, come now, Hastings, do not tell me that all is not clear to you now!”
“The cook was got out of the way, I realize that,” I said, slightly piqued.
“But why? Why should Simpson wish to get her out of the house? Did she
know something about him?”
“Nothing whatever.”
“Well, then—”
“But he wanted something that she had.”
“Money? The Australian legacy?”
“No, my friend—something quite different.” He paused a moment and
then said gravely: “A battered tin trunk. . . .”
I looked sideways at him. His statement seemed so fantastic that I
suspected him of pulling my leg, but he was perfectly grave and serious.
“Surely he could buy a trunk if he wanted one,” I cried.
“He did not want a new trunk. He wanted a trunk of pedigree. A trunk of
assured respectability.”
“Look here, Poirot,” I cried, “this really is a bit thick. You’re pulling my
leg.”
He looked at me.
“You lack the brains and the imagination of Mr. Simpson, Hastings. See
here: On Wednesday evening, Simpson decoys away the cook. A printed card
and a printed sheet of notepaper are simple matters to obtain, and he is willing
to pay £150 and a year’s house rent to assure the success of his plan. Miss
Dunn does not recognize him—the beard and the hat and the slight colonial
accent completely deceive her. That is the end of Wednesday—except for the
trifling fact that Simpson has helped himself to fifty thousand pounds’ worth
of negotiable securities.”
“Simpson—but it was Davis—”
“If you will kindly permit me to continue, Hastings! Simpson knows that
the theft will be discovered on Thursday afternoon. He does not go to the
bank on Thursday, but he lies in wait for Davis when he comes out to lunch.
Perhaps he admits the theft and tells Davis he will return the securities to him
—anyhow he succeeds in getting Davis to come to Clapham with him. It is
the maid’s day out, and Mrs. Todd was at the sales, so there is no one in the
house. When the theft is discovered and Davis is missing, the implication will
be overwhelming. Davis is the thief! Mr. Simpson will be perfectly safe, and
can return to work on the morrow like the honest clerk they think him.”
“And Davis?”
Poirot made an expressive gesture, and slowly shook his head.
“It seems too cold-blooded to be believed, and yet what other explanation
can there be, mon ami. The one difficulty for a murderer is the disposal of the
body—and Simpson had planned that out beforehand. I was struck at once by
the fact that although Eliza Dunn obviously meant to return that night when
she went out (witness her remark about the stewed peaches) yet her trunk was
all ready packed when they came for it. It was Simpson who sent word to
Carter Paterson to call on Friday and it was Simpson who corded up the box
on Thursday afternoon. What suspicion could possibly arise? A maid leaves
and sends for her box, it is labelled and addressed ready in her name,
probably to a railway station within easy reach of London. On Saturday
afternoon, Simpson, in his Australian disguise, claims it, he affixes a new
label and address and redespatches it somewhere else, again ‘to be left till
called for.’ When the authorities get suspicious, for excellent reasons, and
open it, all that can be elicited will be that a bearded colonial despatched it
from some junction near London. There will be nothing to connect it with 88
Prince Albert Road. Ah! Here we are.”
Poirot’s prognostications had been correct. Simpson had left days
previously. But he was not to escape the consequences of his crime. By the
aid of wireless, he was discovered on the Olympia, en route to America.
A tin trunk, addressed to Mr. Henry Wintergreen, attracted the attention of
railway officials at Glasgow. It was opened and found to contain the body of
the unfortunate Davis.
Mrs. Todd’s cheque for a guinea was never cashed. Instead Poirot had it
framed and hung on the wall of our sitting room.
“It is to me a little reminder, Hastings. Never to despise the trivial—the
undignified. A disappearing domestic at one end—a cold-blooded murder at
the other. To me, one of the most interesting of my cases.”
Twenty-one
THE LOST MINE
“The Lost Mine” was first published in The Sketch, November 21, 1923.
I laid down my bank book with a sigh.
“It is a curious thing,” I observed, “but my overdraft never seems to grow
any less.”
“And it perturbs you not? Me, if I had an overdraft, never should I close
my eyes all night,” declared Poirot.
“You deal in comfortable balances, I suppose!” I retorted.
“Four hundred and forty-four pounds, four and fourpence,” said Poirot
with some complacency. “A neat figure, is it not?”
“It must be tact on the part of your bank manager. He is evidently
acquainted with your passion for symmetrical details. What about investing,
say, three hundred of it in the Porcupine oil fields? Their prospectus, which is
advertised in the papers today, says that they will pay one hundred per cent
dividends next year.”
“Not for me,” said Poirot, shaking his head. “I like not the sensational. For
me the safe, the prudent investment—les rentes, the consols, the—how do
you call it?—the conversion.”
“Have you never made a speculative investment?”
“No, mon ami,” replied Poirot severely. “I have not. And the only shares I
own which have not what you call the gilded edge are fourteen thousand
shares in the Burma Mines Ltd.”
Poirot paused with an air of waiting to be encouraged to go on.
“Yes?” I prompted.
“And for them I paid no cash—no, they were the reward of the exercise of
my little grey cells. You would like to hear the story? Yes?”
“Of course I would.”
“These mines are situated in the interior of Burma about two hundred
miles inland from Rangoon. They were discovered by the Chinese in the
fifteenth century and worked down to the time of the Mohammedan
Rebellion, being finally abandoned in the year 1868. The Chinese extracted
the rich lead-silver ore from the upper part of the ore body, smelting it for the
silver alone, and leaving large quantities of rich lead-bearing slag. This, of
course, was soon discovered when prospecting work was carried out in
Burma, but owing to the fact that the old workings had become full of loose
filling and water, all attempts to find the source of the ore proved fruitless.
Many parties were sent out by syndicates, and they dug over a large area, but
this rich prize still eluded them. But a representative of one of the syndicates
got on the track of a Chinese family who were supposed to have still kept a
record of the situation of the mine. The present head of the family was one
Wu Ling.”
“What a fascinating page of commercial romance!” I exclaimed.
“Is it not? Ah, mon ami, one can have romance without golden-haired
girls of matchless beauty—no, I am wrong; it is auburn hair that so excites
you always. You remember—”
“Go on with the story,” I said hastily.
“Eh bien, my friend, this Wu Ling was approached. He was an estimable
merchant, much respected in the province where he lived. He admitted at
once that he owned the documents in question, and was perfectly prepared to
negotiate for this sale, but he objected to dealing with anyone other than
principals. Finally it was arranged that he should journey to England and meet
the directors of an important company.
“Wu Ling made the journey to England in the SS Assunta, and the
Assunta docked at Southampton on a cold, foggy morning in November. One
of the directors, Mr. Pearson, went down to Southampton to meet the boat, but
owing to the fog, the train down was very much delayed, and by the time he
arrived, Wu Ling had disembarked and left by special train for London. Mr.
Pearson returned to town somewhat annoyed, as he had no idea where the
Chinaman proposed to stay. Later in the day, however, the offices of the
company were rung up on the telephone. Wu Ling was staying at the Russell
Square Hotel. He was feeling somewhat unwell after the voyage, but declared
himself perfectly able to attend the board meeting on the following day.
“The meeting of the board took place at eleven o’clock. When half past
eleven came, and Wu Ling had not put in an appearance, the secretary rang up
the Russell Hotel. In answer to his inquiries, he was told that the Chinaman
had gone out with a friend about half past ten. It seemed clear that he had
started out with the intention of coming to the meeting, but the morning wore
away, and he did not appear. It was, of course, possible that he had lost his
way, being unacquainted with London, but at a late hour that night he had not
returned to the hotel. Thoroughly alarmed now, Mr. Pearson put matters in the
hands of the police. On the following day, there was still no trace of the
missing man, but towards evening of the day after that again, a body was
found in the Thames which proved to be that of the ill-fated Chinaman.
Neither on the body, nor in the luggage at the hotel, was there any trace of the
papers relating to the mine.
“At this juncture, mon ami, I was brought into the affair. Mr. Pearson
called upon me. While profoundly shocked by the death of Wu Ling, his chief
anxiety was to recover the papers which were the object of the Chinaman’s
visit to England. The main anxiety of the police, of course, would be to track
down the murderer—the recovery of the papers would be a secondary
consideration. What he wanted me to do was to cooperate with the police
while acting in the interests of the company.
“I consented readily enough. It was clear that there were two fields of
search open to me. On the one hand, I might look among the employees of the
company who knew of the Chinaman’s coming; on the other, among the
passengers on the boat who might have been acquainted with his mission. I
started with the second, as being a narrower field of search. In this I coincided
with Inspector Miller, who was in charge of the case—a man altogether
different from our friend Japp, conceited, ill-mannered and quite insufferable.
Together we interviewed the officers of the ship. They had little to tell us. Wu
Ling had kept much to himself on the voyage. He had been intimate with but
two of the other passengers—one a broken-down European named Dyer who
appeared to bear a somewhat unsavoury reputation, the other a young bank
clerk named Charles Lester, who was returning from Hong Kong. We were
lucky enough to obtain snapshots of both these men. At the moment there
seemed little doubt that if either of the two was implicated, Dyer was the man.
He was known to be mixed up with a gang of Chinese crooks, and was
altogether a most likely suspect.
“Our next step was to visit the Russell Square Hotel. Shown a snapshot of
Wu Ling, they recognized him at once. We then showed them the snapshot of
Dyer, but to our disappointment, the hall porter declared positively that that
was not the man who had come to the hotel on the fatal morning. Almost as
an afterthought, I produced the photograph of Lester, and to my surprise the
man at once recognized it.
“ ‘Yes, sir,’ he asserted, ‘that’s the gentleman who came in at half past ten
and asked for Mr. Wu Ling, and afterwards went out with him.’
“The affair was progressing. Our next move was to interview Mr. Charles
Lester. He met us with the utmost frankness, was desolated to hear of the
Chinaman’s untimely death, and put himself at our disposal in every way. His
story was as follows: By arrangement with Wu Ling, he called for him at the
hotel at ten thirty. Wu Ling, however, did not appear. Instead, his servant
came, explained that his master had had to go out, and offered to conduct the
young man to where his master now was. Suspecting nothing, Lester agreed,
and the Chinaman procured a taxi. They drove for some time in the direction
of the docks. Suddenly becoming mistrustful, Lester stopped the taxi and got
out, disregarding the servant’s protests. That, he assured us, was all he knew.
“Apparently satisfied, we thanked him and took our leave. His story was
soon proved to be a somewhat inaccurate one. To begin with, Wu Ling had
had no servant with him, either on the boat or at the hotel. In the second place,
the taxi driver who had driven the two men on that morning came forward.
Far from Lester’s having left the taxi en route, he and the Chinese gentleman
had driven to a certain unsavoury dwelling place in Limehouse, right in the
heart of Chinatown. The place in question was more or less well known as an
opium den of the lowest description. The two gentlemen had gone in—about
an hour later the English gentleman, whom he identified from the photograph,
came out alone. He looked very pale and ill, and directed the taxi man to take
him to the nearest underground station.
“Inquiries were made about Charles Lester’s standing, and it was found
that, though bearing an excellent character, he was heavily in debt, and had a
secret passion for gambling. Dyer, of course, was not lost sight of. It seemed
just faintly possible that he might have impersonated the other man, but that
idea was proved utterly groundless. His alibi for the whole of the day in
question was absolutely unimpeachable. Of course, the proprietor of the
opium den denied everything with Oriental stolidity. He had never seen
Charles Lester. No two gentlemen had been to the place that morning. In any
case, the police were wrong: no opium was ever smoked there.
“His denials, however well meant, did little to help Charles Lester. He was
arrested for the murder of Wu Ling. A search of his effects was made, but no
papers relating to the mine were discovered. The proprietor of the opium den
was also taken into custody, but a cursory raid of his premises yielded
nothing. Not even a stick of opium rewarded the zeal of the police.
“In the meantime my friend Mr. Pearson was in a great state of agitation.
He strode up and down my room, uttering great lamentations.
“ ‘But you must have some ideas, M. Poirot!’ he kept urging. ‘Surely you
must have some ideas!’
“ ‘Certainly I have ideas,’ I replied cautiously. ‘That is the trouble—one
has too many; therefore they all lead in different directions.’
“ ‘For instance?’ he suggested.
“ ‘For instance—the taxi driver. We have only his word for it that he
drove the two men to that house. That is one idea. Then—was it really that
house they went to? Supposing that they left the taxi there, passed through the
house and out by another entrance and went elsewhere?’
“Mr. Pearson seemed struck by that.
“ ‘But you do nothing but sit and think? Can’t we do something?’
“He was of an impatient temperament, you comprehend.
“ ‘Monsieur,’ I said with dignity, ‘It is not for Hercule Poirot to run up and
down the evil-smelling streets of Limehouse like a little dog of no breeding.
Be calm. My agents are at work.’
“On the following day I had news for him. The two men had indeed
passed through the house in question, but their real objective was a small
eating house close to the river. They were seen to pass in there, and Lester
came out alone.
“And then, figure to yourself, Hastings, an idea of the most unreasonable
seized this Mr. Pearson! Nothing would suit him but that we should go
ourselves to this eating house and make investigations. I argued and prayed,
but he would not listen. He talked of disguising himself—he even suggested
that I—I should—I hesitate to say it—should shave off my moustache! Yes,
rien que ça! I pointed out to him that that was an idea ridiculous and absurd.
One destroys not a thing of beauty wantonly. Besides, shall not a Belgian
gentleman with a moustache desire to see life and smoke opium just as readily
as one without a moustache?
“Eh bien, he gave in on that, but he still insisted on his project. He turned
up that evening—Mon dieu, what a figure! He wore what he called the ‘pea
jacket,’ his chin, it was dirty and unshaved; he had a scarf of the vilest that
offended the nose. And figure to yourself, he was enjoying himself! Truly, the
English are mad! He made some changes in my own appearance. I permitted
it. Can one argue with a maniac? We started out—after all, could I let him go
alone, a child dressed up to act the charades?”
“Of course you couldn’t,” I replied.
“To continue—we arrived. Mr. Pearson talked English of the strangest. He
represented himself to be a man of the sea. He talked of ‘lubbers’ and
‘focselles’ and I know not what. It was a low little room with many Chinese
in it. We ate of peculiar dishes. Ah, Dieu, mon estomac!” Poirot clasped that
portion of his anatomy before continuing. “Then there came to us the
proprietor, a Chinaman with a face of evil smiles.
“ ‘You gentlemen no likee food here,’ he said. ‘You come for what you
likee better. Piecee pipe, eh?’
“Mr. Pearson, he gave me the great kick under the table. (He had on the
boots of the sea too!) And he said: ‘I don’t mind if I do, John. Lead ahead.’
“The Chinaman smiled, and he took us through a door and to a cellar and
through a trapdoor, and down some steps and up again into a room all full of
divans and cushions of the most comfortable. We lay down and a Chinese boy
took off our boots. It was the best moment of the evening. Then they brought
us the opium pipes and cooked the opium pills, and we pretended to smoke
and then to sleep and dream. But when we were alone, Mr. Pearson called
softly to me, and immediately he began crawling along the floor. We went
into another room where other people were asleep, and so on, until we heard
two men talking. We stayed behind a curtain and listened. They were
speaking of Wu Ling.
“ ‘What about the papers?’ said one.
“ ‘Mr. Lester, he takee those,’ answered the other, who was a Chinaman.
‘He say, puttee them allee in safee place—where pleeceman no lookee.’
“ ‘Ah, but he’s nabbed,’ said the first one.
“ ‘He gettee free. Pleeceman not sure he done it.’
“There was more of the same kind of thing, then apparently the two men
were coming our way, and we scuttled back to our beds.
“ ‘We’d better get out of here,’ said Pearson, after a few minutes had
elapsed. ‘This place isn’t healthy.’
“ ‘You are right, monsieur,’ I agreed. ‘We have played the farce long
enough.’
“We succeeded in getting away, all right, paying handsomely for our
smoke. Once clear of Limehouse, Pearson drew a long breath.
“ ‘I’m glad to get out of that,’ he said. ‘But it’s something to be sure.’
“ ‘It is indeed,’ I agreed. ‘And I fancy that we shall not have much
difficulty in finding what we want—after this evening’s masquerade.’
“And there was no difficulty whatsoever,” finished Poirot suddenly.
This abrupt ending seemed so extraordinary that I stared at him.
“But—but where were they?” I asked.
“In his pocket—tout simplement.”
“But in whose pocket?”
“Mr. Pearson’s, parbleu!” Then, observing my look of bewilderment, he
continued gently: “You do not yet see it? Mr. Pearson, like Charles Lester,
was in debt. Mr. Pearson, like Charles Lester, was fond of gambling. And he
conceived the idea of stealing the papers from the Chinaman. He met him all
right at Southampton, came up to London with him, and took him straight to
Limehouse. It was foggy that day; the Chinaman would not notice where he
was going. I fancy Mr. Pearson smoked the opium fairly often down there and
had some peculiar friends in consequence. I do not think he meant murder.
His idea was that one of the Chinamen should impersonate Wu Ling and
receive the money for the sale of the document. So far, so good! But, to the
Oriental mind, it was infinitely simpler to kill Wu Ling and throw his body
into the river, and Pearson’s Chinese accomplices followed their own methods
without consulting him. Imagine, then, what you would call the ‘funk bleu’ of
M. Pearson. Someone may have seen him in the train with Wu Ling—murder
is a very different thing from simple abduction.
“His salvation lies with the Chinaman who is personating Wu Ling at the
Russell Square Hotel. If only the body is not discovered too soon! Probably
Wu Ling had told him of the arrangement between him and Charles Lester
whereby the latter was to call for him at the hotel. Pearson sees there an
excellent way of diverting suspicion from himself. Charles Lester shall be the
last person to be seen in company with Wu Ling. The impersonator has orders
to represent himself to Lester as the servant of Wu Ling, and to bring him as
speedily as possible to Limehouse. There, very likely, he was offered a drink.
The drink would be suitably drugged, and when Lester emerged an hour later,
he would have a very hazy impression of what had happened. So much was
this the case, that as soon as Lester learned of Wu Ling’s death, he loses his
nerve, and denies that he ever reached Limehouse.
“By that, of course, he plays right into Pearson’s hands. But is Pearson
content? No—my manner disquiets him, and he determines to complete the
case against Lester. So he arranges an elaborate masquerade. Me, I am to be
gulled completely. Did I not say just now that he was as a child acting the
charades? Eh bien, I play my part. He goes home rejoicing. But in the
morning, Inspector Miller arrives on his doorstep. The papers are found on
him; the game is up. Bitterly he regrets permitting himself to play the farce
with Hercule Poirot! There was only one real difficulty in the affair.”
“What was that?” I demanded curiously.
“Convincing Inspector Miller! What an animal, that! Both obstinate and
imbecile. And in the end he took all the credit!”
“Too bad,” I cried.
“Ah, well, I had my compensations. The other directors of the Burma
Mines Ltd. awarded me fourteen thousand shares as a small recompense for
my services. Not so bad, eh? But when investing money, keep, I beg of you,
Hastings, strictly to the conservative. The things you read in the paper, they
may not be true. The directors of the Porcupine—they may be so many Mr.
Pearsons!”
Twenty-two
THE CORNISH MYSTERY
“The Cornish Mystery” was first published in The Sketch, November 28, 1923.
I
Mrs. Pengelley,” announced our landlady, and withdrew discreetly.
Many unlikely people came to consult Poirot, but to my mind, the woman
who stood nervously just inside the door, fingering her feather neck-piece,
was the most unlikely of all. She was so extraordinarily commonplace—a
thin, faded woman of about fifty, dressed in a braided coat and skirt, some
gold jewellery at her neck, and with her grey hair surmounted by a singularly
unbecoming hat. In a country town you pass a hundred Mrs. Pengelleys in the
street every day.
Poirot came forward and greeted her pleasantly, perceiving her obvious
embarrassment.
“Madame! Take a chair, I beg of you. My colleague, Captain Hastings.”
The lady sat down, murmuring uncertainly: “You are M. Poirot, the
detective?”
“At your service, madame.”
But our guest was still tongue-tied. She sighed, twisted her fingers, and
grew steadily redder and redder.
“There is something I can do for you, eh, madame?”
“Well, I thought—that is—you see—”
“Proceed, madame, I beg of you—proceed.”
Mrs. Pengelley, thus encouraged, took a grip on herself.
“It’s this way, M. Poirot—I don’t want to have anything to do with the
police. No, I wouldn’t go to the police for anything! But all the same, I’m
sorely troubled about something. And yet I don’t know if I ought—” She
stopped abruptly.
“Me, I have nothing to do with the police. My investigations are strictly
private.”
Mrs. Pengelley caught at the word.
“Private—that’s what I want. I don’t want any talk or fuss, or things in the
papers. Wicked it is, the way they write things, until the family could never
hold up their heads again. And it isn’t as though I was even sure—it’s just a
dreadful idea that’s come to me, and put it out of my head I can’t.” She
paused for breath. “And all the time I may be wickedly wronging poor
Edward. It’s a terrible thought for any wife to have. But you do read of such
dreadful things nowadays.”
“Permit me—it is of your husband you speak?”
“Yes.”
“And you suspect him of—what?”
“I don’t like even to say it, M. Poirot. But you do read of such things
happening—and the poor souls suspecting nothing.”
I was beginning to despair of the lady’s ever coming to the point, but
Poirot’s patience was equal to the demand made upon it.
“Speak without fear, madame. Think what joy will be yours if we are able
to prove your suspicions unfounded.”
“That’s true—anything’s better than this wearing uncertainty. Oh, M.
Poirot, I’m dreadfully afraid I’m being poisoned.”
“What makes you think so?”
Mrs. Pengelley, her reticence leaving her, plunged into a full recital more
suited to the ears of her medical attendant.
“Pain and sickness after food, eh?” said Poirot thoughtfully. “You have a
doctor attending you, madame? What does he say?”
“He says it’s acute gastritis, M. Poirot. But I can see that he’s puzzled and
uneasy, and he’s always altering the medicine, but nothing does any good.”
“You have spoken of your—fears, to him?”
“No, indeed, M. Poirot. It might get about in the town. And perhaps it is
gastritis. All the same, it’s very odd that whenever Edward is away for the
weekend, I’m quite all right again. Even Freda notices that—my niece, M.
Poirot. And then there’s that bottle of weed killer, never used, the gardener
says, and yet it’s half empty.”
She looked appealingly at Poirot. He smiled reassuringly at her, and
reached for a pencil and notebook.
“Let us be businesslike, madame. Now, then, you and your husband reside
—where?”
“Polgarwith, a small market town in Cornwall.”
“You have lived there long?”
“Fourteen years.”
“And your household consists of you and your husband. Any children?”
“No.”
“But a niece, I think you said?”
“Yes, Freda Stanton, the child of my husband’s only sister. She has lived
with us for the last eight years—that is, until a week ago.”
“Oh, and what happened a week ago?”
“Things hadn’t been very pleasant for some time; I don’t know what had
come over Freda. She was so rude and impertinent, and her temper something
shocking, and in the end she flared up one day, and out she walked and took
rooms of her own in the town. I’ve not seen her since. Better leave her to
come to her senses, so Mr. Radnor says.”
“Who is Mr. Radnor?”
Some of Mrs. Pengelley’s initial embarrassment returned.
“Oh, he’s—he’s just a friend. Very pleasant young fellow.”
“Anything between him and your niece?”
“Nothing whatever,” said Mrs. Pengelley emphatically.
Poirot shifted his ground.
“You and your husband are, I presume, in comfortable circumstances?”
“Yes, we’re very nicely off.”
“The money, is it yours or your husband’s?”
“Oh, it’s all Edward’s. I’ve nothing of my own.”
“You see, madame, to be businesslike, we must be brutal. We must seek
for a motive. Your husband, he would not poison you just pour passer le
temps! Do you know of any reason why he should wish you out of the way?”
“There’s the yellow-haired hussy who works for him,” said Mrs.
Pengelley, with a flash of temper. “My husband’s a dentist, M. Poirot, and
nothing would do but he must have a smart girl, as he said, with bobbed hair
and a white overall, to make his appointments and mix his fillings for him.
It’s come to my ears that there have been fine goings-on, though of course he
swears it’s all right.”
“This bottle of weed killer, madame, who ordered it?”
“My husband—about a year ago.”
“Your niece, now, has she any money of her own?”
“About fifty pounds a year, I should say. She’d be glad enough to come
back and keep house for Edward if I left him.”
“You have contemplated leaving him, then?”
“I don’t intend to let him have it all his own way. Women aren’t the
downtrodden slaves they were in the old days, M. Poirot.”
“I congratulate you on your independent spirit, madame; but let us be
practical. You return to Polgarwith today?”
“Yes, I came up by an excursion. Six this morning the train started, and
the train goes back at five this afternoon.”
“Bien! I have nothing of great moment on hand. I can devote myself to
your little affair. Tomorrow I shall be in Polgarwith. Shall we say that
Hastings, here, is a distant relative of yours, the son of your second cousin?
Me, I am his eccentric foreign friend. In the meantime, eat only what is
prepared by your own hands, or under your eye. You have a maid whom you
trust?”
“Jessie is a very good girl, I am sure.”
“Till tomorrow then, madame, and be of good courage.”
II
Poirot bowed the lady out, and returned thoughtfully to his chair. His
absorption was not so great, however, that he failed to see two minute strands
of feather scarf wrenched off by the lady’s agitated fingers. He collected them
carefully and consigned them to the wastepaper basket.
“What do you make of the case, Hastings?”
“A nasty business, I should say.”
“Yes, if what the lady suspects be true. But is it? Woe betide any husband
who orders a bottle of weed killer nowadays. If his wife suffers from gastritis,
and is inclined to be of a hysterical temperament, the fat is in the fire.”
“You think that is all there is to it?”
“Ah—voilà—I do not know, Hastings. But the case interests me—it
interests me enormously. For, you see, it has positively no new features.
Hence the hysterical theory, and yet Mrs. Pengelley did not strike me as being
a hysterical woman. Yes, if I mistake not, we have here a very poignant
human drama. Tell me, Hastings, what do you consider Mrs. Pengelley’s
feelings towards her husband to be?”
“Loyalty struggling with fear,” I suggested.
“Yet, ordinarily, a woman will accuse anyone in the world—but not her
husband. She will stick to her belief in him through thick and thin.”
“The ‘other woman’ complicates the matter.”
“Yes, affection may turn to hate, under the stimulus of jealousy. But hate
would take her to the police—not to me. She would want an outcry—a
scandal. No, no, let us exercise our little grey cells. Why did she come to me?
To have her suspicions proved wrong? Or—to have them proved right? Ah,
we have here something I do not understand—an unknown factor. Is she a
superb actress, our Mrs. Pengelley? No, she was genuine, I would swear that
she was genuine, and therefore I am interested. Look up the trains to
Polgarwith, I pray you.”
III
The best train of the day was the one-fifty from Paddington which reached
Polgarwith just after seven o’clock. The journey was uneventful, and I had to
rouse myself from a pleasant nap to alight upon the platform of the bleak little
station. We took our bags to the Duchy Hotel, and after a light meal, Poirot
suggested our stepping round to pay an after-dinner call on my so-called
cousin.
The Pengelleys’ house stood a little way back from the road with an oldfashioned cottage garden in front. The smell of stocks and mignonette came
sweetly wafted on the evening breeze. It seemed impossible to associate
thoughts of violence with this Old World charm. Poirot rang and knocked. As
the summons was not answered, he rang again. This time, after a little pause,
the door was opened by a dishevelled-looking servant. Her eyes were red, and
she was sniffing violently.
“We wish to see Mrs. Pengelley,” explained Poirot. “May we enter?”
The maid stared. Then, with unusual directness, she answered: “Haven’t
you heard, then? She’s dead. Died this evening—about half an hour ago.”
We stood staring at her, stunned.
“What did she die of?” I asked at last.
“There’s some as could tell.” She gave a quick glance over her shoulder.
“If it wasn’t that somebody ought to be in the house with the missus, I’d pack
my box and go tonight. But I’ll not leave her dead with no one to watch by
her. It’s not my place to say anything, and I’m not going to say anything—but
everybody knows. It’s all over the town. And if Mr. Radnor don’t write to the
’Ome Secretary, someone else will. The doctor may say what he likes. Didn’t
I see the master with my own eyes a-lifting down of the weed killer from the
shelf this very evening? And didn’t he jump when he turned round and saw
me watching of him? And the missus’ gruel there on the table, all ready to
take to her? Not another bit of food passes my lips while I am in this house!
Not if I dies for it.”
“Where does the doctor live who attended your mistress?”
“Dr. Adams. Round the corner in High Street. The second house.”
Poirot turned away abruptly. He was very pale.
“For a girl who was not going to say anything, that girl said a lot,” I
remarked dryly.
Poirot struck his clenched hand into his palm.
“An imbecile, a criminal imbecile, that is what I have been, Hastings. I
have boasted of my little grey cells, and now I have lost a human life, a life
that came to me to be saved. Never did I dream that anything would happen
so soon. May the good God forgive me, but I never believed anything would
happen at all. Her story seemed to me artificial. Here we are at the doctor’s.
Let us see what he can tell us.”
IV
Dr. Adams was the typical genial red-faced country doctor of fiction. He
received us politely enough, but at a hint of our errand, his red face became
purple.
“Damned nonsense! Damned nonsense, every word of it! Wasn’t I in
attendance on the case? Gastritis—gastritis pure and simple. This town’s a
hotbed of gossip—a lot of scandal-mongering old women get together and
invent God knows what. They read these scurrilous rags of newspapers, and
nothing will suit them but that someone in their town shall get poisoned too.
They see a bottle of weed killer on a shelf—and hey presto!—away goes their
imagination with the bit between his teeth. I know Edward Pengelley—he
wouldn’t poison his grandmother’s dog. And why should he poison his wife?
Tell me that?”
“There is one thing, M. le Docteur, that perhaps you do not know.”
And, very briefly, Poirot outlined the main facts of Mrs. Pengelley’s visit
to him. No one could have been more astonished than Dr. Adams. His eyes
almost started out of his head.
“God bless my soul!” he ejaculated. “The poor woman must have been
mad. Why didn’t she speak to me? That was the proper thing to do.”
“And have her fears ridiculed?”
“Not at all, not at all. I hope I’ve got an open mind.”
Poirot looked at him and smiled. The physician was evidently more
perturbed than he cared to admit. As we left the house, Poirot broke into a
laugh.
“He is as obstinate as a pig, that one. He has said it is gastritis; therefore it
is gastritis! All the same, he has the mind uneasy.”
“What’s our next step?”
“A return to the inn, and a night of horror upon one of your English
provincial beds, mon ami. It is a thing to make pity, the cheap English bed!”
“And tomorrow?”
“Rien à faire. We must return to town and await developments.”
“That’s very tame,” I said, disappointed. “Suppose there are none?”
“There will be! I promise you that. Our old doctor may give as many
certificates as he pleases. He cannot stop several hundred tongues from
wagging. And they will wag to some purpose, I can tell you that!”
Our train for town left at eleven the following morning. Before we started
for the station, Poirot expressed a wish to see Miss Freda Stanton, the niece
mentioned to us by the dead woman. We found the house where she was
lodging easily enough. With her was a tall, dark young man whom she
introduced in some confusion as Mr. Jacob Radnor.
Miss Freda Stanton was an extremely pretty girl of the old Cornish type—
dark hair and eyes and rosy cheeks. There was a flash in those same dark eyes
which told of a temper that it would not be wise to provoke.
“Poor Auntie,” she said, when Poirot had introduced himself, and
explained his business. “It’s terribly sad. I’ve been wishing all the morning
that I’d been kinder and more patient.”
“You stood a great deal, Freda,” interrupted Radnor.
“Yes, Jacob, but I’ve got a sharp temper, I know. After all, it was only
silliness on Auntie’s part. I ought to have just laughed and not minded. Of
course, it’s all nonsense her thinking that Uncle was poisoning her. She was
worse after any food he gave her—but I’m sure it was only from thinking
about it. She made up her mind she would be, and then she was.”
“What was the actual cause of your disagreement, mademoiselle?”
Miss Stanton hesitated, looking at Radnor. That young gentleman was
quick to take the hint.
“I must be getting along, Freda. See you this evening. Good-bye,
gentlemen; you’re on your way to the station, I suppose?”
Poirot replied that we were, and Radnor departed.
“You are affianced, is it not so?” demanded Poirot, with a sly smile.
Freda Stanton blushed and admitted that such was the case.
“And that was really the whole trouble with Auntie,” she added.
“She did not approve of the match for you?”
“Oh, it wasn’t that so much. But you see, she—” The girl came to a stop.
“Yes?” encouraged Poirot gently.
“It seems rather a horrid thing to say about her—now she’s dead. But
you’ll never understand unless I tell you. Auntie was absolutely infatuated
with Jacob.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, wasn’t it absurd? She was over fifty, and he’s not quite thirty! But
there it was. She was silly about him! I had to tell her at last that it was me he
was after—and she carried on dreadfully. She wouldn’t believe a word of it,
and was so rude and insulting that it’s no wonder I lost my temper. I talked it
over with Jacob, and we agreed that the best thing to do was for me to clear
out for a bit till she came to her senses. Poor Auntie—I suppose she was in a
queer state altogether.”
“It would certainly seem so. Thank you, mademoiselle, for making things
so clear to me.”
V
A little to my surprise, Radnor was waiting for us in the street below.
“I can guess pretty well what Freda has been telling you,” he remarked.
“It was a most unfortunate thing to happen, and very awkward for me, as you
can imagine. I need hardly say that it was none of my doing. I was pleased at
first, because I imagined the old woman was helping on things with Freda.
The whole thing was absurd—but extremely unpleasant.”
“When are you and Miss Stanton going to be married?”
“Soon, I hope. Now, M. Poirot, I’m going to be candid with you. I know a
bit more than Freda does. She believes her uncle to be innocent. I’m not so
sure. But I can tell you one thing: I’m going to keep my mouth shut about
what I do know. Let sleeping dogs lie. I don’t want my wife’s uncle tried and
hanged for murder.”
“Why do you tell me all this?”
“Because I’ve heard of you, and I know you’re a clever man. It’s quite
possible that you might ferret out a case against him. But I put it to you—
what good is that? The poor woman is past help, and she’d have been the last
person to want a scandal—why, she’d turn in her grave at the mere thought of
it.”
“You are probably right there. You want me to—hush it up, then?”
“That’s my idea. I’ll admit frankly that I’m selfish about it. I’ve got my
way to make—and I’m building up a good little business as a tailor and
outfitter.”
“Most of us are selfish, Mr. Radnor. Not all of us admit it so freely. I will
do what you ask—but I tell you frankly you will not succeed in hushing it
up.”
“Why not?”
Poirot held up a finger. It was market day, and we were passing the market
—a busy hum came from within.
“The voice of the people—that is why, Mr. Radnor. Ah, we must run, or
we shall miss our train.”
VI
“Very interesting, is it not, Hastings?” said Poirot, as the train steamed out of
the station.
He had taken out a small comb from his pocket, also a microscopic
mirror, and was carefully arranging his moustache, the symmetry of which
had become slightly impaired during our brisk run.
“You seem to find it so,” I replied. “To me, it is all rather sordid and
unpleasant. There’s hardly any mystery about it.”
“I agree with you; there is no mystery whatever.”
“I suppose we can accept the girl’s rather extraordinary story of her aunt’s
infatuation? That seemed the only fishy part to me. She was such a nice,
respectable woman.”
“There is nothing extraordinary about that—it is completely ordinary. If
you read the papers carefully, you will find that often a nice respectable
woman of that age leaves a husband she has lived with for twenty years, and
sometimes a whole family of children as well, in order to link her life with
that of a young man considerably her junior. You admire les femmes,
Hastings; you prostrate yourself before all of them who are good-looking and
have the good taste to smile upon you; but psychologically you know nothing
whatever about them. In the autumn of a woman’s life, there comes always
one mad moment when she longs for romance, for adventure—before it is too
late. It comes none the less surely to a woman because she is the wife of a
respectable dentist in a country town!”
“And you think—”
“That a clever man might take advantage of such a moment.”
“I shouldn’t call Pengelley so clever,” I mused. “He’s got the whole town
by the ears. And yet I suppose you’re right. The only two men who know
anything, Radnor and the doctor, both want to hush it up. He’s managed that
somehow. I wish we’d seen the fellow.”
“You can indulge your wish. Return by the next train and invent an aching
molar.”
I looked at him keenly.
“I wish I knew what you considered so interesting about the case.”
“My interest is very aptly summed up by a remark of yours, Hastings.
After interviewing the maid, you observed that for someone who was not
going to say a word, she had said a good deal.”
“Oh!” I said doubtfully; then I harped back to my original criticism: “I
wonder why you made no attempt to see Pengelley?”
“Mon ami, I give him just three months. Then I shall see him for as long
as I please—in the dock.”
VII
For once I thought Poirot’s prognostications were going to be proved wrong.
The time went by, and nothing transpired as to our Cornish case. Other
matters occupied us, and I had nearly forgotten the Pengelley tragedy when it
was suddenly recalled to me by a short paragraph in the paper which stated
that an order to exhume the body of Mrs. Pengelley had been obtained from
the Home Secretary.
A few days later, and “The Cornish Mystery” was the topic of every
paper. It seemed that gossip had never entirely died down, and when the
engagement of the widower to Miss Marks, his secretary, was announced, the
tongues burst out again louder than ever. Finally a petition was sent to the
Home Secretary; the body was exhumed; large quantities of arsenic were
discovered; and Mr. Pengelley was arrested and charged with the murder of
his wife.
Poirot and I attended the preliminary proceedings. The evidence was
much as might have been expected. Dr. Adams admitted that the symptoms of
arsenical poisoning might easily be mistaken for those of gastritis. The Home
Office expert gave his evidence; the maid Jessie poured out a flood of voluble
information, most of which was rejected, but which certainly strengthened the
case against the prisoner. Freda Stanton gave evidence as to her aunt’s being
worse whenever she ate food prepared by her husband. Jacob Radnor told
how he had dropped in unexpectedly on the day of Mrs. Pengelley’s death,
and found Pengelley replacing the bottle of weed killer on the pantry shelf,
Mrs. Pengelley’s gruel being on the table close by. Then Miss Marks, the fairhaired secretary, was called, and wept and went into hysterics and admitted
that there had been “passages” between her and her employer, and that he had
promised to marry her in the event of anything happening to his wife.
Pengelley reserved his defence and was sent for trial.
VIII
Jacob Radnor walked back with us to our lodgings.
“You see, Mr. Radnor,” said Poirot, “I was right. The voice of the people
spoke—and with no uncertain voice. There was to be no hushing up of this
case.”
“You were quite right,” sighed Radnor. “Do you see any chance of his
getting off?”
“Well, he has reserved his defence. He may have something—up the
sleeves, as you English say. Come in with us, will you not?”
Radnor accepted the invitation. I ordered two whiskies and sodas and a
cup of chocolate. The last order caused consternation, and I much doubted
whether it would ever put in an appearance.
“Of course,” continued Poirot, “I have a good deal of experience in
matters of this kind. And I see only one loophole of escape for our friend.”
“What is it?”
“That you should sign this paper.”
With the suddenness of a conjuror, he produced a sheet of paper covered
with writing.
“What is it?”
“A confession that you murdered Mrs. Pengelley.”
There was a moment’s pause; then Radnor laughed.
“You must be mad!”
“No, no, my friend, I am not mad. You came here; you started a little
business; you were short of money. Mr. Pengelley was a man very well-to-do.
You met his niece; she was inclined to smile upon you. But the small
allowance that Pengelley might have given her upon her marriage was not
enough for you. You must get rid of both the uncle and the aunt; then the
money would come to her, since she was the only relative. How cleverly you
set about it! You made love to that plain middle-aged woman until she was
your slave. You implanted in her doubts of her husband. She discovered first
that he was deceiving her—then, under your guidance, that he was trying to
poison her. You were often at the house; you had opportunities to introduce
the arsenic into her food. But you were careful never to do so when her
husband was away. Being a woman, she did not keep her suspicions to
herself. She talked to her niece; doubtless she talked to other women friends.
Your only difficulty was keeping up separate relations with the two women,
and even that was not so difficult as it looked. You explained to the aunt that,
to allay the suspicions of her husband, you had to pretend to pay court to the
niece. And the younger lady needed little convincing—she would never
seriously consider her aunt as a rival.
“But then Mrs. Pengelley made up her mind, without saying anything to
you, to consult me. If she could be really assured, beyond any possible doubt,
that her husband was trying to poison her, she would feel justified in leaving
him, and linking her life with yours—which is what she imagined you wanted
her to do. But that did not suit your book at all. You did not want a detective
prying around. A favourable minute occurs. You are in the house when Mr.
Pengelley is getting some gruel for his wife, and you introduce the fatal dose.
The rest is easy. Apparently anxious to hush matters up, you secretly foment
them. But you reckoned without Hercule Poirot, my intelligent young friend.”
Radnor was deadly pale, but he still endeavoured to carry off matters with
a high hand.
“Very interesting and ingenious, but why tell me all this?”
“Because, monsieur, I represent—not the law, but Mrs. Pengelley. For her
sake, I give you a chance of escape. Sign this paper, and you shall have
twenty-four hours’ start—twenty-four hours before I place it in the hands of
the police.”
Radnor hesitated.
“You can’t prove anything.”
“Can’t I? I am Hercule Poirot. Look out of the window, monsieur. There
are two men in the street. They have orders not to lose sight of you.”
Radnor strode across to the window and pulled aside the blind, then
shrank back with an oath.
“You see, monsieur? Sign—it is your best chance.”
“What guarantee have I—”
“That I shall keep faith? The word of Hercule Poirot. You will sign?
Good. Hastings, be so kind as to pull that left-hand blind halfway up. That is
the signal that Mr. Radnor may leave unmolested.”
White, muttering oaths, Radnor hurried from the room. Poirot nodded
gently.
“A coward! I always knew it.”
“It seems to me, Poirot, that you’ve acted in a criminal manner,” I cried
angrily. “You always preach against sentiment. And here you are letting a
dangerous criminal escape out of sheer sentimentality.”
“That was not sentiment—that was business,” replied Poirot. “Do you not
see, my friend, that we have no shadow of proof against him? Shall I get up
and say to twelve stolid Cornishmen that I, Hercule Poirot, know? They
would laugh at me. The only chance was to frighten him and get a confession
that way. Those two loafers that I noticed outside came in very useful. Pull
down the blind again, will you, Hastings. Not that there was any reason for
raising it. It was part of our mise en scène.
“Well, well, we must keep our word. Twenty-four hours, did I say? So
much longer for poor Mr. Pengelley—and it is not more than he deserves; for
mark you, he deceived his wife. I am very strong on the family life, as you
know. Ah, well, twenty-four hours—and then? I have great faith in Scotland
Yard. They will get him, mon ami; they will get him.”
Twenty-three
THE DOUBLE CLUE
“The Double Clue” was first published in The Sketch, December 5, 1923.
But above everything—no publicity,” said Mr. Marcus Hardman for perhaps
the fourteenth time.
The word publicity occurred throughout his conversation with the
regularity of a leitmotif. Mr. Hardman was a small man, delicately plump,
with exquisitely manicured hands and a plaintive tenor voice. In his way, he
was somewhat of a celebrity and the fashionable life was his profession. He
was rich, but not remarkably so, and he spent his money zealously in the
pursuit of social pleasure. His hobby was collecting. He had the collector’s
soul. Old lace, old fans, antique jewellery—nothing crude or modern for
Marcus Hardman.
Poirot and I, obeying an urgent summons, had arrived to find the little
man writhing in an agony of indecision. Under the circumstances, to call in
the police was abhorrent to him. On the other hand, not to call them in was to
acquiesce in the loss of some of the gems of his collection. He hit upon Poirot
as a compromise.
“My rubies, Monsieur Poirot, and the emerald necklace said to have
belonged to Catherine de’ Medici. Oh, the emerald necklace!”
“If you will recount to me the circumstances of their disappearance?”
suggested Poirot gently.
“I am endeavouring to do so. Yesterday afternoon I had a little tea party—
quite an informal affair, some half a dozen people or so. I have given one or
two of them during the season, and though perhaps I should not say so, they
have been quite a success. Some good music—Nacora, the pianist, and
Katherine Bird, the Australian contralto—in the big studio. Well, early in the
afternoon, I was showing my guests my collection of medieval jewels. I keep
them in the small wall safe over there. It is arranged like a cabinet inside, with
coloured velvet background, to display the stones. Afterwards we inspected
the fans—in the case on the wall. Then we all went to the studio for music. It
was not until after everyone had gone that I discovered the safe rifled! I must
have failed to shut it properly, and someone had seized the opportunity to
denude it of its contents. The rubies, Monsieur Poirot, the emerald necklace—
the collection of a lifetime! What would I not give to recover them! But there
must be no publicity! You fully understand that, do you not, Monsieur Poirot?
My own guests, my personal friends! It would be a horrible scandal!”
“Who was the last person to leave this room when you went to the
studio?”
“Mr. Johnston. You may know him? The South African millionaire. He
has just rented the Abbotburys’ house in Park Lane. He lingered behind a few
moments, I remember. But surely, oh, surely it could not be he!”
“Did any of your guests return to this room during the afternoon on any
pretext?”
“I was prepared for that question, Monsieur Poirot. Three of them did so.
Countess Vera Rossakoff, Mr. Bernard Parker, and Lady Runcorn.”
“Let us hear about them.”
“The Countess Rossakoff is a very charming Russian lady, a member of
the old régime. She has recently come to this country. She had bade me goodbye, and I was therefore somewhat surprised to find her in this room
apparently gazing in rapture at my cabinet of fans. You know, Monsieur
Poirot, the more I think of it, the more suspicious it seems to me. Don’t you
agree?”
“Extremely suspicious; but let us hear about the others.”
“Well, Parker simply came here to fetch a case of miniatures that I was
anxious to show to Lady Runcorn.”
“And Lady Runcorn herself?”
“As I daresay you know, Lady Runcorn is a middle-aged woman of
considerable force of character who devotes most of her time to various
charitable committees. She simply returned to fetch a handbag she had laid
down somewhere.”
“Bien, monsieur. So we have four possible suspects. The Russian
countess, the English grande dame, the South African millionaire, and Mr.
Bernard Parker. Who is Mr. Parker, by the way?”
The question appeared to embarrass Mr. Hardman considerably.
“He is—er—he is a young fellow. Well, in fact, a young fellow I know.”
“I had already deduced as much,” replied Poirot gravely. “What does he
do, this Mr. Parker?”
“He is a young man about town—not, perhaps, quite in the swim, if I may
so express myself.”
“How did he come to be a friend of yours, may I ask?”
“Well—er—on one or two occasions he has—performed certain little
commissions for me.”
“Continue, monsieur,” said Poirot.
Hardman looked piteously at him. Evidently the last thing he wanted to do
was to continue. But as Poirot maintained an inexorable silence, he
capitulated.
“You see, Monsieur Poirot—it is well-known that I am interested in
antique jewels. Sometimes there is a family heirloom to be disposed of—
which, mind you, would never be sold in the open market or to a dealer. But a
private sale to me is a very different matter. Parker arranges the details of
such things, he is in touch with both sides, and thus any little embarrassment
is avoided. He brings anything of that kind to my notice. For instance, the
Countess Rossakoff has brought some family jewels with her from Russia.
She is anxious to sell them. Bernard Parker was to have arranged the
transaction.”
“I see,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “And you trust him implicitly?”
“I have had no reason to do otherwise.”
“Mr. Hardman, of these four people, which do you yourself suspect?”
“Oh, Monsieur Poirot, what a question! They are my friends, as I told you.
I suspect none of them—or all of them, whichever way you like to put it.”
“I do not agree. You suspect one of those four. It is not Countess
Rossakoff. It is not Mr. Parker. Is it Lady Runcorn or Mr. Johnston?”
“You drive me into a corner, Monsieur Poirot, you do indeed. I am most
anxious to have no scandal. Lady Runcorn belongs to one of the oldest
families in England; but it is true, it is most unfortunately true, that her aunt,
Lady Caroline, suffered from a most melancholy affliction. It was understood,
of course, by all her friends, and her maid returned the teaspoons, or whatever
it was, as promptly as possible. You see my predicament!”
“So Lady Runcorn had an aunt who was a kleptomaniac? Very interesting.
You permit that I examine the safe?”
Mr. Hardman assenting, Poirot pushed back the door of the safe and
examined the interior. The empty velvet-lined shelves gaped at us.
“Even now the door does not shut properly,” murmured Poirot, as he
swung it to and fro. “I wonder why? Ah, what have we here? A glove, caught
in the hinge. A man’s glove.”
He held it out to Mr. Hardman.
“That’s not one of my gloves,” the latter declared.
“Aha! Something more!” Poirot bent deftly and picked up a small object
from the floor of the safe. It was a flat cigarette case made of black moiré.
“My cigarette case!” cried Mr. Hardman.
“Yours? Surely not, monsieur. Those are not your initials.”
He pointed to an entwined monogram of two letters executed in platinum.
Hardman took it in his hand.
“You are right,” he declared. “It is very like mine, but the initials are
different. A ‘B’ and a ‘P.’ Good heavens—Parker!”
“It would seem so,” said Poirot. “A somewhat careless young man—
especially if the glove is his also. That would be a double clue, would it not?”
“Bernard Parker!” murmured Hardman. “What a relief! Well, Monsieur
Poirot, I leave it to you to recover the jewels. Place the matter in the hands of
the police if you think fit—that is, if you are quite sure that it is he who is
guilty.”
“See you, my friend,” said Poirot to me, as we left the house together, “he has
one law for the titled, and another law for the plain, this Mr. Hardman. Me, I
have not yet been ennobled, so I am on the side of the plain. I have sympathy
for this young man. The whole thing was a little curious, was it not? There
was Hardman suspecting Lady Runcorn; there was I, suspecting the Countess
and Johnston; and all the time, the obscure Mr. Parker was our man.”
“Why did you suspect the other two?”
“Parbleu! It is such a simple thing to be a Russian refugee or a South
African millionaire. Any woman can call herself a Russian countess; anyone
can buy a house in Park Lane and call himself a South African millionaire.
Who is going to contradict them? But I observe that we are passing through
Bury Street. Our careless young friend lives here. Let us, as you say, strike
while the iron is in the fire.”
Mr. Bernard Parker was at home. We found him reclining on some
cushions, clad in an amazing dressing gown of purple and orange. I have
seldom taken a greater dislike to anyone than I did to this particular young
man with his white, effeminate face and affected lisping speech.
“Good morning, monsieur,” said Poirot briskly. “I come from Mr.
Hardman. Yesterday, at the party, somebody has stolen all his jewels. Permit
me to ask you, monsieur—is this your glove?”
Mr. Parker’s mental processes did not seem very rapid. He stared at the
glove, as though gathering his wits together.
“Where did you find it?” he asked at last.
“Is it your glove, monsieur?”
Mr. Parker appeared to make up his mind.
“No, it isn’t,” he declared.
“And this cigarette case, is that yours?”
“Certainly not. I always carry a silver one.”
“Very well, monsieur. I go to put matters in the hands of the police.”
“Oh, I say, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” cried Mr. Parker in some
concern. “Beastly unsympathetic people, the police. Wait a bit. I’ll go round
and see old Hardman. Look here—oh, stop a minute.”
But Poirot beat a determined retreat.
“We have given him something to think about, have we not?” he
chuckled. “Tomorrow we will observe what has occurred.”
But we were destined to have a reminder of the Hardman case that
afternoon. Without the least warning the door flew open, and a whirlwind in
human form invaded our privacy, bringing with her a swirl of sables (it was as
cold as only an English June day can be) and a hat rampant with slaughtered
ospreys. Countess Vera Rossakoff was a somewhat disturbing personality.
“You are Monsieur Poirot? What is this that you have done? You accuse
that poor boy! It is infamous. It is scandalous. I know him. He is a chicken, a
lamb—never would he steal. He has done everything for me. Will I stand by
and see him martyred and butchered?”
“Tell me, madame, is this his cigarette case?” Poirot held out the black
moiré case.
The Countess paused for a moment while she inspected it.
“Yes, it is his. I know it well. What of it? Did you find it in the room? We
were all there; he dropped it then, I suppose. Ah, you policemen, you are
worse than the Red Guards—”
“And is this his glove?”
“How should I know? One glove is like another. Do not try to stop me—
he must be set free. His character must be cleared. You shall do it. I will sell
my jewels and give you much money.”
“Madame—”
“It is agreed, then? No, no, do not argue. The poor boy! He came to me,
the tears in his eyes. ‘I will save you,’ I said. ‘I will go to this man—this ogre,
this monster! Leave it to Vera.’ Now it is settled, I go.”
With as little ceremony as she had come, she swept from the room,
leaving an overpowering perfume of an exotic nature behind her.
“What a woman!” I exclaimed. “And what furs!”
“Ah, yes, they were genuine enough. Could a spurious countess have real
furs? My little joke, Hastings . . . No, she is truly Russian, I fancy. Well, well,
so Master Bernard went bleating to her.”
“The cigarette case is his. I wonder if the glove is also—”
With a smile Poirot drew from his pocket a second glove and placed it by
the first. There was no doubt of their being a pair.
“Where did you get the second one, Poirot?”
“It was thrown down with a stick on the table in the hall in Bury Street.
Truly, a very careless young man, Monsieur Parker. Well, well, mon ami—we
must be thorough. Just for the form of the thing, I will make a little visit to
Park Lane.”
Needless to say, I accompanied my friend. Johnston was out, but we saw
his private secretary. It transpired that Johnston had only recently arrived
from South Africa. He had never been in England before.
“He is interested in precious stones, is he not?” hazarded Poirot.
“Gold mining is nearer the mark,” laughed the secretary.
Poirot came away from the interview thoughtful. Late that evening, to my
utter surprise, I found him earnestly studying a Russian grammar.
“Good heavens, Poirot!” I cried. “Are you learning Russian in order to
converse with the Countess in her own language?”
“She certainly would not listen to my English, my friend!”
“But surely, Poirot, well-born Russians invariably speak French?”
“You are a mine of information, Hastings! I will cease puzzling over the
intricacies of the Russian alphabet.”
He threw the book from him with a dramatic gesture. I was not entirely
satisfied. There was a twinkle in his eye which I knew of old. It was an
invariable sign that Hercule Poirot was pleased with himself.
“Perhaps,” I said sapiently, “you doubt her being really a Russian. You are
going to test her?”
“Ah, no, no, she is Russian all right.”
“Well, then—”
“If you really want to distinguish yourself over this case, Hastings, I
recommend First Steps in Russian as an invaluable aid.”
Then he laughed and would say no more. I picked up the book from the
floor and dipped into it curiously, but could make neither head nor tail of
Poirot’s remarks.
The following morning brought us no news of any kind, but that did not
seem to worry my little friend. At breakfast, he announced his intention of
calling upon Mr. Hardman early in the day. We found the elderly social
butterfly at home, and seemingly a little calmer than on the previous day.
“Well, Monsieur Poirot, any news?” he demanded eagerly.
Poirot handed him a slip of paper.
“That is the person who took the jewels, monsieur. Shall I put matters in
the hands of the police? Or would you prefer me to recover the jewels without
bringing the police into the matter?”
Mr. Hardman was staring at the paper. At last he found his voice.
“Most astonishing. I should infinitely prefer to have no scandal in the
matter. I give you carte blanche, Monsieur Poirot. I am sure you will be
discreet.”
Our next procedure was to hail a taxi, which Poirot ordered to drive to the
Carlton. There he inquired for Countess Rossakoff. In a few minutes we were
ushered up into the lady’s suite. She came to meet us with outstretched hands,
arrayed in a marvellous negligée of barbaric design.
“Monsieur Poirot!” she cried. “You have succeeded? You have cleared
that poor infant?”
“Madame la Comtesse, your friend Mr. Parker is perfectly safe from
arrest.”
“Ah, but you are the clever little man! Superb! And so quickly too.”
“On the other hand, I have promised Mr. Hardman that the jewels shall be
returned to him today.”
“So?”
“Therefore, madame, I should be extremely obliged if you would place
them in my hands without delay. I am sorry to hurry you, but I am keeping a
taxi—in case it should be necessary for me to go on to Scotland Yard; and we
Belgians, madame, we practise the thrift.”
The Countess had lighted a cigarette. For some seconds she sat perfectly
still, blowing smoke rings, and gazing steadily at Poirot. Then she burst into a
laugh, and rose. She went across to the bureau, opened a drawer, and took out
a black silk handbag. She tossed it lightly to Poirot. Her tone, when she
spoke, was perfectly light and unmoved.
“We Russians, on the contrary, practise prodigality,” she said. “And to do
that, unfortunately, one must have money. You need not look inside. They are
all there.”
Poirot arose.
“I congratulate you, madame, on your quick intelligence and your
promptitude.”
“Ah! But since you were keeping your taxi waiting, what else could I
do?”
“You are too amiable, madame. You are remaining long in London?”
“I am afraid no—owing to you.”
“Accept my apologies.”
“We shall meet again elsewhere, perhaps.”
“I hope so.”
“And I—do not!” exclaimed the Countess with a laugh. “It is a great
compliment that I pay you there—there are very few men in the world whom
I fear. Good-bye, Monsieur Poirot.”
“Good-bye, Madame la Comtesse. Ah—pardon me, I forgot! Allow me to
return you your cigarette case.”
And with a bow he handed to her the little black moiré case we had found
in the safe. She accepted it without any change of expression—just a lifted
eyebrow and a murmured: “I see!”
“What a woman!” cried Poirot enthusiastically as we descended the stairs.
“Mon Dieu, quelle femme! Not a word of argument—of protestation, of bluff!
One quick glance, and she had sized up the position correctly. I tell you,
Hastings, a woman who can accept defeat like that—with a careless smile—
will go far! She is dangerous, she has the nerves of steel; she—” He tripped
heavily.
“If you can manage to moderate your transports and look where you’re
going, it might be as well,” I suggested. “When did you first suspect the
Countess?”
“Mon ami, it was the glove and the cigarette case—the double clue, shall
we say—that worried me. Bernard Parker might easily have dropped one or
the other—but hardly both. Ah, no, that would have been too careless! In the
same way, if someone else had placed them there to incriminate Parker, one
would have been sufficient—the cigarette case or the glove—again not both.
So I was forced to the conclusion that one of the two things did not belong to
Parker. I imagined at first that the case was his, and that the glove was not.
But when I discovered the fellow to the glove, I saw that it was the other way
about. Whose, then, was the cigarette case? Clearly, it could not belong to
Lady Runcorn. The initials were wrong. Mr. Johnston? Only if he were here
under a false name. I interviewed his secretary, and it was apparent at once
that everything was clear and aboveboard. There was no reticence about Mr.
Johnston’s past. The Countess, then? She was supposed to have brought
jewels with her from Russia; she had only to take the stones from their
settings, and it was extremely doubtful if they could ever be identified. What
could be easier for her than to pick up one of Parker’s gloves from the hall
that day and thrust it into the safe? But, bien sûr, she did not intend to drop
her own cigarette case.”
“But if the case was hers, why did it have ‘B.P.’ on it? The Countess’s
initials are V.R.”
Poirot smiled gently upon me.
“Exactly, mon ami; but in the Russian alphabet, B is V and P is R.”
“Well, you couldn’t expect me to guess that. I don’t know Russian.”
“Neither do I, Hastings. That is why I bought my little book—and urged it
on your attention.”
He sighed.
“A remarkable woman. I have a feeling, my friend—a very decided
feeling—I shall meet her again. Where, I wonder?”
Twenty-four
THE THEFT OF THE ROYAL RUBY
“The Theft of the Royal Ruby” was first published as “The Adventure of the Christmas
Pudding” in The Sketch, December 12, 1923. This is an expanded version of the story.
I regret exceedingly—” said M. Hercule Poirot.
He was interrupted. Not rudely interrupted. The interruption was suave,
dexterous, persuasive rather than contradictory.
“Please don’t refuse offhand, M. Poirot. There are grave issues of State.
Your cooperation will be appreciated in the highest quarters.”
“You are too kind,” Hercule Poirot waved a hand, “but I really cannot
undertake to do as you ask. At this season of the year—”
Again Mr. Jesmond interrupted. “Christmastime,” he said, persuasively.
“An old-fashioned Christmas in the English countryside.”
Hercule Poirot shivered. The thought of the English countryside at this
season of the year did not attract him.
“A good old-fashioned Christmas!” Mr. Jesmond stressed it.
“Me—I am not an Englishman,” said Hercule Poirot. “In my country,
Christmas, it is for the children. The New Year, that is what we celebrate.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Jesmond, “but Christmas in England is a great institution
and I assure you at Kings Lacey you would see it at its best. It’s a wonderful
old house, you know. Why, one wing of it dates from the fourteenth century.”
Again Poirot shivered. The thought of a fourteenth-century English manor
house filled him with apprehension. He had suffered too often in the historic
country houses of England. He looked round appreciatively at his comfortable
modern flat with its radiators and the latest patent devices for excluding any
kind of draught.
“In the winter,” he said firmly, “I do not leave London.”
“I don’t think you quite appreciate, M. Poirot, what a very serious matter
this is.” Mr. Jesmond glanced at his companion and then back at Poirot.
Poirot’s second visitor had up to now said nothing but a polite and formal
“How do you do.” He sat now, gazing down at his well-polished shoes, with
an air of the utmost dejection on his coffee-coloured face. He was a young
man, not more than twenty-three, and he was clearly in a state of complete
misery.
“Yes, yes,” said Hercule Poirot. “Of course the matter is serious. I do
appreciate that. His Highness has my heartfelt sympathy.”
“The position is one of the utmost delicacy,” said Mr. Jesmond.
Poirot transferred his gaze from the young man to his older companion. If
one wanted to sum up Mr. Jesmond in a word, the word would have been
discretion. Everything about Mr. Jesmond was discreet. His well-cut but
inconspicuous clothes, his pleasant, well-bred voice which rarely soared out
of an agreeable monotone, his light-brown hair just thinning a little at the
temples, his pale serious face. It seemed to Hercule Poirot that he had known
not one Mr. Jesmond but a dozen Mr. Jesmonds in his time, all using sooner
or later the same phrase—“a position of the utmost delicacy.”
“The police,” said Hercule Poirot, “can be very discreet, you know.”
Mr. Jesmond shook his head firmly.
“Not the police,” he said. “To recover the—er—what we want to recover
will almost inevitably invoke taking proceedings in the law courts and we
know so little. We suspect, but we do not know.”
“You have my sympathy,” said Hercule Poirot again.
If he imagined that his sympathy was going to mean anything to his two
visitors, he was wrong. They did not want sympathy, they wanted practical
help. Mr. Jesmond began once more to talk about the delights of an English
Christmas.
“It’s dying out, you know,” he said, “the real old-fashioned type of
Christmas. People spend it at hotels nowadays. But an English Christmas with
all the family gathered round, the children and their stockings, the Christmas
tree, the turkey and plum pudding, the crackers. The snowman outside the
window—”
In the interests of exactitude, Hercule Poirot intervened.
“To make a snowman one has to have the snow,” he remarked severely.
“And one cannot have snow to order, even for an English Christmas.”
“I was talking to a friend of mine in the meteorological office only today,”
said Mr. Jesmond, “and he tells me that it is highly probable there will be
snow this Christmas.”
It was the wrong thing to have said. Hercule Poirot shuddered more
forcefully than ever.
“Snow in the country!” he said. “That would be still more abominable. A
large, cold, stone manor house.”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Jesmond. “Things have changed very much in the
last ten years or so. Oil-fired central heating.”
“They have oil-fired central heating at Kings Lacey?” asked Poirot. For
the first time he seemed to waver.
Mr. Jesmond seized his opportunity. “Yes, indeed,” he said, “and a
splendid hot water system. Radiators in every bedroom. I assure you, my dear
M. Poirot, Kings Lacey is comfort itself in the wintertime. You might even
find the house too warm.”
“That is most unlikely,” said Hercule Poirot.
With practised dexterity Mr. Jesmond shifted his ground a little.
“You can appreciate the terrible dilemma we are in,” he said, in a
confidential manner.
Hercule Poirot nodded. The problem was, indeed, not a happy one. A
young potentate-to-be, the only son of the ruler of a rich and important native
State had arrived in London a few weeks ago. His country had been passing
through a period of restlessness and discontent. Though loyal to the father
whose way of life had remained persistently Eastern, popular opinion was
somewhat dubious of the younger generation. His follies had been Western
ones and as such looked upon with disapproval.
Recently, however, his betrothal had been announced. He was to marry a
cousin of the same blood, a young woman who, though educated at
Cambridge, was careful to display no Western influence in her own country.
The wedding day was announced and the young prince had made a journey to
England, bringing with him some of the famous jewels of his house to be
reset in appropriate modern settings by Cartier. These had included a very
famous ruby which had been removed from its cumbersome old-fashioned
necklace and had been given a new look by the famous jewellers. So far so
good, but after this came the snag. It was not to be supposed that a young man
possessed of much wealth and convivial tastes, should not commit a few
follies of the pleasanter type. As to that there would have been no censure.
Young princes were supposed to amuse themselves in this fashion. For the
prince to take the girlfriend of the moment for a walk down Bond Street and
bestow upon her an emerald bracelet or a diamond clip as a reward for the
pleasure she had afforded him would have been regarded as quite natural and
suitable, corresponding in fact to the Cadillac cars which his father invariably
presented to his favourite dancing girl of the moment.
But the prince had been far more indiscreet than that. Flattered by the
lady’s interest, he had displayed to her the famous ruby in its new setting, and
had finally been so unwise as to accede to her request to be allowed to wear it
—just for one evening!
The sequel was short and sad. The lady had retired from their supper table
to powder her nose. Time passed. She did not return. She had left the
establishment by another door and since then had disappeared into space. The
important and distressing thing was that the ruby in its new setting had
disappeared with her.
These were the facts that could not possibly be made public without the
most dire consequences. The ruby was something more than a ruby, it was a
historical possession of great significance, and the circumstances of its
disappearance were such that any undue publicity about them might result in
the most serious political consequences.
Mr. Jesmond was not the man to put these facts into simple language. He
wrapped them up, as it were, in a great deal of verbiage. Who exactly Mr.
Jesmond was, Hercule Poirot did not know. He had met other Mr. Jesmonds
in the course of his career. Whether he was connected with the Home Office,
the Foreign Secretary or some other discreet branch of public service was not
specified. He was acting in the interests of the Commonwealth. The ruby
must be recovered.
M. Poirot, so Mr. Jesmond delicately insisted, was the man to recover it.
“Perhaps—yes,” Hercule Poirot admitted, “but you can tell me so little.
Suggestion—suspicion—all that is not very much to go upon.”
“Come now, Monsieur Poirot, surely it is not beyond your powers. Ah,
come now.”
“I do not always succeed.”
But this was mock modesty. It was clear enough from Poirot’s tone that
for him to undertake a mission was almost synonymous with succeeding in it.
“His Highness is very young,” Mr. Jesmond said. “It will be sad if his
whole life is to be blighted for a mere youthful indiscretion.”
Poirot looked kindly at the downcast young man. “It is the time for follies,
when one is young,” he said encouragingly, “and for the ordinary young man
it does not matter so much. The good papa, he pays up: the family lawyer, he
helps to disentangle the inconvenience; the young man, he learns by
experience and all ends for the best. In a position such as yours, it is hard
indeed. Your approaching marriage—”
“That is it. That is it exactly.” For the first time words poured from the
young man. “You see she is very, very serious. She takes life very seriously.
She has acquired at Cambridge many very serious ideas. There is to be
education in my country. There are to be schools. There are to be many
things. All in the name of progress, you understand, of democracy. It will not
be, she says, like it was in my father’s time. Naturally she knows that I will
have diversions in London, but not the scandal. No! It is the scandal that
matters. You see it is very, very famous, this ruby. There is a long trail behind
it, a history. Much bloodshed—many deaths!”
“Deaths,” said Hercule Poirot thoughtfully. He looked at Mr. Jesmond.
“One hopes,” he said, “it will not come to that?”
Mr. Jesmond made a peculiar noise rather like a hen who has decided to
lay an egg and then thought better of it.
“No, no indeed,” he said, sounding rather prim. “There is no question, I
am sure, of anything of that kind.”
“You cannot be sure,” said Hercule Poirot. “Whoever has the ruby now,
there may be others who want to gain possession of it, and who will not stick
at a trifle, my friend.”
“I really don’t think,” said Mr. Jesmond, sounding more prim than ever,
“that we need enter into speculation of that kind. Quite unprofitable.”
“Me,” said Hercule Poirot, suddenly becoming very foreign, “me, I
explore all the avenues, like the politicians.”
Mr. Jesmond looked at him doubtfully. Pulling himself together, he said,
“Well, I can take it that is settled, M. Poirot? You will go to Kings Lacey?”
“And how do I explain myself there?” asked Hercule Poirot.
Mr. Jesmond smiled with confidence.
“That, I think, can be arranged very easily,” he said. “I can assure you that
it will all seem quite natural. You will find the Laceys most charming.
Delightful people.”
“And you do not deceive me about the oil-fired central heating?”
“No, no, indeed.” Mr. Jesmond sounded quite pained. “I assure you you
will find every comfort.”
“Tout confort moderne,” murmured Poirot to himself, reminiscently. “Eh
bien,” he said, “I accept.”
The temperature in the long drawing room at Kings Lacey was a comfortable
sixty-eight as Hercule Poirot sat talking to Mrs. Lacey by one of the big
mullioned windows. Mrs. Lacey was engaged in needlework. She was not
doing petit point or embroidered flowers upon silk. Instead, she appeared to
be engaged in the prosaic task of hemming dishcloths. As she sewed she
talked in a soft reflective voice that Poirot found very charming.
“I hope you will enjoy our Christmas party here, M. Poirot. It’s only the
family, you know. My granddaughter and a grandson and a friend of his and
Bridget who’s my great niece, and Diana who’s a cousin and David Welwyn
who is a very old friend. Just a family party. But Edwina Morecombe said that
that’s what you really wanted to see. An old-fashioned Christmas. Nothing
could be more old-fashioned than we are! My husband, you know, absolutely
lives in the past. He likes everything to be just as it was when he was a boy of
twelve years old, and used to come here for his holidays.” She smiled to
herself. “All the same old things, the Christmas tree and the stockings hung
up and the oyster soup and the turkey—two turkeys, one boiled and one roast
—and the plum pudding with the ring and the bachelor’s button and all the
rest of it in it. We can’t have sixpences nowadays because they’re not pure
silver any more. But all the old desserts, the Elvas plums and Carlsbad plums
and almonds and raisins, and crystallized fruit and ginger. Dear me, I sound
like a catalogue from Fortnum and Mason!”
“You arouse my gastronomic juices, Madame.”
“I expect we’ll all have frightful indigestion by tomorrow evening,” said
Mrs. Lacey. “One isn’t used to eating so much nowadays, is one?”
She was interrupted by some loud shouts and whoops of laughter outside
the window. She glanced out.
“I don’t know what they’re doing out there. Playing some game or other, I
suppose. I’ve always been so afraid, you know, that these young people would
be bored by our Christmas here. But not at all, it’s just the opposite. Now my
own son and daughter and their friends, they used to be rather sophisticated
about Christmas. Say it was all nonsense and too much fuss and it would be
far better to go out to a hotel somewhere and dance. But the younger
generation seem to find all this terribly attractive. Besides,” added Mrs. Lacey
practically, “schoolboys and schoolgirls are always hungry, aren’t they? I
think they must starve them at these schools. After all, one does know
children of that age each eat about as much as three strong men.”
Poirot laughed and said, “It is most kind of you and your husband,
Madame, to include me in this way in your family party.”
“Oh, we’re both delighted, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Lacey. “And if you find
Horace a little gruff,” she continued, “pay no attention. It’s just his manner,
you know.”
What her husband, Colonel Lacey, had actually said was: “Can’t think
why you want one of these damned foreigners here cluttering up Christmas?
Why can’t we have him some other time? Can’t stick foreigners! All right, all
right, so Edwina Morecombe wished him on us. What’s it got to do with her, I
should like to know? Why doesn’t she have him for Christmas?”
“Because you know very well,” Mrs. Lacey had said, “that Edwina always
goes to Claridge’s.”
Her husband had looked at her piercingly and said, “Not up to something,
are you, Em?”
“Up to something?” said Em, opening very blue eyes. “Of course not.
Why should I be?”
Old Colonel Lacey laughed, a deep, rumbling laugh. “I wouldn’t put it
past you, Em,” he said. “When you look your most innocent is when you are
up to something.”
Revolving these things in her mind, Mrs. Lacey went on: “Edwina said
she thought perhaps you might help us . . . I’m sure I don’t know quite how,
but she said that friends of yours had once found you very helpful in—in a
case something like ours. I—well, perhaps you don’t know what I’m talking
about?”
Poirot looked at her encouragingly. Mrs. Lacey was close on seventy, as
upright as a ramrod, with snow-white hair, pink cheeks, blue eyes, a
ridiculous nose and a determined chin.
“If there is anything I can do I shall only be too happy to do it,” said
Poirot. “It is, I understand, a rather unfortunate matter of a young girl’s
infatuation.”
Mrs. Lacey nodded. “Yes. It seems extraordinary that I should—well,
want to talk to you about it. After all, you are a perfect stranger. . . .”
“And a foreigner,” said Poirot, in an understanding manner.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Lacey, “but perhaps that makes it easier, in a way.
Anyhow, Edwina seemed to think that you might perhaps know something—
how shall I put it—something useful about this young Desmond Lee-
Wortley.”
Poirot paused a moment to admire the ingenuity of Mr. Jesmond and the
ease with which he had made use of Lady Morecombe to further his own
purposes.
“He has not, I understand, a very good reputation, this young man?” he
began delicately.
“No, indeed, he hasn’t! A very bad reputation! But that’s no help so far as
Sarah is concerned. It’s never any good, is it, telling young girls that men
have a bad reputation? It—it just spurs them on!”
“You are so very right,” said Poirot.
“In my young day,” went on Mrs. Lacey. (“Oh dear, that’s a very long
time ago!) We used to be warned, you know, against certain young men, and
of course it did heighten one’s interest in them, and if one could possibly
manage to dance with them, or to be alone with them in a dark conservatory
—” she laughed. “That’s why I wouldn’t let Horace do any of the things he
wanted to do.”
“Tell me,” said Poirot, “exactly what is it that troubles you?”
“Our son was killed in the war,” said Mrs. Lacey. “My daughter-in-law
died when Sarah was born so that she has always been with us, and we’ve
brought her up. Perhaps we’ve brought her up unwisely—I don’t know. But
we thought we ought always to leave her as free as possible.”
“That is desirable, I think,” said Poirot. “One cannot go against the spirit
of the times.”
“No,” said Mrs. Lacey, “that’s just what I felt about it. And, of course,
girls nowadays do these sort of things.”
Poirot looked at her inquiringly.
“I think the way one expresses it,” said Mrs. Lacey. “is that Sarah has got
in with what they call the coffee-bar set. She won’t go to dances or come out
properly or be a deb or anything of that kind. Instead she has two rather
unpleasant rooms in Chelsea down by the river and wears these funny clothes
that they like to wear, and black stockings or bright green ones. Very thick
stockings. (So prickly, I always think!) And she goes about without washing
or combing her hair.”
“Ça, c’est tout à fait naturelle,” said Poirot. “It is the fashion of the
moment. They grow out of it.”
“Yes, I know,” said Mrs. Lacey. “I wouldn’t worry about that sort of thing.
But you see she’s taken up with this Desmond Lee-Wortley and he really has
a very unsavoury reputation. He lives more or less on well-to-do girls. They
seem to go quite mad about him. He very nearly married the Hope girl, but
her people got her made a ward in court or something. And of course that’s
what Horace wants to do. He says he must do it for her protection. But I don’t
think it’s really a good idea, M. Poirot. I mean, they’ll just run away together
and go to Scotland or Ireland or the Argentine or somewhere and either get
married or else live together without getting married. And although it may be
contempt of court and all that—well, it isn’t really an answer, is it, in the end?
Especially if a baby’s coming. One has to give in then, and let them get
married. And then, nearly always, it seems to me, after a year or two there’s a
divorce. And then the girl comes home and usually after a year or two she
marries someone so nice he’s almost dull and settles down. But it’s
particularly sad, it seems to me, if there is a child, because it’s not the same
thing, being brought up by a stepfather, however nice. No, I think it’s much
better if we did as we did in my young days. I mean the first young man one
fell in love with was always someone undesirable. I remember I had a
horrible passion for a young man called—now what was his name now?—
how strange it is, I can’t remember his Christian name at all! Tibbitt, that was
his surname. Young Tibbitt. Of course, my father more or less forbade him the
house, but he used to get asked to the same dances, and we used to dance
together. And sometimes we’d escape and sit out together and occasionally
friends would arrange picnics to which we both went. Of course, it was all
very exciting and forbidden and one enjoyed it enormously. But one didn’t go
to the—well, to the lengths that girls go nowadays. And so, after a while, the
Mr. Tibbitts faded out. And do you know, when I saw him four years later I
was surprised what I could ever have seen in him! He seemed to be such a
dull young man. Flashy, you know. No interesting conversation.”
“One always thinks the days of one’s own youth are best,” said Poirot,
somewhat sententiously.
“I know,” said Mrs. Lacey. “It’s tiresome, isn’t it? I mustn’t be tiresome.
But all the same I don’t want Sarah, who’s a dear girl really, to marry
Desmond Lee-Wortley. She and David Welwyn, who is staying here, were
always such friends and so fond of each other, and we did hope, Horace and I,
that they would grow up and marry. But of course she just finds him dull now,
and she’s absolutely infatuated with Desmond.”
“I do not quite understand, Madame,” said Poirot. “You have him here
now, staying in the house, this Desmond Lee-Wortley?”
“That’s my doing,” said Mrs. Lacey. “Horace was all for forbidding her to
see him and all that. Of course, in Horace’s day, the father or guardian would
have called round at the young man’s lodgings with a horse whip! Horace was
all for forbidding the fellow the house, and forbidding the girl to see him. I
told him that was quite the wrong attitude to take. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Ask him
down here. We’ll have him down for Christmas with the family party.’ Of
course, my husband said I was mad! But I said, ‘At any rate, dear, let’s try it.
Let her see him in our atmosphere and our house and we’ll be very nice to
him and very polite, and perhaps then he’ll seem less interesting to her’!”
“I think, as they say, you have something there, Madame,” said Poirot. “I
think your point of view is very wise. Wiser than your husband’s.”
“Well, I hope it is,” said Mrs. Lacey doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem to be
working much yet. But of course he’s only been here a couple of days.” A
sudden dimple showed in her wrinkled cheek. “I’ll confess something to you,
M. Poirot. I myself can’t help liking him. I don’t mean I really like him, with
my mind, but I can feel the charm all right. Oh yes, I can see what Sarah sees
in him. But I’m an old enough woman and have enough experience to know
that he’s absolutely no good. Even if I do enjoy his company. Though I do
think,” added Mrs. Lacey, rather wistfully, “he has some good points. He
asked if he might bring his sister here, you know. She’s had an operation and
was in hospital. He said it was so sad for her being in a nursing home over
Christmas and he wondered if it would be too much trouble if he could bring
her with him. He said he’d take all her meals up to her and all that. Well now,
I do think that was rather nice of him, don’t you, M. Poirot?”
“It shows a consideration,” said Poirot, thoughtfully, “which seems almost
out of character.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You can have family affections at the same time as
wishing to prey on a rich young girl. Sarah will be very rich, you know, not
only with what we leave her—and of course that won’t be very much because
most of the money goes with the place to Colin, my grandson. But her mother
was a very rich woman and Sarah will inherit all her money when she’s
twenty-one. She’s only twenty now. No, I do think it was nice of Desmond to
mind about his sister. And he didn’t pretend she was anything very wonderful
or that. She’s a shorthand typist, I gather—does secretarial work in London.
And he’s been as good as his word and does carry up trays to her. Not all the
time, of course, but quite often. So I think he has some nice points. But all the
same,” said Mrs. Lacey with great decision, “I don’t want Sarah to marry
him.”
“From all I have heard and been told,” said Poirot, “that would indeed be
a disaster.”
“Do you think it would be possible for you to help us in any way?” asked
Mrs. Lacey.
“I think it is possible, yes,” said Hercule Poirot, “but I do not wish to
promise too much. For the Mr. Desmond Lee-Wortleys of this world are
clever, Madame. But do not despair. One can, perhaps, do a little something. I
shall at any rate, put forth my best endeavours, if only in gratitude for your
kindness in asking me here for this Christmas festivity.” He looked round
him. “And it cannot be so easy these days to have Christmas festivities.”
“No, indeed,” Mrs. Lacey sighed. She leaned forward. “Do you know, M.
Poirot, what I really dream of—what I would love to have?”
“But tell me, Madame.”
“I simply long to have a small, modern bungalow. No, perhaps not a
bungalow exactly, but a small, modern, easy-to-run house built somewhere in
the park here, and live in it with an absolute up-to-date kitchen and no long
passages. Everything easy and simple.”
“It is a very practical idea, Madame.”
“It’s not practical for me,” said Mrs. Lacey. “My husband adores this
place. He loves living here. He doesn’t mind being slightly uncomfortable, he
doesn’t mind the inconveniences and he would hate, simply hate, to live in a
small modern house in the park!”
“So you sacrifice yourself to his wishes?”
Mrs. Lacey drew herself up. “I do not consider it a sacrifice, M. Poirot,”
she said. “I married my husband with the wish to make him happy. He has
been a good husband to me and made me very happy all these years, and I
wish to give happiness to him.”
“So you will continue to live here,” said Poirot.
“It’s not really too uncomfortable,” said Mrs. Lacey.
“No, no,” said Poirot, hastily. “On the contrary, it is most comfortable.
Your central heating and your bathwater are perfection.”
“We spent a lot of money in making the house comfortable to live in,”
said Mrs. Lacey. “We were able to sell some land. Ripe for development, I
think they call it. Fortunately right out of sight of the house on the other side
of the park. Really rather an ugly bit of ground with no nice view, but we got
a very good price for it. So that we have been able to have as many
improvements as possible.”
“But the service, Madame?”
“Oh, well, that presents less difficulty than you might think. Of course,
one cannot expect to be looked after and waited upon as one used to be.
Different people come in from the village. Two women in the morning,
another two to cook lunch and wash it up, and different ones again in the
evening. There are plenty of people who want to come and work for a few
hours a day. Of course for Christmas we are very lucky. My dear Mrs. Ross
always comes in every Christmas. She is a wonderful cook, really first-class.
She retired about ten years ago, but she comes in to help us in any emergency.
Then there is dear Peverell.”
“Your butler?”
“Yes. He is pensioned off and lives in the little house near the lodge, but
he is so devoted, and he insists on coming to wait on us at Christmas. Really,
I’m terrified, M. Poirot, because he’s so old and so shaky that I feel certain
that if he carries anything heavy he will drop it. It’s really an agony to watch
him. And his heart is not good and I’m afraid of his doing too much. But it
would hurt his feelings dreadfully if I did not let him come. He hems and hahs
and makes disapproving noises when he sees the state our silver is in and
within three days of being here, it is all wonderful again. Yes. He is a dear
faithful friend.” She smiled at Poirot. “So you see, we are all set for a happy
Christmas. A white Christmas, too,” she added as she looked out of the
window. “See? It is beginning to snow. Ah, the children are coming in. You
must meet them, M. Poirot.”
Poirot was introduced with due ceremony. First, to Colin and Michael, the
schoolboy grandson and his friend, nice polite lads of fifteen, one dark, one
fair. Then to their cousin, Bridget, a black-haired girl of about the same age
with enormous vitality.
“And this is my granddaughter, Sarah,” said Mrs. Lacey.
Poirot looked with some interest at Sarah, an attractive girl with a mop of
red hair, her manner seemed to him nervy and a trifle defiant, but she showed
real affection for her grandmother.
“And this is Mr. Lee-Wortley.”
Mr. Lee-Wortley wore a fisherman’s jersey and tight black jeans; his hair
was rather long and it seemed doubtful whether he had shaved that morning.
In contrast to him was a young man introduced as David Welwyn, who was
solid and quiet, with a pleasant smile, and rather obviously addicted to soap
and water. There was one other member of the party, a handsome, rather
intense-looking girl who was introduced as Diana Middleton.
Tea was brought in. A hearty meal of scones, crumpets, sandwiches and
three kinds of cake. The younger members of the party appreciated the tea.
Colonel Lacey came in last, remarking in a noncommittal voice:
“Hey, tea? Oh yes, tea.”
He received his cup of tea from his wife’s hand, helped himself to two
scones, cast a look of aversion at Desmond Lee-Wortley and sat down as far
away from him as he could. He was a big man with bushy eyebrows and a
red, weather-beaten face. He might have been taken for a farmer rather than
the lord of the manor.
“Started to snow,” he said. “It’s going to be a white Christmas all right.”
After tea the party dispersed.
“I expect they’ll go and play with their tape recorders now,” said Mrs.
Lacey to Poirot. She looked indulgently after her grandson as he left the
room. Her tone was that of one who says “The children are going to play with
their toy soldiers.”
“They’re frightfully technical, of course,” she said, “and very grand about
it all.”
The boys and Bridget, however, decided to go along to the lake and see if
the ice on it was likely to make skating possible.
“I thought we could have skated on it this morning,” said Colin. “But old
Hodgkins said no. He’s always so terribly careful.”
“Come for a walk, David,” said Diana Middleton, softly.
David hesitated for half a moment, his eyes on Sarah’s red head. She was
standing by Desmond Lee-Wortley, her hand on his arm, looking up into his
face.
“All right,” said David Welwyn, “yes, let’s.”
Diana slipped a quick hand through his arm and they turned towards the
door into the garden. Sarah said:
“Shall we go, too, Desmond? It’s fearfully stuffy in the house.”
“Who wants to walk?” said Desmond. “I’ll get my car out. We’ll go along
to the Speckled Boar and have a drink.”
Sarah hesitated for a moment before saying:
“Let’s go to Market Ledbury to the White Hart. It’s much more fun.”
Though for all the world she would not have put it into words, Sarah had
an instinctive revulsion from going down to the local pub with Desmond. It
was, somehow, not in the tradition of Kings Lacey. The women of Kings
Lacey had never frequented the bar of the Speckled Boar. She had an obscure
feeling that to go there would be to let old Colonel Lacey and his wife down.
And why not? Desmond Lee-Wortley would have said. For a moment of
exasperation Sarah felt that he ought to know why not! One didn’t upset such
old darlings as Grandfather and dear old Em unless it was necessary. They’d
been very sweet, really, letting her lead her own life, not understanding in the
least why she wanted to live in Chelsea in the way she did, but accepting it.
That was due to Em of course. Grandfather would have kicked up no end of a
row.
Sarah had no illusions about her grandfather’s attitude. It was not his
doing that Desmond had been asked to stay at Kings Lacey. That was Em, and
Em was a darling and always had been.
When Desmond had gone to fetch his car, Sarah popped her head into the
drawing room again.
“We’re going over to Market Ledbury,” she said. “We thought we’d have
a drink there at the White Hart.”
There was a slight amount of defiance in her voice, but Mrs. Lacey did
not seem to notice it.
“Well, dear,” she said. “I’m sure that will be very nice. David and Diana
have gone for a walk, I see. I’m so glad. I really think it was a brainwave on
my part to ask Diana here. So sad being left a widow so young—only twentytwo—I do hope she marries again soon.”
Sarah looked at her sharply. “What are you up to, Em?”
“It’s my little plan,” said Mrs. Lacey gleefully. “I think she’s just right for
David. Of course I know he was terribly in love with you, Sarah dear, but
you’d no use for him and I realize that he isn’t your type. But I don’t want
him to go on being unhappy, and I think Diana will really suit him.”
“What a matchmaker you are, Em,” said Sarah.
“I know,” said Mrs. Lacey. “Old women always are. Diana’s quite keen on
him already, I think. Don’t you think she’d be just right for him?”
“I shouldn’t say so,” said Sarah. “I think Diana’s far too—well, too
intense, too serious. I should think David would find it terribly boring being
married to her.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said Mrs. Lacey. “Anyway, you don’t want him, do you,
dear?”
“No, indeed,” said Sarah, very quickly. She added, in a sudden rush, “You
do like Desmond, don’t you, Em?”
“I’m sure he’s very nice indeed,” said Mrs. Lacey.
“Grandfather doesn’t like him,” said Sarah.
“Well, you could hardly expect him to, could you?” said Mrs. Lacey
reasonably, “but I dare say he’ll come round when he gets used to the idea.
You mustn’t rush him, Sarah dear. Old people are very slow to change their
minds and your grandfather is rather obstinate.”
“I don’t care what Grandfather thinks or says,” said Sarah. “I shall get
married to Desmond whenever I like!”
“I know, dear, I know. But do try and be realistic about it. Your
grandfather could cause a lot of trouble, you know. You’re not of age yet. In
another year you can do as you please. I expect Horace will have come round
long before that.”
“You’re on my side aren’t you, darling?” said Sarah. She flung her arms
round her grandmother’s neck and gave her an affectionate kiss.
“I want you to be happy,” said Mrs. Lacey. “Ah! there’s your young man
bringing his car round. You know, I like these very tight trousers these young
men wear nowadays. They look so smart—only, of course, it does accentuate
knock knees.”
Yes, Sarah thought, Desmond had got knock knees, she had never noticed
it before. . . .
“Go on, dear, enjoy yourself,” said Mrs. Lacey.
She watched her go out to the car, then, remembering her foreign guest,
she went along to the library. Looking in, however, she saw that Hercule
Poirot was taking a pleasant little nap, and smiling to herself, she went across
the hall and out into the kitchen to have a conference with Mrs. Ross.
“Come on, beautiful,” said Desmond. “Your family cutting up rough
because you’re coming out to a pub? Years behind the times here, aren’t
they?”
“Of course they’re not making a fuss,” said Sarah, sharply as she got into
the car.
“What’s the idea of having that foreign fellow down? He’s a detective,
isn’t he? What needs detecting here?”
“Oh, he’s not here professionally,” said Sarah. “Edwina Morecombe, my
grandmother, asked us to have him. I think he’s retired from professional
work long ago.”
“Sounds like a broken-down old cab horse,” said Desmond.
“He wanted to see an old-fashioned English Christmas, I believe,” said
Sarah vaguely.
Desmond laughed scornfully. “Such a lot of tripe, that sort of thing,” he
said. “How you can stand it I don’t know.”
Sarah’s red hair was tossed back and her aggressive chin shot up.
“I enjoy it!” she said defiantly.
“You can’t, baby. Let’s cut the whole thing tomorrow. Go over to
Scarborough or somewhere.”
“I couldn’t possibly do that.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, it would hurt their feelings.”
“Oh, bilge! You know you don’t enjoy this childish sentimental bosh.”
“Well, not really perhaps but—” Sarah broke off. She realized with a
feeling of guilt that she was looking forward a good deal to the Christmas
celebration. She enjoyed the whole thing, but she was ashamed to admit that
to Desmond. It was not the thing to enjoy Christmas and family life. Just for a
moment she wished that Desmond had not come down here at Christmastime.
In fact, she almost wished that Desmond had not come down here at all. It
was much more fun seeing Desmond in London than here at home.
In the meantime the boys and Bridget were walking back from the lake,
still discussing earnestly the problems of skating. Flecks of snow had been
falling, and looking up at the sky it could be prophesied that before long there
was going to be a heavy snowfall.
“It’s going to snow all night,” said Colin. “Bet you by Christmas morning
we have a couple of feet of snow.”
The prospect was a pleasurable one.
“Let’s make a snowman,” said Michael.
“Good lord,” said Colin, “I haven’t made a snowman since—well, since I
was about four years old.”
“I don’t believe it’s a bit easy to do,” said Bridget. “I mean, you have to
know how.”
“We might make an effigy of M. Poirot,” said Colin. “Give it a big black
moustache. There is one in the dressing-up box.”
“I don’t see, you know,” said Michael thoughtfully, “how M. Poirot could
ever have been a detective. I don’t see how he’d ever be able to disguise
himself.”
“I know,” said Bridget, “and one can’t imagine him running about with a
microscope and looking for clues or measuring footprints.”
“I’ve got an idea,” said Colin. “Let’s put on a show for him!”
“What do you mean, a show?” asked Bridget.
“Well, arrange a murder for him.”
“What a gorgeous idea,” said Bridget. “Do you mean a body in the snow
—that sort of thing?”
“Yes. It would make him feel at home, wouldn’t it?”
Bridget giggled.
“I don’t know that I’d go as far as that.”
“If it snows,” said Colin, “we’ll have the perfect setting. A body and
footprints—we’ll have to think that out rather carefully and pinch one of
Grandfather’s daggers and make some blood.”
They came to a halt and oblivious to the rapidly falling snow, entered into
an excited discussion.
“There’s a paintbox in the old schoolroom. We could mix up some blood
—crimson-lake, I should think.”
“Crimson-lake’s a bit too pink, I think,” said Bridget. “It ought to be a bit
browner.”
“Who’s going to be the body?” asked Michael.
“I’ll be the body,” said Bridget quickly.
“Oh, look here,” said Colin, “I thought of it.”
“Oh, no, no,” said Bridget, “it must be me. It’s got to be a girl. It’s more
exciting. Beautiful girl lying lifeless in the snow.”
“Beautiful girl! Ah-ha,” said Michael in derision.
“I’ve got black hair, too,” said Bridget.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well, it’ll show up so well on the snow and I shall wear my red
pyjamas.”
“If you wear red pyjamas, they won’t show the bloodstains,” said Michael
in a practical manner.
“But they’d look so effective against the snow,” said Bridget, “and
they’ve got white facings, you know, so the blood could be on that. Oh, won’t
it be gorgeous? Do you think he will really be taken in?”
“He will if we do it well enough,” said Michael. “We’ll have just your
footprints in the snow and one other person’s going to the body and coming
away from it—a man’s, of course. He won’t want to disturb them, so he won’t
know that you’re not really dead. You don’t think,” Michael stopped, struck
by a sudden idea. The others looked at him. “You don’t think he’ll be annoyed
about it?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” said Bridget, with facile optimism. “I’m sure
he’ll understand that we’ve just done it to entertain him. A sort of Christmas
treat.”
“I don’t think we ought to do it on Christmas Day,” said Colin
reflectively. “I don’t think Grandfather would like that very much.”
“Boxing Day then,” said Bridget.
“Boxing Day would be just right,” said Michael.
“And it’ll give us more time, too,” pursued Bridget. “After all, there are a
lot of things to arrange. Let’s go and have a look at all the props.”
They hurried into the house.
The evening was a busy one. Holly and mistletoe had been brought in in large
quantities and a Christmas tree had been set up at one end of the dining room.
Everyone helped to decorate it, to put up the branches of holly behind pictures
and to hang mistletoe in a convenient position in the hall.
“I had no idea anything so archaic still went on,” murmured Desmond to
Sarah with a sneer.
“We’ve always done it,” said Sarah, defensively.
“What a reason!”
“Oh, don’t be tiresome, Desmond. I think it’s fun.”
“Sarah my sweet, you can’t!”
“Well, not—not really perhaps but—I do in a way.”
“Who’s going to brave the snow and go to midnight mass?” asked Mrs.
Lacey at twenty minutes to twelve.
“Not me,” said Desmond. “Come on, Sarah.”
With a hand on her arm he guided her into the library and went over to the
record case.
“There are limits, darling,” said Desmond. “Midnight mass!”
“Yes,” said Sarah. “Oh yes.”
With a good deal of laughter, donning of coats and stamping of feet, most
of the others got off. The two boys, Bridget, David and Diana set out for the
ten minutes’ walk to the church through the falling snow. Their laughter died
away in the distance.
“Midnight mass!” said Colonel Lacey, snorting. “Never went to midnight
mass in my young days. Mass, indeed! Popish, that is! Oh, I beg your pardon,
M. Poirot.”
Poirot waved a hand. “It is quite all right. Do not mind me.”
“Matins is good enough for anybody, I should say,” said the colonel.
“Proper Sunday morning service. ‘Hark the herald angels sing,’ and all the
good old Christmas hymns. And then back to Christmas dinner. That’s right,
isn’t it, Em?”
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Lacey. “That’s what we do. But the young ones
enjoy the midnight service. And it’s nice, really, that they want to go.”
“Sarah and that fellow don’t want to go.”
“Well, there dear, I think you’re wrong,” said Mrs. Lacey. “Sarah, you
know, did want to go, but she didn’t like to say so.”
“Beats me why she cares what that fellow’s opinion is.”
“She’s very young, really,” said Mrs. Lacey placidly. “Are you going to
bed, M. Poirot? Good night. I hope you’ll sleep well.”
“And you, Madame? Are you not going to bed yet?”
“Not just yet,” said Mrs. Lacey. “I’ve got the stockings to fill, you see.
Oh, I know they’re all practically grown up, but they do like their stockings.
One puts jokes in them! Silly little things. But it all makes for a lot of fun.”
“You work very hard to make this a happy house at Christmas time,” said
Poirot. “I honour you.”
He raised her hand to his lips in a courtly fashion.
“Hm,” grunted Colonel Lacey, as Poirot departed. “Flowery sort of fellow.
Still—he appreciates you.”
Mrs. Lacey dimpled up at him. “Have you noticed, Horace, that I’m
standing under the mistletoe?” she asked with the demureness of a girl of
nineteen.
Hercule Poirot entered his bedroom. It was a large room well provided
with radiators. As he went over towards the big four-poster bed he noticed an
envelope lying on his pillow. He opened it and drew out a piece of paper. On
it was a shakily printed message in capital letters.
DON’T EAT NONE OF THE PLUM PUDDING. ONE AS WISHES YOU WELL.
Hercule Poirot stared at it. His eyebrows rose. “Cryptic,” he murmured,
“and most unexpected.”
Christmas dinner took place at 2 p.m. and was a feast indeed. Enormous logs
crackled merrily in the wide fireplace and above their crackling rose the babel
of many tongues talking together. Oyster soup had been consumed, two
enormous turkeys had come and gone, mere carcasses of their former selves.
Now, the supreme moment, the Christmas pudding was brought in, in state!
Old Peverell, his hands and his knees shaking with the weakness of eighty
years, permitted no one but himself to bear it in. Mrs. Lacey sat, her hands
pressed together in nervous apprehension. One Christmas, she felt sure,
Peverell would fall down dead. Having either to take the risk of letting him
fall down dead or of hurting his feelings to such an extent that he would
probably prefer to be dead than alive, she had so far chosen the former
alternative. On a silver dish the Christmas pudding reposed in its glory. A
large football of a pudding, a piece of holly stuck in it like a triumphant flag
and glorious flames of blue and red rising round it. There was a cheer and
cries of “Ooh-ah.”
One thing Mrs. Lacey had done: prevailed upon Peverell to place the
pudding in front of her so that she could help it rather than hand it in turn
round the table. She breathed a sigh of relief as it was deposited safely in
front of her. Rapidly the plates were passed round, flames still licking the
portions.
“Wish, M. Poirot,” cried Bridget. “Wish before the flame goes. Quick,
Gran darling, quick.”
Mrs. Lacey leant back with a sigh of satisfaction. Operation Pudding had
been a success. In front of everyone was a helping with flames still licking it.
There was a momentary silence all round the table as everyone wished hard.
There was nobody to notice the rather curious expression on the face of
M. Poirot as he surveyed the portion of pudding on his plate. “Don’t eat none
of the plum pudding.” What on earth did that sinister warning mean? There
could be nothing different about his portion of plum pudding from that of
everyone else! Sighing as he admitted himself baffled—and Hercule Poirot
never liked to admit himself baffled—he picked up his spoon and fork.
“Hard sauce, M. Poirot?”
Poirot helped himself appreciatively to hard sauce.
“Swiped my best brandy again, eh Em?” said the colonel goodhumouredly from the other end of the table. Mrs. Lacey twinkled at him.
“Mrs. Ross insists on having the best brandy, dear,” she said. “She says it
makes all the difference.”
“Well, well,” said Colonel Lacey, “Christmas comes but once a year and
Mrs. Ross is a great woman. A great woman and a great cook.”
“She is indeed,” said Colin. “Smashing plum pudding, this. Mmmm.” He
filled an appreciative mouth.
Gently, almost gingerly, Hercule Poirot attacked his portion of pudding.
He ate a mouthful. It was delicious! He ate another. Something tinkled faintly
on his plate. He investigated with a fork. Bridget, on his left, came to his aid.
“You’ve got something, M. Poirot,” she said. “I wonder what it is.”
Poirot detached a little silver object from the surrounding raisins that
clung to it.
“Oooh,” said Bridget, “it’s the bachelor’s button! M. Poirot’s got the
bachelor’s button!”
Hercule Poirot dipped the small silver button into the finger-glass of water
that stood by his plate, and washed it clear of pudding crumbs.
“It is very pretty,” he observed.
“That means you’re going to be a bachelor, M. Poirot,” explained Colin
helpfully.
“That is to be expected,” said Poirot gravely. “I have been a bachelor for
many long years and it is unlikely that I shall change that status now.”
“Oh, never say die,” said Michael. “I saw in the paper that someone of
ninety-five married a girl of twenty-two the other day.”
“You encourage me,” said Hercule Poirot.
Colonel Lacey uttered a sudden exclamation. His face became purple and
his hand went to his mouth.
“Confound it, Emmeline,” he roared, “why on earth do you let the cook
put glass in the pudding?”
“Glass!” cried Mrs. Lacey, astonished.
Colonel Lacey withdrew the offending substance from his mouth. “Might
have broken a tooth,” he grumbled. “Or swallowed the damn thing and had
appendicitis.”
He dropped the piece of glass into the finger bowl, rinsed it and held it up.
“God bless my soul,” he ejaculated. “It’s a red stone out of one of the
cracker brooches.” He held it aloft.
“You permit?”
Very deftly M. Poirot stretched across his neighbour, took it from Colonel
Lacey’s fingers and examined it attentively. As the squire had said, it was an
enormous red stone the colour of a ruby. The light gleamed from its facets as
he turned it about. Somewhere around the table a chair was pushed sharply
back and then drawn in again.
“Phew!” cried Michael. “How wizard it would be if it was real.”
“Perhaps it is real,” said Bridget hopefully.
“Oh, don’t be an ass, Bridget. Why a ruby of that size would be worth
thousands and thousands and thousands of pounds. Wouldn’t it, M. Poirot?”
“It would indeed,” said Poirot.
“But what I can’t understand,” said Mrs. Lacey, “is how it got into the
pudding.”
“Oooh,” said Colin, diverted by his last mouthful, “I’ve got the pig. It
isn’t fair.”
Bridget chanted immediately, “Colin’s got the pig! Colin’s got the pig!
Colin is the greedy guzzling pig!”
“I’ve got the ring,” said Diana in a clear, high voice.
“Good for you, Diana. You’ll be married first, of us all.”
“I’ve got the thimble,” wailed Bridget.
“Bridget’s going to be an old maid,” chanted the two boys. “Yah,
Bridget’s going to be an old maid.”
“Who’s got the money?” demanded David. “There’s a real ten shilling
piece, gold, in this pudding. I know. Mrs. Ross told me so.”
“I think I’m the lucky one,” said Desmond Lee-Wortley.
Colonel Lacey’s two next door neighbours heard him mutter. “Yes, you
would be.”
“I’ve got a ring, too,” said David. He looked across at Diana. “Quite a
coincidence, isn’t it?”
The laughter went on. Nobody noticed that M. Poirot carelessly, as though
thinking of something else, had dropped the red stone into his pocket.
Mince pies and Christmas dessert followed the pudding. The older
members of the party then retired for a welcome siesta before the teatime
ceremony of the lighting of the Christmas tree. Hercule Poirot, however, did
not take a siesta. Instead, he made his way to the enormous old-fashioned
kitchen.
“It is permitted,” he asked, looking round and beaming, “that I
congratulate the cook on this marvellous meal that I have just eaten?”
There was a moment’s pause and then Mrs. Ross came forward in a
stately manner to meet him. She was a large woman, nobly built with all the
dignity of a stage duchess. Two lean grey-haired women were beyond in the
scullery washing up and a tow-haired girl was moving to and fro between the
scullery and the kitchen. But these were obviously mere myrmidons. Mrs.
Ross was the queen of the kitchen quarters.
“I am glad to hear you enjoyed it, sir,” she said graciously.
“Enjoyed it!” cried Hercule Poirot. With an extravagant foreign gesture he
raised his hand to his lips, kissed it, and wafted the kiss to the ceiling. “But
you are a genius, Mrs. Ross! A genius! Never have I tasted such a wonderful
meal. The oyster soup—” he made an expressive noise with his lips “—and
the stuffing. The chestnut stuffing in the turkey, that was quite unique in my
experience.”
“Well, it’s funny that you should say that, sir,” said Mrs. Ross graciously.
“It’s a very special recipe, that stuffing. It was given me by an Austrian chef
that I worked with many years ago. But all the rest,” she added, “is just good,
plain English cooking.”
“And is there anything better?” demanded Hercule Poirot.
“Well, it’s nice of you to say so, sir. Of course, you being a foreign
gentleman might have preferred the continental style. Not but what I can’t
manage continental dishes too.”
“I am sure, Mrs. Ross, you could manage anything! But you must know
that English cooking—good English cooking, not the cooking one gets in the
second-class hotels or the restaurants—is much appreciated by gourmets on
the continent, and I believe I am correct in saying that a special expedition
was made to London in the early eighteen hundreds, and a report sent back to
France of the wonders of the English puddings. ‘We have nothing like that in
France,’ they wrote. ‘It is worth making a journey to London just to taste the
varieties and excellencies of the English puddings.’ And above all puddings,”
continued Poirot, well launched now on a kind of rhapsody, “is the Christmas
plum pudding, such as we have eaten today. That was a homemade pudding,
was it not? Not a bought one?”
“Yes, indeed, sir. Of my own making and my own recipe such as I’ve
made for many years. When I came here Mrs. Lacey said that she’d ordered a
pudding from a London store to save me the trouble. But no, Madam, I said,
that may be kind of you but no bought pudding from a store can equal a
homemade Christmas one. Mind you,” said Mrs. Ross, warming to her subject
like the artist she was, “it was made too soon before the day. A good
Christmas pudding should be made some weeks before and allowed to wait.
The longer they’re kept, within reason, the better they are. I mind now that
when I was a child and we went to church every Sunday, we’d start listening
for the collect that begins ‘Stir up O Lord we beseech thee’ because that
collect was the signal, as it were, that the puddings should be made that week.
And so they always were. We had the collect on the Sunday, and that week
sure enough my mother would make the Christmas puddings. And so it
should have been here this year. As it was, that pudding was only made three
days ago, the day before you arrived, sir. However, I kept to the old custom.
Everyone in the house had to come out into the kitchen and have a stir and
make a wish. That’s an old custom, sir, and I’ve always held to it.”
“Most interesting,” said Hercule Poirot. “Most interesting. And so
everyone came out into the kitchen?”
“Yes, sir. The young gentlemen, Miss Bridget and the London gentleman
who’s staying here, and his sister and Mr. David and Miss Diana—Mrs.
Middleton, I should say—All had a stir, they did.”
“How many puddings did you make? Is this the only one?”
“No, sir, I made four. Two large ones and two smaller ones. The other
large one I planned to serve on New Year’s Day and the smaller ones were for
Colonel and Mrs. Lacey when they’re alone like and not so many in the
family.”
“I see, I see,” said Poirot.
“As a matter of fact, sir,” said Mrs. Ross, “it was the wrong pudding you
had for lunch today.”
“The wrong pudding?” Poirot frowned. “How is that?”
“Well, sir, we have a big Christmas mould. A china mould with a pattern
of holly and mistletoe on top and we always have the Christmas Day pudding
boiled in that. But there was a most unfortunate accident. This morning, when
Annie was getting it down from the shelf in the larder, she slipped and
dropped it and it broke. Well, sir, naturally I couldn’t serve that, could I?
There might have been splinters in it. So we had to use the other one—the
New Year’s Day one, which was in a plain bowl. It makes a nice round but
it’s not so decorative as the Christmas mould. Really, where we’ll get another
mould like that I don’t know. They don’t make things in that size nowadays.
All tiddly bits of things. Why, you can’t even buy a breakfast dish that’ll take
a proper eight to ten eggs and bacon. Ah, things aren’t what they were.”
“No, indeed,” said Poirot. “But today that is not so. This Christmas Day
has been like the Christmas Days of old, is that not true?”
Mrs. Ross sighed. “Well, I’m glad you say so, sir, but of course I haven’t
the help now that I used to have. Not skilled help, that is. The girls nowadays
—” she lowered her voice slightly, “—they mean very well and they’re very
willing but they’ve not been trained, sir, if you understand what I mean.”
“Times change, yes,” said Hercule Poirot. “I too find it sad sometimes.”
“This house, sir,” said Mrs. Ross, “it’s too large, you know, for the
mistress and the colonel. The mistress, she knows that. Living in a corner of it
as they do, it’s not the same thing at all. It only comes alive, as you might say,
at Christmas time when all the family come.”
“It is the first time, I think, that Mr. Lee-Wortley and his sister have been
here?”
“Yes, sir.” A note of slight reserve crept into Mrs. Ross’s voice. “A very
nice gentleman he is but, well—it seems a funny friend for Miss Sarah to
have, according to our ideas. But there—London ways are different! It’s sad
that his sister’s so poorly. Had an operation, she had. She seemed all right the
first day she was here, but that very day, after we’d been stirring the puddings,
she was took bad again and she’s been in bed ever since. Got up too soon after
her operation, I expect. Ah, doctors nowadays, they have you out of hospital
before you can hardly stand on your feet. Why, my very own nephew’s wife
. . .” And Mrs. Ross went into a long and spirited tale of hospital treatment as
accorded to her relations, comparing it unfavourably with the consideration
that had been lavished upon them in older times.
Poirot duly commiserated with her. “It remains,” he said, “to thank you
for this exquisite and sumptuous meal. You permit a little acknowledgement
of my appreciation?” A crisp five pound note passed from his hand into that
of Mrs. Ross who said perfunctorily:
“You really shouldn’t do that, sir.”
“I insist. I insist.”
“Well, it’s very kind of you indeed, sir.” Mrs. Ross accepted the tribute as
no more than her due. “And I wish you, sir, a very happy Christmas and a
prosperous New Year.”
The end of Christmas Day was like the end of most Christmas Days. The tree
was lighted, a splendid Christmas cake came in for tea, was greeted with
approval but was partaken of only moderately. There was cold supper.
Both Poirot and his host and hostess went to bed early.
“Good night, M. Poirot,” said Mrs. Lacey. “I hope you’ve enjoyed
yourself.”
“It has been a wonderful day, Madame, wonderful.”
“You’re looking very thoughtful,” said Mrs. Lacey.
“It is the English pudding that I consider.”
“You found it a little heavy, perhaps?” asked Mrs. Lacey delicately.
“No, no, I do not speak gastronomically. I consider its significance.”
“It’s traditional, of course,” said Mrs. Lacey. “Well, good night, M. Poirot,
and don’t dream too much of Christmas puddings and mince pies.”
“Yes,” murmured Poirot to himself as he undressed. “It is a problem
certainly, that Christmas plum pudding. There is here something that I do not
understand at all.” He shook his head in a vexed manner. “Well—we shall
see.”
After making certain preparations, Poirot went to bed, but not to sleep.
It was some two hours later that his patience was rewarded. The door of
his bedroom opened very gently. He smiled to himself. It was as he had
thought it would be. His mind went back fleetingly to the cup of coffee so
politely handed him by Desmond Lee-Wortley. A little later, when Desmond’s
back was turned, he had laid the cup down for a few moments on a table. He
had then apparently picked it up again and Desmond had had the satisfaction,
if satisfaction it was, of seeing him drink the coffee to the last drop. But a
little smile lifted Poirot’s moustache as he reflected that it was not he but
someone else who was sleeping a good sound sleep tonight. “That pleasant
young David,” said Poirot to himself, “he is worried, unhappy. It will do him
no harm to have a night’s really sound sleep. And now, let us see what will
happen?”
He lay quite still, breathing in an even manner with occasionally a
suggestion, but the very faintest suggestion, of a snore.
Someone came up to the bed and bent over him. Then, satisfied, that
someone turned away and went to the dressing table. By the light of a tiny
torch the visitor was examining Poirot’s belongings neatly arranged on top of
the dressing table. Fingers explored the wallet, gently pulled open the drawers
of the dressing table, then extended the search to the pockets of Poirot’s
clothes. Finally the visitor approached the bed and with great caution slid his
hand under the pillow. Withdrawing his hand, he stood for a moment or two
as though uncertain what to do next. He walked round the room looking
inside ornaments, went into the adjoining bathroom from whence he presently
returned. Then, with a faint exclamation of disgust, he went out of the room.
“Ah,” said Poirot, under his breath. “You have a disappointment. Yes, yes,
a serious disappointment. Bah! To imagine, even, that Hercule Poirot would
hide something where you could find it!” Then, turning over on his other side,
he went peacefully to sleep.
He was aroused next morning by an urgent soft tapping on his door.
“Qui est lá? Come in, come in.”
The door opened. Breathless, red-faced, Colin stood upon the threshold.
Behind him stood Michael.
“Monsieur Poirot, Monsieur Poirot.”
“But yes?” Poirot sat up in bed. “It is the early tea? But no. It is you,
Colin. What has occurred?”
Colin was, for a moment, speechless. He seemed to be under the grip of
some strong emotion. In actual fact it was the sight of the nightcap that
Hercule Poirot wore that affected for the moment his organs of speech.
Presently he controlled himself and spoke.
“I think—M. Poirot, could you help us? Something rather awful has
happened.”
“Something has happened? But what?”
“It’s—it’s Bridget. She’s out there in the snow. I think—she doesn’t move
or speak and—oh, you’d better come and look for yourself. I’m terribly afraid
—she may be dead.”
“What?” Poirot cast aside his bed covers. “Mademoiselle Bridget—dead!”
“I think—I think somebody’s killed her. There’s—there’s blood and—oh
do come!”
“But certainly. But certainly. I come on the instant.”
With great practicality Poirot inserted his feet into his outdoor shoes and
pulled a fur-lined overcoat over his pyjamas.
“I come,” he said. “I come on the moment. You have aroused the house?”
“No. No, so far I haven’t told anyone but you. I thought it would be better.
Grandfather and Gran aren’t up yet. They’re laying breakfast downstairs, but I
didn’t say anything to Peverell. She—Bridget—she’s round the other side of
the house, near the terrace and the library window.”
“I see. Lead the way. I will follow.”
Turning away to hide his delighted grin, Colin led the way downstairs.
They went out through the side door. It was a clear morning with the sun not
yet high over the horizon. It was not snowing now, but it had snowed heavily
during the night and everywhere around was an unbroken carpet of thick
snow. The world looked very pure and white and beautiful.
“There!” said Colin breathlessly. “I—it’s—there!” He pointed
dramatically.
The scene was indeed dramatic enough. A few yards away Bridget lay in
the snow. She was wearing scarlet pyjamas and a white wool wrap thrown
round her shoulders. The white wool wrap was stained with crimson. Her
head was turned aside and hidden by the mass of her outspread black hair.
One arm was under her body, the other lay flung out, the fingers clenched,
and standing up in the centre of the crimson stain was the hilt of a large
curved Kurdish knife which Colonel Lacey had shown to his guests only the
evening before.
“Mon Dieu!” ejaculated M. Poirot. “It is like something on the stage!”
There was a faint choking noise from Michael. Colin thrust himself
quickly into the breach.
“I know,” he said. “It—it doesn’t seem real somehow, does it. Do you see
those footprints—I suppose we mustn’t disturb them?”
“Ah yes, the footprints. No, we must be careful not to disturb those
footprints.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Colin. “That’s why I wouldn’t let anyone go
near her until we got you. I thought you’d know what to do.”
“All the same,” said Hercule Poirot briskly, “first, we must see if she is
still alive? Is not that so?”
“Well—yes—of course,” said Michael, a little doubtfully, “but you see,
we thought—I mean, we didn’t like—”
“Ah, you have the prudence! You have read the detective stories. It is
most important that nothing should be touched and that the body should be
left as it is. But we cannot be sure as yet if it is a body, can we? After all,
though prudence is admirable, common humanity comes first. We must think
of the doctor, must we not, before we think of the police?”
“Oh yes. Of course,” said Colin, still a little taken aback.
“We only thought—I mean—we thought we’d better get you before we
did anything,” said Michael hastily.
“Then you will both remain here,” said Poirot. “I will approach from the
other side so as not to disturb these footprints. Such excellent footprints, are
they not—so very clear? The footprints of a man and a girl going out together
to the place where she lies. And then the man’s footsteps come back but the
girl’s—do not.”
“They must be the footprints of the murderer,” said Colin, with bated
breath.
“Exactly,” said Poirot. “The footprints of the murderer. A long narrow
foot with rather a peculiar type of shoe. Very interesting. Easy, I think, to
recognize. Yes, those footprints will be very important.”
At that moment Desmond Lee-Wortley came out of the house with Sarah
and joined them.
“What on earth are you all doing here?” he demanded in a somewhat
theatrical manner. “I saw you from my bedroom window. What’s up? Good
lord, what’s this? It—it looks like—”
“Exactly,” said Hercule Poirot. “It looks like murder, does it not?”
Sarah gave a gasp, then shot a quick suspicious glance at the two boys.
“You mean someone’s killed the girl—what’s-her-name—Bridget?”
demanded Desmond. “Who on earth would want to kill her? It’s
unbelievable!”
“There are many things that are unbelievable,” said Poirot. “Especially
before breakfast, is it not? That is what one of your classics says. Six
impossible things before breakfast.” He added: “Please wait here, all of you.”
Carefully making a circuit, he approached Bridget and bent for a moment
down over the body. Colin and Michael were now both shaking with
suppressed laughter. Sarah joined them, murmuring “What have you two been
up to?”
“Good old Bridget,” whispered Colin. “Isn’t she wonderful? Not a
twitch!”
“I’ve never seen anything look so dead as Bridget does,” whispered
Michael.
Hercule Poirot straightened up again.
“This is a terrible thing,” he said. His voice held an emotion it had not
held before.
Overcome by mirth, Michael and Colin both turned away. In a choked
voice Michael said:
“What—what must we do?”
“There is only one thing to do,” said Poirot. “We must send for the police.
Will one of you telephone or would you prefer me to do it?”
“I think,” said Colin, “I think—what about it, Michael?”
“Yes,” said Michael, “I think the jig’s up now.” He stepped forward. For
the first time he seemed a little unsure of himself. “I’m awfully sorry,” he
said, “I hope you won’t mind too much. It—er—it was a sort of joke for
Christmas and all that, you know. We thought we’d—well, lay on a murder
for you.”
“You thought you would lay on a murder for me? Then this—then this—”
“It’s just a show we put on,” explained. Colin, “to—to make you feel at
home, you know.”
“Aha,” said Hercule Poirot. “I understand. You make of me the April fool,
is that it? But today is not April the first, it is December the twenty-sixth.”
“I suppose we oughtn’t to have done it really,” said Colin, “but—but—
you don’t mind very much, do you, M. Poirot? Come on, Bridget,” he called,
“get up. You must be half frozen to death already.”
The figure in the snow, however, did not stir.
“It is odd,” said Hercule Poirot, “she does not seem to hear you.” He
looked thoughtfully at them. “It is a joke, you say? You are sure this is a
joke?”
“Why, yes.” Colin spoke uncomfortably. “We—we didn’t mean any
harm.”
“But why then does Mademoiselle Bridget not get up?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Colin.
“Come on, Bridget,” said Sarah impatiently. “Don’t go on lying there
playing the fool.”
“We really are very sorry, M. Poirot,” said Colin apprehensively. “We do
really apologize.”
“You need not apologize,” said Poirot, in a peculiar tone.
“What do you mean?” Colin stared at him. He turned again. “Bridget!
Bridget! What’s the matter? Why doesn’t she get up? Why does she go on
lying there?”
Poirot beckoned to Desmond. “You, Mr. Lee-Wortley. Come here—”
Desmond joined him.
“Feel her pulse,” said Poirot.
Desmond Lee-Wortley bent down. He touched the arm—the wrist.
“There’s no pulse . . .” he stared at Poirot. “Her arm’s still. Good God, she
really is dead!”
Poirot nodded. “Yes, she is dead,” he said. “Someone has turned the
comedy into a tragedy.”
“Someone—who?”
“There is a set of footprints going and returning. A set of footprints that
bears a strong resemblance to the footprints you have just made, Mr. Lee-
Wortley, coming from the path to this spot.”
Desmond Lee-Wortley wheeled round.
“What on earth—Are you accusing me? ME? You’re crazy! Why on earth
should I want to kill the girl?”
“Ah—why? I wonder . . . Let us see. . . .”
He bent down and very gently prised open the stiff fingers of the girl’s
clenched hand.
Desmond drew a sharp breath. He gazed down unbelievingly. In the palm
of the dead girl’s hand was what appeared to be a large ruby.
“It’s that damn thing out of the pudding!” he cried.
“Is it?” said Poirot. “Are you sure?”
“Of course it is.”
With a swift movement Desmond bent down and plucked the red stone
out of Bridget’s hand.
“You should not do that,” said Poirot reproachfully. “Nothing should have
been disturbed.”
“I haven’t disturbed the body, have I? But this thing might—might get lost
and it’s evidence. The great thing is to get the police here as soon as possible.
I’ll go at once and telephone.”
He wheeled round and ran sharply towards the house. Sarah came swiftly
to Poirot’s side.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. Her face was dead white. “I don’t
understand.” She caught at Poirot’s arm. “What did you mean about—about
the footprints?”
“Look for yourself, Mademoiselle.”
The footprints that led to the body and back again were the same as the
ones just made accompanying Poirot to the girl’s body and back.
“You mean—that it was Desmond? Nonsense!”
Suddenly the noise of a car came through the clear air. They wheeled
round. They saw the car clearly enough driving at a furious pace down the
drive and Sarah recognized what car it was.
“It’s Desmond,” she said. “It’s Desmond’s car. He—he must have gone to
fetch the police instead of telephoning.”
Diana Middleton came running out of the house to join them.
“What’s happened?” she cried in a breathless voice. “Desmond just came
rushing into the house. He said something about Bridget being killed and then
he rattled the telephone but it was dead. He couldn’t get an answer. He said
the wires must have been cut. He said the only thing was to take a car and go
for the police. Why the police? . . .”
Poirot made a gesture.
“Bridget?” Diana stared at him. “But surely—isn’t it a joke of some kind?
I heard something—something last night. I thought that they were going to
play a joke on you, M. Poirot?”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “that was the idea—to play a joke on me. But now
come into the house, all of you. We shall catch our deaths of cold here and
there is nothing to be done until Mr. Lee-Wortley returns with the police.”
“But look here,” said Colin, “we can’t—we can’t leave Bridget here
alone.”
“You can do her no good by remaining,” said Poirot gently. “Come, it is a
sad, a very sad tragedy, but there is nothing we can do anymore to help
Mademoiselle Bridget. So let us come in and get warm and have perhaps a
cup of tea or of coffee.”
They followed him obediently into the house. Peverell was just about to
strike the gong. If he thought it extraordinary for most of the household to be
outside and for Poirot to make an appearance in pyjamas and an overcoat, he
displayed no sign of it. Peverell in his old age was still the perfect butler. He
noticed nothing that he was not asked to notice. They went into the dining
room and sat down. When they all had a cup of coffee in front of them and
were sipping it, Poirot spoke.
“I have to recount to you,” he said, “a little history. I cannot tell you all
the details, no. But I can give you the main outline. It concerns a young
princeling who came to this country. He brought with him a famous jewel
which he was to have reset for the lady he was going to marry, but
unfortunately before that he made friends with a very pretty young lady. This
pretty young lady did not care very much for the man, but she did care for his
jewel—so much so that one day she disappeared with this historic possession
which had belonged to his house for generations. So the poor young man, he
is in a quandary, you see. Above all he cannot have a scandal. Impossible to
go to the police. Therefore he comes to me, to Hercule Poirot. ‘Recover for
me,’ he says, ‘my historic ruby.’ Eh bien, this young lady, she has a friend,
and the friend, he has put through several very questionable transactions. He
has been concerned with blackmail and he has been concerned with the sale
of jewellery abroad. Always he has been very clever. He is suspected, yes, but
nothing can be proved. It comes to my knowledge that this very clever
gentleman, he is spending Christmas here in this house. It is important that the
pretty young lady, once she has acquired the jewel, should disappear for a
while from circulation, so that no pressure can be put upon her, no questions
can be asked her. It is arranged, therefore, that she comes here to Kings
Lacey, ostensibly as the sister of the clever gentleman—”
Sarah drew a sharp breath.
“Oh, no. Oh, no, not here! Not with me here!”
“But so it is,” said Poirot. “And by a little manipulation I, too, become a
guest here for Christmas. This young lady, she is supposed to have just come
out of hospital. She is much better when she arrives here. But then comes the
news that I, too, arrive, a detective—a well-known detective. At once she has
what you call the windup. She hides the ruby in the first place she can think
of, and then very quickly she has a relapse and takes to her bed again. She
does not want that I should see her, for doubtless I have a photograph and I
shall recognize her. It is very boring for her, yes, but she has to stay in her
room and her brother, he brings her up the trays.”
“And the ruby?” demanded Michael.
“I think,” said Poirot, “that at the moment it is mentioned I arrive, the
young lady was in the kitchen with the rest of you, all laughing and talking
and stirring the Christmas puddings. The Christmas puddings are put into
bowls and the young lady she hides the ruby, pressing it down into one of the
pudding bowls. Not the one that we are going to have on Christmas Day. Oh
no, that one she knows is in a special mould. She put it in the other one, the
one that is destined to be eaten on New Year’s Day. Before then she will be
ready to leave, and when she leaves no doubt that Christmas pudding will go
with her. But see how fate takes a hand. On the very morning of Christmas
Day there is an accident. The Christmas pudding in its fancy mould is
dropped on the stone floor and the mould is shattered to pieces. So what can
be done? The good Mrs. Ross, she takes the other pudding and sends it in.”
“Good lord,” said Colin, “do you mean that on Christmas Day when
Grandfather was eating his pudding that that was a real ruby he’d got in his
mouth?”
“Precisely,” said Poirot, “and you can imagine the emotions of Mr.
Desmond Lee-Wortley when he saw that. Eh bien, what happens next? The
ruby is passed round. I examine it and I manage unobtrusively to slip it in my
pocket. In a careless way as though I were not interested. But one person at
least observes what I have done. When I lie in bed that person searches my
room. He searches me. He does not find the ruby. Why?”
“Because,” said Michael breathlessly, “you had given it to Bridget. That’s
what you mean. And so that’s why—but I don’t understand quite—I mean—
Look here, what did happen?”
Poirot smiled at him.
“Come now into the library,” he said, “and look out of the window and I
will show you something that may explain the mystery.”
He led the way and they followed him.
“Consider once again,” said Poirot, “the scene of the crime.”
He pointed out of the window. A simultaneous gasp broke from the lips of
all of them. There was no body lying on the snow, no trace of the tragedy
seemed to remain except a mass of scuffled snow.
“It wasn’t all a dream, was it?” said Colin faintly. “I—has someone taken
the body away?”
“Ah,” said Poirot. “You see? The Mystery of the Disappearing Body.” He
nodded his head and his eyes twinkled gently.
“Good lord,” cried Michael. “M. Poirot, you are—you haven’t—oh, look
here, he’s been having us on all this time!”
Poirot twinkled more than ever.
“It is true, my children, I also have had my little joke. I knew about your
little plot, you see, and so I arranged a counterplot of my own. Ah, voilà
Mademoiselle Bridget. None the worse, I hope, for your exposure in the
snow? Never should I forgive myself if you attrapped une fluxion de
poitrine.”
Bridget had just come into the room. She was wearing a thick skirt and a
woollen sweater. She was laughing.
“I sent a tisane to your room,” said Poirot severely. “You have drunk it?”
“One sip was enough!” said Bridget. “I’m all right. Did I do it well, M.
Poirot? Goodness, my arm hurts still after that tourniquet you made me put on
it.”
“You were splendid, my child,” said Poirot. “Splendid. But see, all the
others are still in the fog. Last night I went to Mademoiselle Bridget. I told
her that I knew about your little complot and I asked her if she would act a
part for me. She did it very cleverly. She made the footprints with a pair of
Mr. Lee-Wortley’s shoes.”
Sarah said in a harsh voice:
“But what’s the point of it all, M. Poirot? What’s the point of sending
Desmond off to fetch the police? They’ll be very angry when they find out it’s
nothing but a hoax.”
Poirot shook his head gently.
“But I do not think for one moment, Mademoiselle, that Mr. Lee-Wortley
went to fetch the police,” he said. “Murder is a thing in which Mr. LeeWortley does not want to be mixed up. He lost his nerve badly. All he could
see was his chance to get the ruby. He snatched that, he pretended the
telephone was out of order and he rushed off in a car on the pretence of
fetching the police. I think myself it is the last you will see of him for some
time. He has, I understand, his own ways of getting out of England. He has
his own plane, has he not, Mademoiselle?”
Sarah nodded. “Yes,” she said. “We were thinking of—” She stopped.
“He wanted you to elope with him that way, did he not? Eh bien, that is a
very good way of smuggling a jewel out of the country. When you are eloping
with a girl, and that fact is publicized, then you will not be suspected of also
smuggling a historic jewel out of the country. Oh yes, that would have made a
very good camouflage.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Sarah. “I don’t believe a word of it!”
“Then ask his sister,” said Poirot, gently nodding his head over her
shoulder. Sarah turned her head sharply.
A platinum blonde stood in the doorway. She wore a fur coat and was
scowling. She was clearly in a furious temper.
“Sister my foot!” she said, with a short unpleasant laugh. “That swine’s no
brother of mine! So he’s beaten it, has he, and left me to carry the can? The
whole thing was his idea! He put me up to it! Said it was money for jam.
They’d never prosecute because of the scandal. I could always threaten to say
that Ali had given me his historic jewel. Des and I were to have shared the
swag in Paris—and now the swine runs out on me! I’d like to murder him!”
She switched abruptly. “The sooner I get out of here—Can someone
telephone for a taxi?”
“A car is waiting at the front door to take you to the station,
Mademoiselle,” said Poirot.
“Think of everything, don’t you?”
“Most things,” said Poirot complacently.
But Poirot was not to get off so easily. When he returned to the dining
room after assisting the spurious Miss Lee-Wortley into the waiting car, Colin
was waiting for him.
There was a frown on his boyish face.
“But look here, M. Poirot. What about the ruby? Do you mean to say
you’ve let him get away with it?”
Poirot’s face fell. He twirled his moustaches. He seemed ill at ease.
“I shall recover it yet,” he said weakly. “There are other ways. I shall still
—”
“Well, I do think!” said Michael. “To let that swine get away with the
ruby!”
Bridget was sharper.
“He’s having us on again,” she cried. “You are, aren’t you, M. Poirot?”
“Shall we do a final conjuring trick, Mademoiselle? Feel in my left-hand
pocket.”
Bridget thrust her hand in. She drew it out again with a scream of triumph
and held aloft a large ruby blinking in crimson splendour.
“You comprehend,” explained Poirot, “the one that was clasped in your
hand was a paste replica. I brought it from London in case it was possible to
make a substitute. You understand? We do not want the scandal. Monsieur
Desmond will try and dispose of that ruby in Paris or in Belgium or wherever
it is that he has his contacts, and then it will be discovered that the stone is not
real! What could be more excellent? All finishes happily. The scandal is
avoided, my princeling receives his ruby back again, he returns to his country
and makes a sober and we hope a happy marriage. All ends well.”
“Except for me,” murmured Sarah under her breath.
She spoke so low that no one heard her but Poirot. He shook his head
gently.
“You are in error, Mademoiselle Sarah, in what you say there. You have
gained experience. All experience is valuable. Ahead of you I prophesy there
lies happiness.”
“That’s what you say,” said Sarah.
“But look here, M. Poirot,” Colin was frowning. “How did you know
about the show we were going to put on for you?”
“It is my business to know things,” said Hercule Poirot. He twirled his
moustache.
“Yes, but I don’t see how you could have managed it. Did someone split
—did someone come and tell you?”
“No, no, not that.”
“Then how? Tell us how?”
They all chorused, “Yes, tell us how.”
“But no,” Poirot protested. “But no. If I tell you how I deduced that, you
will think nothing of it. It is like the conjurer who shows how his tricks are
done!”
“Tell us, M. Poirot! Go on. Tell us, tell us!”
“You really wish that I should solve for you this last mystery?”
“Yes, go on. Tell us.”
“Ah, I do not think I can. You will be so disappointed.”
“Now, come on, M. Poirot, tell us. How did you know?”
“Well, you see, I was sitting in the library by the window in a chair after
tea the other day and I was reposing myself. I had been asleep and when I
awoke you were discussing your plans just outside the window close to me,
and the window was open at the top.”
“Is that all?” cried Colin, disgusted. “How simple!”
“Is it not?” said Hercule Poirot, smiling. “You see? You are
disappointed!”
“Oh well,” said Michael, “at any rate we know everything now.”
“Do we?” murmured Hercule Poirot to himself. “I do not. I, whose
business it is to know things.”
He walked out into the hall, shaking his head a little. For perhaps the
twentieth time he drew from his pocket a rather dirty piece of paper. “DON’T
EAT NONE OF THE PLUM PUDDING. ONE AS WISHES YOU WELL.”
Hercule Poirot shook his head reflectively. He who could explain
everything could not explain this! Humiliating. Who had written it? Why had
it been written? Until he found that out he would never know a moment’s
peace. Suddenly he came out of his reverie to be aware of a peculiar gasping
noise. He looked sharply down. On the floor, busy with a dustpan and brush
was a tow-headed creature in a flowered overall. She was staring at the paper
in his hand with large round eyes.
“Oh sir,” said this apparition. “Oh, sir. Please, sir.”
“And who may you be, mon enfant?” inquired M. Poirot genially.
“Annie Bates, sir, please, sir. I come here to help Mrs. Ross. I didn’t
mean, sir, I didn’t mean to—to do anything what I shouldn’t do. I did mean it
well, sir. For your good, I mean.”
Enlightenment came to Poirot. He held out the dirty piece of paper.
“Did you write that, Annie?”
“I didn’t mean any harm, sir. Really I didn’t.”
“Of course you didn’t, Annie.” He smiled at her. “But tell me about it.
Why did you write this?”
“Well, it was them two, sir. Mr. Lee-Wortley and his sister. Not that she
was his sister, I’m sure. None of us thought so! And she wasn’t ill a bit. We
could all tell that. We thought—we all thought—something queer was going
on. I’ll tell you straight, sir. I was in her bathroom taking in the clean towels,
and I listened at the door. He was in her room and they were talking together.
I heard what they said plain as plain. ‘This detective,’ he was saying. ‘This
fellow Poirot who’s coming here. We’ve got to do something about it. We’ve
got to get him out of the way as soon as possible.’ And then he says to her in a
nasty, sinister sort of way, lowering his voice, ‘Where did you put it?’ And
she answered him, ‘In the pudding.’ Oh, sir, my heart gave such a leap I
thought it would stop beating. I thought they meant to poison you in the
Christmas pudding. I didn’t know what to do! Mrs. Ross, she wouldn’t listen
to the likes of me. Then the idea came to me as I’d write you a warning. And I
did and I put it on your pillow where you’d find it when you went to bed.”
Annie paused breathlessly.
Poirot surveyed her gravely for some minutes.
“You see too many sensational films, I think, Annie,” he said at last, “or
perhaps it is the television that affects you? But the important thing is that you
have the good heart and a certain amount of ingenuity. When I return to
London I will send you a present.”
“Oh thank you, sir. Thank you very much, sir.”
“What would you like, Annie, as a present?”
“Anything I like, sir? Could I have anything I like?”
“Within reason,” said Hercule Poirot prudently, “yes.”
“Oh sir, could I have a vanity box? A real posh slap-up vanity box like the
one Mr. Lee-Wortley’s sister, wot wasn’t his sister, had?”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “yes, I think that could be managed.
“It is interesting,” he mused. “I was in a museum the other day observing
some antiquities from Babylon or one of those places, thousands of years old
—and among them were cosmetic boxes. The heart of woman does not
change.”
“Beg your pardon, sir?” said Annie.
“It is nothing,” said Poirot. “I reflect. You shall have your vanity box,
child.”
“Oh thank you, sir. Oh thank you very much indeed, sir.”
Annie departed ecstatically. Poirot looked after her, nodding his head in
satisfaction.
“Ah,” he said to himself. “And now—I go. There is nothing more to be
done here.”
A pair of arms slipped round his shoulders unexpectedly.
“If you will stand just under the mistletoe—” said Bridget.
Hercule Poirot enjoyed it. He enjoyed it very much. He said to himself that he
had had a very good Christmas.
The original version of this story, “Christmas Adventure,” can be found
in the volume While the Light Lasts and Other Stories.
Twenty-five
THE LEMESURIER INHERITANCE
“The Lemesurier Inheritance” was first published in The Magpie, Christmas 1923.
I
In company with Poirot, I have investigated many strange cases, but none, I
think, to compare with that extraordinary series of events which held our
interest over a period of many years, and which culminated in the ultimate
problem brought to Poirot to solve. Our attention was first drawn to the
family history of the Lemesuriers one evening during the war. Poirot and I
had but recently come together again, renewing the old days of our
acquaintanceship in Belgium. He had been handling some little matter for the
War Office—disposing of it to their entire satisfaction; and we had been
dining at the Carlton with a Brass Hat who paid Poirot heavy compliments in
the intervals of the meal. The Brass Hat had to rush away to keep an
appointment with someone, and we finished our coffee in a leisurely fashion
before following his example.
As we were leaving the room, I was hailed by a voice which struck a
familiar note, and turned to see Captain Vincent Lemesurier, a young fellow
whom I had known in France. He was with an older man whose likeness to
him proclaimed him to be of the same family. Such proved to be the case, and
he was introduced to us as Mr. Hugo Lemesurier, uncle of my young friend.
I did not really know Captain Lemesurier at all intimately, but he was a
pleasant young fellow, somewhat dreamy in manner, and I remembered
hearing that he belonged to an old and exclusive family with a property in
Northumberland which dated from before the Reformation. Poirot and I were
not in a hurry, and at the younger man’s invitation, we sat down at the table
with our two newfound friends, and chattered pleasantly enough on various
matters. The elder Lemesurier was a man of about forty, with a touch of the
scholar in his stooping shoulders; he was engaged at the moment upon some
chemical research work for the Government, it appeared.
Our conversation was interrupted by a tall dark young man who strode up
to the table, evidently labouring under some agitation of mind.
“Thank goodness I’ve found you both!” he exclaimed.
“What’s the matter, Roger?”
“Your guv’nor, Vincent. Bad fall. Young horse.” The rest trailed off, as he
drew the other aside.
In a few minutes our two friends had hurriedly taken leave of us. Vincent
Lemesurier’s father had had a serious accident while trying a young horse,
and was not expected to live until morning. Vincent had gone deadly white,
and appeared almost stunned by the news. In a way, I was surprised—for
from the few words he had let fall on the subject while in France, I had
gathered that he and his father were not on particularly friendly terms, and so
his display of filial feeling now rather astonished me.
The dark young man, who had been introduced to us as a cousin, Mr.
Roger Lemesurier, remained behind, and we three strolled out together.
“Rather a curious business, this,” observed the young man. “It would
interest M. Poirot, perhaps. I’ve heard of you, you know, M. Poirot—from
Higginson.” (Higginson was our Brass Hat friend.) “He says you’re a whale
on psychology.”
“I study the psychology, yes,” admitted my friend cautiously.
“Did you see my cousin’s face? He was absolutely bowled over, wasn’t
he? Do you know why? A good old-fashioned family curse! Would you care
to hear about it?”
“It would be most kind of you to recount it to me.”
Roger Lemesurier looked at his watch.
“Lots of time. I’m meeting them at King’s Cross. Well, M. Poirot, the
Lemesuriers are an old family. Way back in medieval times, a Lemesurier
became suspicious of his wife. He found the lady in a compromising
situation. She swore that she was innocent, but old Baron Hugo didn’t listen.
She had one child, a son—and he swore that the boy was no child of his and
should never inherit. I forget what he did—some pleasing medieval fancy like
walling up the mother and son alive; anyway, he killed them both, and she
died protesting her innocence and solemnly cursing the Lemesuriers forever.
No first-born son of a Lemesurier should ever inherit—so the curse ran. Well,
time passed, and the lady’s innocence was established beyond doubt. I believe
that Hugo wore a hair shirt and ended up his days on his knees in a monk’s
cell. But the curious thing is that from that day to this, no first-born son ever
has succeeded to the estate. It’s gone to brothers, to nephews, to second sons
—never to the eldest son. Vincent’s father was the second of five sons, the
eldest of whom died in infancy. Of course, all through the war, Vincent has
been convinced that whoever else was doomed, he certainly was. But
strangely enough, his two younger brothers have been killed, and he himself
has remained unscathed.”
“An interesting family history,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “But now his
father is dying, and he, as the eldest son, succeeds?”
“Exactly. A curse has gone rusty—unable to stand the strain of modern
life.”
Poirot shook his head, as though deprecating the other’s jesting tone.
Roger Lemesurier looked at his watch again, and declared that he must be off.
The sequel to the story came on the morrow, when we learned of the
tragic death of Captain Vincent Lemesurier. He had been travelling north by
the Scotch mail-train, and during the night must have opened the door of the
compartment and jumped out on the line. The shock of his father’s accident
coming on top of the shell-shock was deemed to have caused temporary
mental aberration. The curious superstition prevalent in the Lemesurier family
was mentioned, in connection with the new heir, his father’s brother, Ronald
Lemesurier, whose only son had died on the Somme.
I suppose our accidental meeting with young Vincent on the last evening
of his life quickened our interest in anything that pertained to the Lemesurier
family, for we noted with some interest two years later the death of Ronald
Lemesurier, who had been a confirmed invalid at the time of his succession to
the family estates. His brother John succeeded him, a hale, hearty man with a
boy at Eton.
Certainly an evil destiny overshadowed the Lemesuriers. On his very next
holiday the boy managed to shoot himself fatally. His father’s death, which
occurred quite suddenly after being stung by a wasp, gave the estate over to
the youngest brother of the five—Hugo, whom we remembered meeting on
the fatal night at the Carlton.
Beyond commenting on the extraordinary series of misfortunes which
befell the Lemesuriers, we had taken no personal interest in the matter, but the
time was now close at hand when we were to take a more active part.
II
One morning “Mrs. Lemesurier” was announced. She was a tall, active
woman, possibly about thirty years of age, who conveyed by her demeanour a
great deal of determination and strong common sense. She spoke with a faint
transatlantic accent.
“M. Poirot? I am pleased to meet you. My husband, Hugo Lemesurier,
met you once many years ago, but you will hardly remember the fact.”
“I recollect it perfectly, madame. It was at the Carlton.”
“That’s quite wonderful of you. M. Poirot, I’m very worried.”
“What about, Madame?”
“My elder boy—I’ve two boys, you know. Ronald’s eight, and Gerald’s
six.”
“Proceed, madame: why should you be worried about little Ronald?”
“M. Poirot, within the last six months he has had three narrow escapes
from death: once from drowning—when we were all down at Cornwall this
summer; once when he fell from the nursery window; and once from
ptomaine poisoning.”
Perhaps Poirot’s face expressed rather too eloquently what he thought, for
Mrs. Lemesurier hurried on with hardly a moment’s pause: “Of course I know
you think I’m just a silly fool of a woman, making mountains out of
molehills.”
“No, indeed, madame. Any mother might be excused for being upset at
such occurrences, but I hardly see where I can be of any assistance to you. I
am not le bon Dieu to control the waves; for the nursery window I should
suggest some iron bars; and for the food—what can equal a mother’s care?”
“But why should these things happen to Ronald and not to Gerald?”
“The chance, madame—le hasard!”
“You think so?”
“What do you think, madame—you and your husband?”
A shadow crossed Mrs. Lemesurier’s face.
“It’s no good going to Hugo—he won’t listen. As perhaps you may have
heard, there’s supposed to be a curse on the family—no eldest son can
succeed. Hugo believes in it. He’s wrapped up in the family history, and he’s
superstitious to the last degree. When I go to him with my fears, he just says
it’s the curse, and we can’t escape it. But I’m from the States, M. Poirot, and
over there we don’t believe much in curses. We like them as belonging to a
real high-toned old family—it gives a sort of cachet, don’t you know. I was
just a musical comedy actress in a small part when Hugo met me—and I
thought his family curse was just too lovely for words. That kind of thing’s all
right for telling round the fire on a winter’s evening, but when it comes to
one’s own children—I just adore my children, M. Poirot. I’d do anything for
them.”
“So you decline to believe in the family legend, madame?”
“Can a legend saw through an ivy stem?”
“What is that you are saying, madame?” cried Poirot, an expression of
great astonishment on his face.
“I said, can a legend—or a ghost, if you like to call it that—saw through
an ivy stem? I’m not saying anything about Cornwall. Any boy might go out
too far and get into difficulties—though Ronald could swim when he was four
years old. But the ivy’s different. Both the boys were very naughty. They’d
discovered they could climb up and down by the ivy. They were always doing
it. One day—Gerald was away at the time—Ronald did it once too often, and
the ivy gave way and he fell. Fortunately he didn’t damage himself seriously.
But I went out and examined the ivy: it was cut through, M. Poirot—
deliberately cut through.”
“It is very serious what you are telling me there, madame. You say your
younger boy was away from home at the moment?”
“Yes.”
“And at the time of the ptomaine poisoning, was he still away?”
“No, they were both there.”
“Curious,” murmured Poirot. “Now, madame, who are the inmates of your
establishment?”
“Miss Saunders, the children’s governess, and John Gardiner, my
husband’s secretary—”
Mrs. Lemesurier paused, as though slightly embarrassed.
“And who else, madame?”
“Major Roger Lemesurier, whom you also met on that night, I believe,
stays with us a good deal.”
“Ah, yes—he is a cousin is he not?”
“A distant cousin. He does not belong to our branch of the family. Still, I
suppose now he is my husband’s nearest relative. He is a dear fellow, and we
are all very fond of him. The boys are devoted to him.”
“It was not he who taught them to climb up the ivy?”
“It might have been. He incites them to mischief often enough.”
“Madame, I apologize for what I said to you earlier. The danger is real,
and I believe that I can be of assistance. I propose that you should invite us
both to stay with you. Your husband will not object?”
“Oh no. But he will believe it to be all of no use. It makes me furious the
way he just sits around and expects the boy to die.”
“Calm yourself, madame. Let us make our arrangements methodically.”
III
Our arrangements were duly made, and the following day saw us flying
northward. Poirot was sunk in a reverie. He came out of it, to remark
abruptly: “It was from a train such as this that Vincent Lemesurier fell?”
He put a slight accent on the “fell.”
“You don’t suspect foul play there, surely?” I asked.
“Has it struck you, Hastings, that some of the Lemesurier deaths were,
shall we say, capable of being arranged? Take that of Vincent, for instance.
Then the Eton boy—an accident with a gun is always ambiguous. Supposing
this child had fallen from the nursery window and been dashed to death—
what more natural and unsuspicious? But why only the one child, Hastings?
Who profits by the death of the elder child? His younger brother, a child of
seven! Absurd!”
“They mean to do away with the other later,” I suggested, though with the
vaguest ideas as to who “they” were.
Poirot shook his head as though dissatisfied.
“Ptomaine poisoning,” he mused. “Atropine will produce much the same
symptoms. Yes, there is need for our presence.”
Mrs. Lemesurier welcomed us enthusiastically. Then she took us to her
husband’s study and left us with him. He had changed a good deal since I saw
him last. His shoulders stooped more than ever, and his face had a curious
pale grey tinge. He listened while Poirot explained our presence in the house.
“How exactly like Sadie’s practical common sense!” he said at last.
“Remain by all means, M. Poirot, and I thank you for coming; but—what is
written, is written. The way of the transgressor is hard. We Lemesuriers know
—none of us can escape the doom.”
Poirot mentioned the sawn-through ivy, but Hugo seemed very little
impressed.
“Doubtless some careless gardener—yes, yes, there may be an instrument,
but the purpose behind is plain; and I will tell you this, M. Poirot, it cannot be
long delayed.”
Poirot looked at him attentively.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I myself am doomed. I went to a doctor last year. I am suffering
from an incurable disease—the end cannot be much longer delayed; but
before I die, Ronald will be taken. Gerald will inherit.”
“And if anything were to happen to your second son also?”
“Nothing will happen to him; he is not threatened.”
“But if it did?” persisted Poirot.
“My cousin Roger is the next heir.”
We were interrupted. A tall man with a good figure and crispy curling
auburn hair entered with a sheaf of papers.
“Never mind about those now, Gardiner,” said Hugo Lemesurier, then he
added: “My secretary, Mr. Gardiner.”
The secretary bowed, uttered a few pleasant words and then went out. In
spite of his good looks, there was something repellent about the man. I said so
to Poirot shortly afterward when we were walking round the beautiful old
grounds together, and rather to my surprise, he agreed.
“Yes, yes, Hastings, you are right. I do not like him. He is too goodlooking. He would be one for the soft job always. Ah, here are the children.”
Mrs. Lemesurier was advancing towards us, her two children beside her.
They were fine-looking boys, the younger dark like his mother, the elder with
auburn curls. They shook hands prettily enough, and were soon absolutely
devoted to Poirot. We were next introduced to Miss Saunders, a nondescript
female, who completed the party.
IV
For some days we had a pleasant, easy existence—ever vigilant, but without
result. The boys led a happy normal life and nothing seemed to be amiss. On
the fourth day after our arrival Major Roger Lemesurier came down to stay.
He was little changed, still carefree and debonair as of old, with the same
habit of treating all things lightly. He was evidently a great favourite with the
boys, who greeted his arrival with shrieks of delight and immediately dragged
him off to play wild Indians in the garden. I noticed that Poirot followed them
unobtrusively.
V
On the following day we were all invited to tea, boys included, with Lady
Claygate, whose place adjoined that of the Lemesuriers. Mrs. Lemesurier
suggested that we also should come, but seemed rather relieved when Poirot
refused and declared he would much prefer to remain at home.
Once everyone had started, Poirot got to work. He reminded me of an
intelligent terrier. I believe that there was no corner of the house that he left
unsearched; yet it was all done so quietly and methodically that no attention
was directed to his movements. Clearly, at the end, he remained unsatisfied.
We had tea on the terrace with Miss Saunders, who had not been included in
the party.
“The boys will enjoy it,” she murmured in her faded way, “though I hope
they will behave nicely, and not damage the flower beds, or go near the bees
—”
Poirot paused in the very act of drinking. He looked like a man who has
seen a ghost.
“Bees?” he demanded in a voice of thunder.
“Yes, M. Poirot, bees. Three hives. Lady Claygate is very proud of her
bees—”
“Bees?” cried Poirot again. Then he sprang from the table and walked up
and down the terrace with his hands to his head. I could not imagine why the
little man should be so agitated at the mere mention of bees.
At that moment we heard the car returning. Poirot was on the doorstep as
the party alighted.
“Ronald’s been stung,” cried Gerald excitedly.
“It’s nothing,” said Mrs. Lemesurier. “It hasn’t even swollen. We put
ammonia on it.”
“Let me see, my little man,” said Poirot. “Where was it?”
“Here, on the side of my neck,” said Ronald importantly. “But it doesn’t
hurt. Father said: ‘Keep still—there’s a bee on you.’ And I kept still, and he
took it off, but it stung me first, though it didn’t really hurt, only like a pin,
and I didn’t cry, because I’m so big and going to school next year.”
Poirot examined the child’s neck, then drew away again. He took me by
the arm and murmured:
“Tonight, mon ami, tonight we have a little affair on! Say nothing—to
anyone.”
He refused to be more communicative, and I went through the evening
devoured by curiosity. He retired early and I followed his example. As we
went upstairs, he caught me by the arm and delivered his instructions:
“Do not undress. Wait a sufficient time, extinguish your light and join me
here.”
I obeyed, and found him waiting for me when the time came. He enjoined
silence on me with a gesture, and we crept quietly along the nursery wing.
Ronald occupied a small room of his own. We entered it and took up our
position in the darkest corner. The child’s breathing sounded heavy and
undisturbed.
“Surely he is sleeping very heavily?” I whispered.
Poirot nodded.
“Drugged,” he murmured.
“Why?”
“So that he should not cry out at—”
“At what?” I asked, as Poirot paused.
“At the prick of the hypodermic needle, mon ami! Hush, let us speak no
more—not that I expect anything to happen for some time.”
VI
But in this Poirot was wrong. Hardly ten minutes had elapsed before the door
opened softly, and someone entered the room. I heard a sound of quick
hurried breathing. Footsteps moved to the bed, and then there was a sudden
click. The light of a little electric lantern fell on the sleeping child—the holder
of it was still invisible in the shadow. The figure laid down the lantern. With
the right hand it brought forth a syringe; with the left it touched the boy’s
neck—
Poirot and I sprang at the same minute. The lantern rolled to the floor, and
we struggled with the intruder in the dark. His strength was extraordinary. At
last we overcame him.
“The light, Hastings, I must see his face—though I fear I know only too
well whose face it will be.”
So did I, I thought as I groped for the lantern. For a moment I had
suspected the secretary, egged on by my secret dislike of the man, but I felt
assured by now that the man who stood to gain by the death of his two
childish cousins was the monster we were tracking.
My foot struck against the lantern. I picked it up and switched on the
light. It shone full on the face of—Hugo Lemesurier, the boy’s father!
The lantern almost dropped from my hand.
“Impossible,” I murmured hoarsely. “Impossible!”
VII
Lemesurier was unconscious. Poirot and I between us carried him to his room
and laid him on the bed. Poirot bent and gently extricated something from his
right hand. He showed it to me. It was a hypodermic syringe. I shuddered.
“What is in it? Poison?”
“Formic acid, I fancy.”
“Formic acid?”
“Yes. Probably obtained by distilling ants. He was a chemist, you
remember. Death would have been attributed to the bee sting.”
“My God,” I muttered. “His own son! And you expected this?”
Poirot nodded gravely.
“Yes. He is insane, of course. I imagine that the family history has become
a mania with him. His intense longing to succeed to the estate led him to
commit the long series of crimes. Possibly the idea occurred to him first when
travelling north that night with Vincent. He couldn’t bear the prediction to be
falsified. Ronald’s son was already dead, and Ronald himself was a dying
man—they are a weakly lot. He arranged the accident to the gun, and—which
I did not suspect until now—contrived the death of his brother John by this
same method of injecting formic acid into the jugular vein. His ambition was
realized then, and he became the master of the family acres. But his triumph
was short-lived—he found that he was suffering from an incurable disease.
And he had the madman’s fixed idea—the eldest son of a Lemesurier could
not inherit. I suspect that the bathing accident was due to him—he encouraged
the child to go out too far. That failing, he sawed through the ivy, and
afterwards poisoned the child’s food.”
“Diabolical!” I murmured with a shiver. “And so cleverly planned!”
“Yes, mon ami, there is nothing more amazing than the extraordinary
sanity of the insane! Unless it is the extraordinary eccentricity of the sane! I
imagine that it is only lately that he has completely gone over the borderline,
there was method in his madness to begin with.”
“And to think that I suspected Roger—that splendid fellow.”
“It was the natural assumption, mon ami. We knew that he also travelled
north with Vincent that night. We knew, too, that he was the next heir after
Hugo and Hugo’s children. But our assumption was not borne out by the
facts. The ivy was sawn through when only little Ronald was at home—but it
would be to Roger’s interest that both children should perish. In the same
way, it was only Ronald’s food that was poisoned. And today when they came
home and I found that there was only his father’s word for it that Ronald had
been stung, I remembered the other death from a wasp sting—and I knew!”
VIII
Hugo Lemesurier died a few months later in the private asylum to which he
was removed. His widow was remarried a year later to Mr. John Gardiner, the
auburn-haired secretary. Ronald inherited the broad acres of his father, and
continues to flourish.
“Well, well,” I remarked to Poirot. “Another illusion gone. You have
disposed very successfully of the curse of the Lemesuriers.”
“I wonder,” said Poirot very thoughtfully. “I wonder very much indeed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mon ami, I will answer you with one significant word—red!”
“Blood?” I queried, dropping my voice to an awe-stricken whisper.
“Always you have the imagination melodramatic, Hastings! I refer to
something much more prosaic—the colour of little Ronald Lemesurier’s hair.”
Twenty-six
THE UNDER DOG
“The Under Dog” was first published in the USA in Mystery Magazine, April 1, 1926, then in
London Magazine, October 1926.
Lily Margrave smoothed her gloves out on her knee with a nervous gesture,
and darted a glance at the occupant of the big chair opposite her.
She had heard of M. Hercule Poirot, the well-known investigator, but this
was the first time she had seen him in the flesh.
The comic, almost ridiculous, aspect that he presented disturbed her
conception of him. Could this funny little man, with the egg-shaped head and
the enormous moustaches, really do the wonderful things that were claimed
for him? His occupation at the moment struck her as particularly childish. He
was piling small blocks of coloured wood one upon the other, and seemed far
more interested in the result than in the story she was telling.
At her sudden silence, however, he looked sharply across at her.
“Mademoiselle, continue, I pray of you. It is not that I do not attend; I
attend very carefully, I assure you.”
He began once more to pile the little blocks of wood one upon the other,
while the girl’s voice took up the tale again. It was a gruesome tale, a tale of
violence and tragedy, but the voice was so calm and unemotional, the recital
was so concise that something of the savour of humanity seemed to have been
left out of it.
She stopped at last.
“I hope,” she said anxiously, “that I have made everything clear.”
Poirot nodded his head several times in emphatic assent. Then he swept
his hand across the wooden blocks, scattering them over the table, and,
leaning back in his chair, his fingertips pressed together and his eyes on the
ceiling, he began to recapitulate.
“Sir Reuben Astwell was murdered ten days ago. On Wednesday, the day
before yesterday, his nephew, Charles Leverson, was arrested by the police.
The facts against him as far as you know are:—you will correct me if I am
wrong, Mademoiselle—Sir Reuben was sitting up late writing in his own
special sanctum, the Tower room. Mr. Leverson came in late, letting himself
in with a latchkey. He was overheard quarrelling with his uncle by the butler,
whose room is directly below the Tower room. The quarrel ended with a
sudden thud as of a chair being thrown over and a half-smothered cry.
“The butler was alarmed, and thought of getting up to see what was the
matter, but as a few seconds later he heard Mr. Leverson leave the room gaily
whistling a tune, he thought nothing more of it. On the following morning,
however, a housemaid discovered Sir Reuben dead by his desk. He had been
struck down by some heavy instrument. The butler, I gather, did not at once
tell his story to the police. That was natural, I think, eh, Mademoiselle?”
The sudden question made Lily Margrave start.
“I beg your pardon?” she said.
“One looks for humanity in these matters, does one not?” said the little
man. “As you recited the story to me—so admirably, so concisely—you made
of the actors in the drama machines—puppets. But me, I look always for
human nature. I say to myself, this butler, this—what did you say his name
was?”
“His name is Parsons.”
“This Parsons, then, he will have the characteristics of his class, he will
object very strongly to the police, he will tell them as little as possible. Above
all, he will say nothing that might seem to incriminate a member of the
household. A house-breaker, a burglar, he will cling to that idea with all the
strength of extreme obstinacy. Yes, the loyalties of the servant class are an
interesting study.”
He leaned back beaming.
“In the meantime,” he went on, “everyone in the household has told his or
her tale, Mr. Leverson among the rest, and his tale was that he had come in
late and gone up to bed without seeing his uncle.”
“That is what he said.”
“And no one saw reason to doubt that tale,” mused Poirot, “except, of
course, Parsons. Then there comes down an inspector from Scotland Yard,
Inspector Miller you said, did you not? I know him, I have come across him
once or twice in the past. He is what they call the sharp man, the ferret, the
weasel.
“Yes, I know him! And the sharp Inspector Miller, he sees what the local
inspector has not seen, that Parsons is ill at ease and uncomfortable, and
knows something that he has not told. Eh bien, he makes short work of
Parsons. By now it has been clearly proved that no one broke into the house
that night, that the murderer must be looked for inside the house and not
outside. And Parsons is unhappy and frightened, and feels very relieved to
have his secret knowledge drawn out of him.
“He has done his best to avoid scandal, but there are limits; and so
Inspector Miller listens to Parsons’ story, and asks a question or two, and then
makes some private investigations of his own. The case he builds up is very
strong—very strong.
“Blood-stained fingers rested on the corner of the chest in the Tower
room, and the fingerprints were those of Charles Leverson. The housemaid
told him she emptied a basin of bloodstained water in Mr. Leverson’s room
the morning after the crime. He explained to her that he had cut his finger,
and he had a little cut there, oh yes, but such a very little cut! The cuff of his
evening shirt had been washed, but they found bloodstains in the sleeve of his
coat. He was hard pressed for money, and he inherited money at Sir Reuben’s
death. Oh, yes, a very strong case, Mademoiselle.” He paused.
“And yet you come to me today.”
Lily Margrave shrugged her slender shoulders.
“As I told you, M. Poirot, Lady Astwell sent me.”
“You would not have come of your own accord, eh?”
The little man glanced at her shrewdly. The girl did not answer.
“You do not reply to my question.”
Lily Margrave began smoothing her gloves again.
“It is rather difficult for me, M. Poirot. I have my loyalty to Lady Astwell
to consider. Strictly speaking, I am only her paid companion, but she has
treated me more as though I were a daughter or a niece. She has been
extraordinarily kind and, whatever her faults, I should not like to appear to
criticize her actions, or—well, to prejudice you against taking up the case.”
“Impossible to prejudice Hercule Poirot, cela ne ce fait pas,” declared the
little man cheerily. “I perceive that you think Lady Astwell has in her bonnet
the buzzing bee. Come now, is it not so?”
“If I must say—”
“Speak, Mademoiselle.”
“I think the whole thing is simply silly.”
“It strikes you like that, eh?”
“I don’t want to say anything against Lady Astwell—”
“I comprehend,” murmured Poirot gently. “I comprehend perfectly.” His
eyes invited her to go on.
“She really is a very good sort, and frightfully kind, but she isn’t—how
can I put it? She isn’t an educated woman. You know she was an actress when
Sir Reuben married her, and she has all sorts of prejudices and superstitions.
If she says a thing, it must be so, and she simply won’t listen to reason. The
inspector was not very tactful with her, and it put her back up. She says it is
nonsense to suspect Mr. Leverson and just the sort of stupid, pigheaded
mistake the police would make, and that, of course, dear Charles did not do
it.”
“But she has no reasons, eh?”
“None whatever.”
“Ha! Is that so? Really, now.”
“I told her,” said Lily, “that it would be no good coming to you with a
mere statement like that and nothing to go on.”
“You told her that,” said Poirot, “did you really? That is interesting.”
His eyes swept over Lily Margrave in a quick comprehensive survey,
taking in the details of her neat black suit, the touch of white at her throat and
the smart little black hat. He saw the elegance of her, the pretty face with its
slightly pointed chin, and the dark-blue, long-lashed eyes. Insensibly his
attitude changed; he was interested now, not so much in the case as in the girl
sitting opposite him.
“Lady Astwell is, I should imagine, Mademoiselle, just a trifle inclined to
be unbalanced and hysterical?”
Lily Margrave nodded eagerly.
“That describes her exactly. She is, as I told you, very kind, but it is
impossible to argue with her or to make her see things logically.”
“Possibly she suspects someone on her own account,” suggested Poirot,
“someone quite absurd.”
“That is exactly what she does do,” cried Lily. “She has taken a great
dislike to Sir Reuben’s secretary, poor man. She says she knows he did it, and
yet it has been proved quite conclusively that poor Owen Trefusis cannot
possibly have done it.”
“And she has no reasons?”
“Of course not; it is all intuition with her.”
Lily Margrave’s voice was very scornful.
“I perceive, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, smiling, “that you do not believe
in intuition?”
“I think it is nonsense,” replied Lily.
Poirot leaned back in his chair.
“Les femmes,” he murmured, “they like to think that it is a special weapon
that the good God has given them, and for every once that it shows them the
truth, at least nine times it leads them astray.”
“I know,” said Lily, “but I have told you what Lady Astwell is like. You
simply cannot argue with her.”
“So you, Mademoiselle, being wise and discreet, came along to me as you
were bidden, and have managed to put me au courant of the situation.”
Something in the tone of his voice made the girl look up sharply.
“Of course, I know,” said Lily apologetically, “how very valuable your
time is.”
“You are too flattering, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, “but indeed—yes, it is
true, at this present time I have many cases of moment on hand.”
“I was afraid that might be so,” said Lily, rising. “I will tell Lady Astwell
—”
But Poirot did not rise also. Instead he lay back in his chair and looked
steadily up at the girl.
“You are in haste to be gone, Mademoiselle? Sit down one more little
moment, I pray of you.”
He saw the colour flood into her face and ebb out again. She sat down
once more slowly and unwillingly.
“Mademoiselle is quick and decisive,” said Poirot. “She must make
allowances for an old man like myself, who comes to his decisions slowly.
You mistook me, Mademoiselle. I did not say that I would not go down to
Lady Astwell.”
“You will come, then?”
The girl’s tone was flat. She did not look at Poirot, but down at the
ground, and so was unaware of the keen scrutiny with which he regarded her.
“Tell Lady Astwell, Mademoiselle, that I am entirely at her service. I will
be at—Mon Repos, is it not?—this afternoon.”
He rose. The girl followed suit.
“I—I will tell her. It is very good of you to come, M. Poirot. I am afraid,
though, you will find you have been brought on a wild goose chase.”
“Very likely, but—who knows?”
He saw her out with punctilious courtesy to the door. Then he returned to
the sitting room, frowning, deep in thought. Once or twice he nodded his
head, then he opened the door and called to his valet.
“My good George, prepare me, I pray of you, a little valise. I go down to
the country this afternoon.”
“Very good, sir,” said George.
He was an extremely English-looking person. Tall, cadaverous and
unemotional.
“A young girl is a very interesting phenomenon, George,” said Poirot, as
he dropped once more into his armchair and lighted a tiny cigarette.
“Especially, you understand, when she has brains. To ask someone to do a
thing and at the same time to put them against doing it, that is a delicate
operation. It requires finesse. She was very adroit—oh, very adroit—but
Hercule Poirot, my good George, is of a cleverness quite exceptional.”
“I have heard you say so, sir.”
“It is not the secretary she has in mind,” mused Poirot. “Lady Astwell’s
accusation of him she treats with contempt. Just the same she is anxious that
no one should disturb the sleeping dogs. I, my good George, I go to disturb
them, I go to make the dog fight! There is a drama there, at Mon Repos. A
human drama, and it excites me. She was adroit, the little one, but not adroit
enough. I wonder—I wonder what I shall find there?”
Into the dramatic pause which succeeded these words George’s voice
broke apologetically:
“Shall I pack dress clothes, sir?”
Poirot looked at him sadly.
“Always the concentration, the attention to your own job. You are very
good for me, George.”
When the 4:55 drew up at Abbots Cross station, there descended from it M.
Hercule Poirot, very neatly and foppishly attired, his moustaches waxed to a
stiff point. He gave up his ticket, passed through the barrier, and was accosted
by a tall chauffeur.
“M. Poirot?”
The little man beamed upon him.
“That is my name.”
“This way, sir, if you please.”
He held open the door of the big Rolls-Royce.
The house was a bare three minutes from the station. The chauffeur
descended once more and opened the door of the car, and Poirot stepped out.
The butler was already holding the front door open.
Poirot gave the outside of the house a swift appraising glance before
passing through the open door. It was a big, solidly built red-brick mansion,
with no pretensions to beauty, but with an air of solid comfort.
Poirot stepped into the hall. The butler relieved him deftly of his hat and
overcoat, then murmured with that deferential undertone only to be achieved
by the best servants:
“Her ladyship is expecting you, sir.”
Poirot followed the butler up the soft-carpeted stairs. This, without doubt,
was Parsons, a very well-trained servant, with a manner suitably devoid of
emotion. At the top of the staircase he turned to the right along a corridor. He
passed through a door into a little anteroom, from which two more doors led.
He threw open the left-hand one of these, and announced:
“M. Poirot, m’lady.”
The room was not a very large one, and it was crowded with furniture and
knickknacks. A woman, dressed in black, got up from a sofa and came
quickly towards Poirot.
“M. Poirot,” she said with outstretched hand. Her eye ran rapidly over the
dandified figure. She paused a minute, ignoring the little man’s bow over her
hand, and his murmured “Madame,” and then, releasing his hand after a
sudden vigorous pressure, she exclaimed:
“I believe in small men! They are the clever ones.”
“Inspector Miller,” murmured Poirot, “is, I think, a tall man?”
“He is a bumptious idiot,” said Lady Astwell. “Sit down here by me, will
you, M. Poirot?”
She indicated the sofa and went on:
“Lily did her best to put me off sending for you, but I have not come to
my time of life without knowing my own mind.”
“A rare accomplishment,” said Poirot, as he followed her to the settee.
Lady Astwell settled herself comfortably among the cushions and turned
so as to face him.
“Lily is a dear girl,” said Lady Astwell, “but she thinks she knows
everything, and as often as not in my experience those sort of people are
wrong. I am not clever, M. Poirot, I never have been, but I am right where
many a more stupid person is wrong. I believe in guidance. Now do you want
me to tell you who is the murderer, or do you not? A woman knows, M.
Poirot.”
“Does Miss Margrave know?”
“What did she tell you?” asked Lady Astwell sharply.
“She gave me the facts of the case.”
“The facts? Oh, of course they are dead against Charles, but I tell you, M.
Poirot, he didn’t do it. I know he didn’t!” She bent upon him an earnestness
that was almost disconcerting.
“You are very positive, Lady Astwell?”
“Trefusis killed my husband, M. Poirot. I am sure of it.”
“Why?”
“Why should he kill him, do you mean, or why am I sure? I tell you I
know it! I am funny about those things. I make up my mind at once, and I
stick to it.”
“Did Mr. Trefusis benefit in any way by Sir Reuben’s death?”
“Never left him a penny,” returned Lady Astwell promptly. “Now that
shows you dear Reuben couldn’t have liked or trusted him.”
“Had he been with Sir Reuben long, then?”
“Close on nine years.”
“That is a long time,” said Poirot softly, “a very long time to remain in the
employment of one man. Yes, Mr. Trefusis, he must have known his employer
well.”
Lady Astwell stared at him.
“What are you driving at? I don’t see what that has to do with it.”
“I was following out a little idea of my own,” said Poirot. “A little idea,
not interesting, perhaps, but original, on the effects of service.”
Lady Astwell still stared.
“You are very clever, aren’t you?” she said in rather a doubtful tone.
“Everybody says so.”
Hercule Poirot laughed.
“Perhaps you shall pay me that compliment, too, Madame, one of these
days. But let us return to the motive. Tell me now of your household, of the
people who were here in the house on the day of the tragedy.”
“There was Charles, of course.”
“He was your husband’s nephew, I understand, not yours.”
“Yes, Charles was the only son of Reuben’s sister. She married a
comparatively rich man, but one of those crashes came—they do, in the city
—and he died, and his wife, too, and Charles came to live with us. He was
twenty-three at the time, and going to be a barrister. But when the trouble
came, Reuben took him into his office.”
“He was industrious, M. Charles?”
“I like a man who is quick on the uptake,” said Lady Astwell with a nod
of approval. “No, that’s just the trouble, Charles was not industrious. He was
always having rows with his uncle over some muddle or other that he had
made. Not that poor Reuben was an easy man to get on with. Many’s the time
I’ve told him he had forgotten what it was to be young himself. He was very
different in those days, M. Poirot.”
Lady Astwell heaved a sigh of reminiscence.
“Changes must come, Madame,” said Poirot. “It is the law.”
“Still,” said Lady Astwell, “he was never really rude to me. At least if he
was, he was always sorry afterwards—poor dear Reuben.”
“He was difficult, eh?” said Poirot.
“I could always manage him,” said Lady Astwell with the air of a
successful lion tamer. “But it was rather awkward sometimes when he would
lose his temper with the servants. There are ways of doing that, and Reuben’s
was not the right way.”
“How exactly did Sir Reuben leave his money, Lady Astwell?”
“Half to me and half to Charles,” replied Lady Astwell promptly. “The
lawyers don’t put it simply like that, but that’s what it amounts to.”
Poirot nodded his head.
“I see—I see,” he murmured. “Now, Lady Astwell, I will demand of you
that you will describe to me the household. There was yourself, and Sir
Reuben’s nephew, Mr. Charles Leverson, and the secretary, Mr. Owen
Trefusis, and there was Miss Lily Margrave. Perhaps you will tell me
something of that young lady.”
“You want to know about Lily?”
“Yes, she had been with you long?”
“About a year. I have had a lot of secretary-companions you know, but
somehow or other they all got on my nerves. Lily was different. She was
tactful and full of common sense and besides she looks so nice. I do like to
have a pretty face about me, M. Poirot. I am a funny kind of person; I take
likes and dislikes straight away. As soon as I saw that girl, I said to myself:
‘She’ll do.’ ”
“Did she come to you through friends, Lady Astwell?”
“I think she answered an advertisement. Yes—that was it.”
“You know something of her people, of where she comes from?”
“Her father and mother are out in India, I believe. I don’t really know
much about them, but you can see at a glance that Lily is a lady, can’t you, M.
Poirot?”
“Oh, perfectly, perfectly.”
“Of course,” went on Lady Astwell, “I am not a lady myself. I know it,
and the servants know it, but there is nothing mean-spirited about me. I can
appreciate the real thing when I see it, and no one could be nicer than Lily has
been to me. I look upon that girl almost as a daughter, M. Poirot, indeed I do.”
Poirot’s right hand strayed out and straightened one or two of the objects
lying on a table near him.
“Did Sir Reuben share this feeling?” he asked.
His eyes were on the knickknacks, but doubtless he noted the pause before
Lady Astwell’s answer came.
“With a man it’s different. Of course they—they got on very well.”
“Thank you, Madame,” said Poirot. He was smiling to himself.
“And these were the only people in the house that night?” he asked.
“Excepting, of course, the servants.”
“Oh, there was Victor.”
“Victor?”
“Yes, my husband’s brother, you know, and his partner.”
“He lived with you?”
“No, he had just arrived on a visit. He has been out in West Africa for the
past few years.”
“West Africa,” murmured Poirot.
He had learned that Lady Astwell could be trusted to develop a subject
herself if sufficient time was given her.
“They say it’s a wonderful country, but I think it’s the kind of place that
has a very bad effect upon a man. They drink too much, and they get
uncontrolled. None of the Astwells has a good temper, and Victor’s, since he
came back from Africa, has been simply too shocking. He has frightened me
once or twice.”
“Did he frighten Miss Margrave, I wonder?” murmured Poirot gently.
“Lily? Oh, I don’t think he has seen much of Lily.”
Poirot made a note or two in a diminutive notebook; then he put the pencil
back in its loop and returned the notebook to his pocket.
“I thank you, Lady Astwell. I will now, if I may, interview Parsons.”
“Will you have him up here?”
Lady Astwell’s hand moved towards the bell. Poirot arrested the gesture
quickly.
“No, no, a thousand times no. I will descend to him.”
“If you think it is better—”
Lady Astwell was clearly disappointed at not being able to participate in
the forthcoming scene. Poirot adopted an air of secrecy.
“It is essential,” he said mysteriously, and left Lady Astwell duly
impressed.
He found Parsons in the butler’s pantry, polishing silver. Poirot opened the
proceedings with one of his funny little bows.
“I must explain myself,” he said. “I am a detective agent.”
“Yes, sir,” said Parsons, “we gathered as much.”
His tone was respectful but aloof.
“Lady Astwell sent for me,” continued Poirot. “She is not satisfied; no,
she is not satisfied at all.”
“I have heard her ladyship say so on several occasions,” said Parsons.
“In fact,” said Poirot, “I recount to you the things you already know? Eh?
Let us then not waste time on these bagatelles. Take me, if you will be so
good, to your bedroom and tell me exactly what it was you heard there on the
night of the murder.”
The butler’s room was on the ground floor, adjoining the servants’ hall. It
had barred windows, and the strong room was in one corner of it. Parsons
indicated the narrow bed.
“I had retired, sir, at eleven o’clock. Miss Margrave had gone to bed, and
Lady Astwell was with Sir Reuben in the Tower room.”
“Lady Astwell was with Sir Reuben? Ah, proceed.”
“The Tower room, sir, is directly over this. If people are talking in it one
can hear the murmur of voices, but naturally not anything that is said. I must
have fallen asleep about half past eleven. It was just twelve o’clock when I
was awakened by the sound of the front door being slammed to and knew Mr.
Leverson had returned. Presently I heard footsteps overhead, and a minute or
two later Mr. Leverson’s voice talking to Sir Reuben.
“It was my fancy at the time, sir, that Mr. Leverson was—I should not
exactly like to say drunk, but inclined to be a little indiscreet and noisy. He
was shouting at his uncle at the top of his voice. I caught a word or two here
or there, but not enough to understand what it was all about, and then there
was a sharp cry and a heavy thud.”
There was a pause, and Parsons repeated the last words.
“A heavy thud,” he said impressively.
“If I mistake not, it is a dull thud in most works of romance,” murmured
Poirot.
“Maybe, sir,” said Parsons severely. “It was a heavy thud I heard.”
“A thousand pardons,” said Poirot.
“Do not mention it, sir. After the thud, in the silence, I heard Mr.
Leverson’s voice as plain as plain can be, raised high. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘my
God,’ just like that, sir.”
Parsons, from his first reluctance to tell the tale, had now progressed to a
thorough enjoyment of it. He fancied himself mightily as a narrator. Poirot
played up to him.
“Mon Dieu,” he murmured. “What emotion you must have experienced!”
“Yes, indeed, sir,” said Parsons, “as you say, sir. Not that I thought very
much of it at the time. But it did occur to me to wonder if anything was amiss,
and whether I had better go up and see. I went to turn the electric light on, and
was unfortunate enough to knock over a chair.
“I opened the door, and went through the servants’ hall, and opened the
other door which gives on a passage. The back stairs lead up from there, and
as I stood at the bottom of them, hesitating, I heard Mr. Leverson’s voice from
up above, speaking hearty and cheery-like. ‘No harm done, luckily,’ he says.
‘Good night,’ and I heard him move off along the passage to his own room,
whistling.
“Of course I went back to bed at once. Just something knocked over,
that’s all I thought it was. I ask you, sir, was I to think Sir Reuben was
murdered, with Mr. Leverson saying good night and all?”
“You are sure it was Mr. Leverson’s voice you heard?”
Parsons looked at the little Belgian pityingly, and Poirot saw clearly
enough that, right or wrong, Parsons’ mind was made up on this point.
“Is there anything further you would like to ask me, sir?”
“There is one thing,” said Poirot, “do you like Mr. Leverson?”
“I—I beg your pardon, sir?”
“It is a simple question. Do you like Mr. Leverson?”
Parsons, from being startled at first, now seemed embarrassed.
“The general opinion in the servants’ hall, sir,” he said, and paused.
“By all means,” said Poirot, “put it that way if it pleases you.”
“The opinion is, sir, that Mr. Leverson is an open-handed young
gentleman, but not, if I may say so, particularly intelligent, sir.”
“Ah!” said Poirot. “Do you know, Parsons, that without having seen him,
that is also precisely my opinion of Mr. Leverson.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“What is your opinion—I beg your pardon—the opinion of the servants’
hall of the secretary?”
“He is a very quiet, patient gentleman, sir. Anxious to give no trouble.”
“Vraiment,” said Poirot.
The butler coughed.
“Her ladyship, sir,” he murmured, “is apt to be a little hasty in her
judgments.”
“Then, in the opinion of the servants’ hall, Mr. Leverson committed the
crime?”
“We none of us wish to think it was Mr. Leverson,” said Parsons. “We—
well, plainly, we didn’t think he had it in him, sir.”
“But he has a somewhat violent temper, has he not?” asked Poirot.
Parsons came nearer to him.
“If you are asking me who had the most violent temper in the house—”
Poirot held up a hand.
“Ah! But that is not the question I should ask,” he said softly. “My
question would be, who has the best temper?” Parsons stared at him
openmouthed.
Poirot wasted no further time on him. With an amiable little bow—he was
always amiable—he left the room and wandered out into the big square hall
of Mon Repos. There he stood a minute or two in thought, then, at a slight
sound that came to him, cocked his head on one side in the manner of a perky
robin, and finally, with noiseless steps, crossed to one of the doors that led out
of the hall.
He stood in the doorway, looking into the room; a small room furnished as
a library. At a big desk at the farther end of it sat a thin, pale young man
busily writing. He had a receding chin, and wore pince-nez.
Poirot watched him for some minutes, and then he broke the silence by
giving a completely artificial and theatrical cough.
“Ahem!” coughed M. Hercule Poirot.
The young man at the desk stopped writing and turned his head. He did
not appear unduly startled, but an expression of perplexity gathered on his
face as he eyed Poirot.
The latter came forward with a little bow.
“I have the honour of speaking to M. Trefusis, yes? Ah! My name is
Poirot, Hercule Poirot. You may perhaps have heard of me.”
“Oh—er—yes, certainly,” said the young man.
Poirot eyed him attentively.
Owen Trefusis was about thirty-three years of age, and the detective saw
at once why nobody was inclined to treat Lady Astwell’s accusation seriously.
Mr. Owen Trefusis was a prim, proper young man, disarmingly meek, the
type of man who can be, and is, systematically bullied. One could feel quite
sure that he would never display resentment.
“Lady Astwell sent for you, of course,” said the secretary. “She mentioned
that she was going to do so. Is there any way in which I can help you?”
His manner was polite without being effusive. Poirot accepted a chair, and
murmured gently:
“Has Lady Astwell said anything to you of her beliefs and suspicions?”
Owen Trefusis smiled a little.
“As far as that goes,” he said, “I believe she suspects me. It is absurd, but
there it is. She has hardly spoken a civil word to me since Sir Reuben’s death,
and she shrinks against the wall as I pass by.”
His manner was perfectly natural, and there was more amusement than
resentment in his voice. Poirot nodded with an air of engaging frankness.
“Between ourselves,” he explained, “she said the same thing to me. I did
not argue with her—me, I have made it a rule never to argue with very
positive ladies. You comprehend, it is a waste of time.”
“Oh, quite.”
“I say, yes, Madame—oh, perfectly, Madame—précisément, Madame.
They mean nothing, those words, but they soothe all the same. I make my
investigations, for though it seems almost impossible that anyone except M.
Leverson could have committed the crime, yet—well, the impossible has
happened before now.”
“I understand your position perfectly,” said the secretary. “Please regard
me as entirely at your service.”
“Bon,” said Poirot. “We understand one another. Now recount to me the
events of that evening. Better start with dinner.”
“Leverson was not at dinner, as you doubtless know,” said the secretary.
“He had a serious disagreement with his uncle, and went off to dine at the
golf club. Sir Reuben was in a very bad temper in consequence.”
“Not too amiable, ce Monsieur, eh?” hinted Poirot delicately.
Trefusis laughed.
“Oh! He was a Tartar! I haven’t worked with him for nine years without
knowing most of his little ways. He was an extraordinarily difficult man, M.
Poirot. He would get into childish fits of rage and abuse anybody who came
near him.
“I was used to it by that time. I got into the habit of paying absolutely no
attention to anything he said. He was not bad-hearted really, but he could be
most foolish and exasperating in his manner. The great thing was never to
answer him back.”
“Were other people as wise as you were in that respect?”
Trefusis shrugged his shoulders.
“Lady Astwell enjoyed a good row,” he said. “She was not in the least
afraid of Sir Reuben, and she always stood up to him and gave him as good as
she got. They always made it up afterwards, and Sir Reuben was really
devoted to her.”
“Did they quarrel that night?”
The secretary looked at him sideways, hesitated a minute, then he said:
“I believe so; what made you ask?”
“An idea, that is all.”
“I don’t know, of course,” explained the secretary, “but things looked as
though they were working up that way.”
Poirot did not pursue the topic.
“Who else was at dinner?”
“Miss Margrave, Mr. Victor Astwell, and myself.”
“And afterwards?”
“We went into the drawing room. Sir Reuben did not accompany us.
About ten minutes later he came in and hauled me over the coals for some
trifling matter about a letter. I went up with him to the Tower room and set the
thing straight; then Mr. Victor Astwell came in and said he had something he
wished to talk to his brother about, so I went downstairs and joined the two
ladies.
“About a quarter of an hour later I heard Sir Reuben’s bell ringing
violently, and Parsons came to say I was to go up to Sir Reuben at once. As I
entered the room, Mr. Victor Astwell was coming out. He nearly knocked me
over. Something had evidently happened to upset him. He has a very violent
temper. I really believe he didn’t see me.”
“Did Sir Reuben make any comment on the matter?”
“He said: ‘Victor is a lunatic; he will do for somebody some day when he
is in one of these rages.’ ”
“Ah!” said Poirot. “Have you any idea what the trouble was about?”
“I couldn’t say at all.”
Poirot turned his head very slowly and looked at the secretary. Those last
words had been uttered too hastily. He formed the conviction that Trefusis
could have said more had he wished to do so. But once again Poirot did not
press the question.
“And then? Proceed, I pray of you.”
“I worked with Sir Reuben for about an hour and a half. At eleven o’clock
Lady Astwell came in, and Sir Reuben told me I could go to bed.”
“And you went?”
“Yes.”
“Have you any idea how long she stayed with him?”
“None at all. Her room is on the first floor, and mine is on the second, so I
would not hear her go to bed.”
“I see.”
Poirot nodded his head once or twice and sprang to his feet.
“And now, Monsieur, take me to the Tower room.”
He followed the secretary up the broad stairs to the first landing. Here
Trefusis led him along the corridor, and through a baize door at the end of it,
which gave on the servants’ staircase and on a short passage that ended in a
door. They passed through this door and found themselves on the scene of the
crime.
It was a lofty room twice as high as any of the others, and was roughly
about thirty feet square. Swords and assagais adorned the walls, and many
native curious were arranged about on tables. At the far end, in the embrasure
of the window, was a large writing table. Poirot crossed straight to it.
“It was here Sir Reuben was found?”
Trefusis nodded.
“He was struck from behind, I understand?”
Again the secretary nodded.
“The crime was committed with one of these native clubs,” he explained.
“A tremendously heavy thing. Death must have been practically
instantaneous.”
“That strengthens the conviction that the crime was not premeditated. A
sharp quarrel, and a weapon snatched up almost unconsciously.”
“Yes, it does not look well for poor Leverson.”
“And the body was found fallen forward on the desk?”
“No, it had slipped sideways to the ground.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “that is curious.”
“Why curious?” asked the secretary.
“Because of this.”
Poirot pointed to a round irregular stain on the polished surface of the
writing table.
“That is a bloodstain, mon ami.”
“It may have spattered there,” suggested Trefusis, “or it may have been
made later, when they moved the body.”
“Very possibly, very possibly,” said the little man. “There is only the one
door to this room?”
“There is a staircase here.”
Trefusis pulled aside a velvet curtain in the corner of the room nearest the
door, where a small spiral staircase lead upwards.
“This place was originally built by an astronomer. The stairs led up to the
tower where the telescope was fixed. Sir Reuben had the place fitted up as a
bedroom, and sometimes slept there if he was working very late.”
Poirot went nimbly up the stairs. The circular room upstairs was plainly
furnished, with a camp bed, a chair and dressing table. Poirot satisfied himself
that there was no other exit, and then came down again to where Trefusis
stood waiting for him.
“Did you hear Mr. Leverson come in?” he asked.
Trefusis shook his head.
“I was fast asleep by that time.”
Poirot nodded. He looked slowly round the room.
“Eh bien!” he said at last. “I do not think there is anything further here,
unless—perhaps you would be so kind as to draw the curtains.”
Obediently Trefusis pulled the heavy black curtains across the window at
the far end of the room. Poirot switched on the light—which was masked by a
big alabaster bowl hanging from the ceiling.
“There was a desk light?” he asked.
For reply the secretary clicked on a powerful green-shaded hand lamp,
which stood on the writing table. Poirot switched the other light off, then on,
then off again.
“C’est bien! I have finished here.”
“Dinner is at half past seven,” murmured the secretary.
“I thank you, M. Trefusis, for your many amiabilities.”
“Not at all.”
Poirot went thoughtfully along the corridor to the room appointed for him.
The inscrutable George was there laying out his master’s things.
“My good George,” he said presently, “I shall, I hope, meet at dinner a
certain gentleman who begins to intrigue me greatly. A man who has come
home from the tropics, George. With a tropical temper—so it is said. A man
whom Parsons tries to tell me about, and whom Lily Margrave does not
mention. The late Sir Reuben had a temper of his own, George. Supposing
such a man to come into contact with a man whose temper was worse than his
own—how do you say it? The fur would jump about, eh?”
“ ‘Would fly’ is the correct expression, sir, and it is not always the case,
sir, not by a long way.”
“No?”
“No, sir. There was my Aunt Jemima, sir, a most shrewish tongue she had,
bullied a poor sister of hers who lived with her, something shocking she did.
Nearly worried the life out of her. But if anyone came along who stood up to
her, well, it was a very different thing. It was meekness she couldn’t bear.”
“Ha!” said Poirot, “it is suggestive—that.”
George coughed apologetically.
“Is there anything I can do in any way,” he inquired delicately, “to—er—
assist you, sir?”
“Certainly,” said Poirot promptly. “You can find out for me what colour
evening dress Miss Lily Margrave wore that night, and which housemaid
attends her.”
George received these commands with his usual stolidity.
“Very good, sir, I will have the information for you in the morning.”
Poirot rose from his seat and stood gazing into the fire.
“You are very useful to me, George,” he murmured. “Do you know, I shall
not forget your Aunt Jemima?”
Poirot did not, after all, see Victor Astwell that night. A telephone message
came from him that he was detained in London.
“He attends to the affairs of your late husband’s business, eh?” asked
Poirot of Lady Astwell.
“Victor is a partner,” she explained. “He went out to Africa to look into
some mining concessions for the firm. It was mining, wasn’t it, Lily?”
“Yes, Lady Astwell.”
“Gold mines, I think, or was it copper or tin? You ought to know, Lily,
you were always asking Reuben questions about it all. Oh, do be careful, dear,
you will have that vase over!”
“It is dreadfully hot in here with the fire,” said the girl. “Shall I—shall I
open the window a little?”
“If you like, dear,” said Lady Astwell placidly.
Poirot watched while the girl went across to the window and opened it.
She stood there a minute or two breathing in the cool night air. When she
returned and sat down in her seat, Poirot said to her politely:
“So Mademoiselle is interested in mines?”
“Oh, not really,” said the girl indifferently. “I listened to Sir Reuben, but I
don’t know anything about the subject.”
“You pretended very well, then,” said Lady Astwell. “Poor Reuben
actually thought you had some ulterior motive in asking all those questions.”
The little detective’s eyes had not moved from the fire, into which he was
steadily staring, but nevertheless, he did not miss the quick flush of vexation
on Lily Margrave’s face. Tactfully he changed the conversation. When the
hour for good nights came, Poirot said to his hostess:
“May I have just two little words with you, Madame?”
Lily Margrave vanished discreetly. Lady Astwell looked inquiringly at the
detective.
“You were the last person to see Sir Reuben alive that night?”
She nodded. Tears sprang into her eyes, and she hastily held a blackedged handkerchief to them.
“Ah, do not distress yourself, I beg of you do not distress yourself.”
“It’s all very well, M. Poirot, but I can’t help it.”
“I am a triple imbecile thus to vex you.”
“No, no, go on. What were you going to say?”
“It was about eleven o’clock, I fancy, when you went into the Tower
room, and Sir Reuben dismissed Mr. Trefusis. Is that right?”
“It must have been about then.”
“How long were you with him?”
“It was just a quarter to twelve when I got up to my room; I remember
glancing at the clock.”
“Lady Astwell, will you tell me what your conversation with your
husband was about?”
Lady Astwell sank down on the sofa and broke down completely. Her
sobs were vigorous.
“We—qua—qua—quarrelled,” she moaned.
“What about?” Poirot’s voice was coaxing, almost tender.
“L-l-lots of things. It b-b-began with L-Lily. Reuben took a dislike to her
—for no reason, and said he had caught her interfering with his papers. He
wanted to send her away, and I said she was a dear girl, and I would not have
it. And then he s-s-started shouting me down, and I wouldn’t have that, so I
just told him what I thought of him.
“Not that I really meant it, M. Poirot. He said he had taken me out of the
gutter to marry me, and I said—ah, but what does it all matter now? I shall
never forgive myself. You know how it is, M. Poirot, I always did say a good
row clears the air, and how was I to know someone was going to murder him
that very night? Poor old Reuben.”
Poirot had listened sympathetically to all this outburst.
“I have caused you suffering,” he said. “I apologize. Let us now be very
businesslike—very practical, very exact. You still cling to your idea that Mr.
Trefusis murdered your husband?”
Lady Astwell drew herself up.
“A woman’s instinct, M. Poirot,” she said solemnly, “never lies.”
“Exactly, exactly,” said Poirot. “But when did he do it?”
“When? After I left him, of course.”
“You left Sir Reuben at a quarter to twelve. At five minutes to twelve Mr.
Leverson came in. In that ten minutes you say the secretary came along from
his bedroom and murdered him?”
“It is perfectly possible.”
“So many things are possible,” said Poirot. “It could be done in ten
minutes. Oh, yes! But was it?”
“Of course he says he was in bed and fast asleep,” said Lady Astwell, “but
who is to know if he was or not?”
“Nobody saw him about,” Poirot reminded her.
“Everybody was in bed and fast asleep,” said Lady Astwell triumphantly.
“Of course nobody saw him.”
“I wonder,” said Poirot to himself.
A short pause.
“Eh bien, Lady Astwell, I wish you good night.”
George deposited a tray of early-morning coffee by his master’s bedside.
“Miss Margrave, sir, wore a dress of light green chiffon on the night in
question.”
“Thank you, George, you are most reliable.”
“The third housemaid looks after Miss Margrave, sir. Her name is
Gladys.”
“Thank you, George. You are invaluable.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“It is a fine morning,” said Poirot, looking out of the window, “and no one
is likely to be astir very early. I think, my good George, that we shall have the
Tower room to ourselves if we proceed there to make a little experiment.”
“You need me, sir?”
“The experiment,” said Poirot, “will not be painful.”
The curtains were still drawn in the Tower room when they arrived there.
George was about to pull them, when Poirot restrained him.
“We will leave the room as it is. Just turn on the desk lamp.”
The valet obeyed.
“Now, my good George, sit down in that chair. Dispose yourself as though
you were writing. Très bien. Me, I seize a club, I steal up behind you, so, and
I hit you on the back of the head.”
“Yes, sir,” said George.
“Ah!” said Poirot, “but when I hit you, do not continue to write. You
comprehend I cannot be exact. I cannot hit you with the same force with
which the assassin hit Sir Reuben. When it comes to that point, we must do
the make-believe. I hit you on the head, and you collapse, so. The arms well
relaxed, the body limp. Permit me to arrange you. But no, do not flex your
muscles.”
He heaved a sigh of exasperation.
“You press admirably the trousers, George,” he said, “but the imagination
you possess it not. Get up and let me take your place.”
Poirot in his turn sat down at the writing table.
“I write,” he declared, “I write busily. You steal up behind me, you hit me
on the head with the club. Crash! The pen slips from my fingers, I drop
forward, but not very far forward, for the chair is low, and the desk is high,
and, moreover, my arms support me. Have the goodness, George, to go back
to the door, stand there, and tell me what you see.”
“Ahem!”
“Yes, George?” encouragingly.
“I see you, sir, sitting at the desk.”
“Sitting at the desk?”
“It is a little difficult to see plainly, sir,” explained George, “being such a
long way away, sir, and the lamp being so heavily shaded. If I might turn on
this light, sir?”
His hand reached out to the switch.
“Not at all,” said Poirot sharply. “We shall do very well as we are. Here
am I bending over the desk, there are you standing by the door. Advance now,
George, advance, and put your hand on my shoulder.”
George obeyed.
“Lean on me a little, George, to steady yourself on your feet, as it were.
Ah! Voilà.”
Hercule Poirot’s limp body slid artistically sideways.
“I collapse—so!” he observed. “Yes, it is very well imagined. There is
now something most important that must be done.”
“Indeed, sir?” said the valet.
“Yes, it is necessary that I should breakfast well.”
The little man laughed heartily at his own joke.
“The stomach, George; it must not be ignored.”
George maintained a disapproving silence. Poirot went downstairs
chuckling happily to himself. He was pleased at the way things were shaping.
After breakfast he made the acquaintance of Gladys, the third housemaid. He
was very interested in what she could tell him of the crime. She was
sympathetic towards Charles, although she had no doubt of his guilt.
“Poor young gentleman, sir, it seems hard, it does, him not being quite
himself at the time.”
“He and Miss Margrave should have got on well together,” suggested
Poirot, “as the only two young people in the house.”
Gladys shook her head.
“Very standoffish Miss Lily was with him. She wouldn’t have no
carryings-on, and she made it plain.”
“He was fond of her, was he?”
“Oh, only in passing, so to speak; no harm in it, sir. Mr. Victor Astwell,
now he is properly gone on Miss Lily.”
She giggled.
“Ah vraiment!”
Gladys giggled again.
“Sweet on her straightaway he was. Miss Lily is just like a lily, isn’t she,
sir? So tall and such a lovely shade of gold hair.”
“She should wear a green evening frock,” mused Poirot. “There is a
certain shade of green—”
“She has one, sir,” said Gladys. “Of course, she can’t wear it now, being
in mourning, but she had it on the very night Sir Reuben died.”
“It should be a light green, not a dark green,” said Poirot.
“It is a light green, sir. If you wait a minute I’ll show it to you. Miss Lily
has just gone out with the dogs.”
Poirot nodded. He knew that as well as Gladys did. In fact, it was only
after seeing Lily safely off the premises that he had gone in search of the
housemaid. Gladys hurried away, and returned a few minutes later with a
green evening dress on a hanger.
“Exquis!” murmured Poirot, holding up hands of admiration. “Permit me
to take it to the light a minute.”
He took the dress from Gladys, turned his back on her and hurried to the
window. He bent over it, then held it out at arm’s length.
“It is perfect,” he declared. “Perfectly ravishing. A thousand thanks for
showing it to me.”
“Not at all, sir,” said Gladys. “We all know that Frenchmen are interested
in ladies’ dresses.”
“You are too kind,” murmured Poirot.
He watched her hurry away again with the dress. Then he looked down at
his two hands and smiled. In the right hand was a tiny pair of nail scissors, in
the left was a neatly clipped fragment of green chiffon.
“And now,” he murmured, “to be heroic.”
He returned to his own apartment and summoned George.
“On the dressing table, my good George, you will perceive a gold scarf
pin.”
“Yes, sir.”
“On the washstand is a solution of carbolic. Immerse, I pray you, the point
of the pin in the carbolic.”
George did as he was bid. He had long ago ceased to wonder at the
vagaries of his master.
“I have done that, sir.”
“Très bien! Now approach. I tender to you my first finger; insert the point
of the pin in it.”
“Excuse me, sir, you want me to prick you, sir?”
“But yes, you have guessed correctly. You must draw blood, you
understand, but not too much.”
George took hold of his master’s finger. Poirot shut his eyes and leaned
back. The valet stabbed at the finger with the scarf pin, and Poirot uttered a
shrill yell.
“Je vous remercie, George,” he said. “What you have done is ample.”
Taking a small piece of green chiffon from his pocket, he dabbed his
finger with it gingerly.
“The operation has succeeded to a miracle,” he remarked, gazing at the
result. “You have no curiosity, George? Now, that is admirable!”
The valet had just taken a discreet look out of the window.
“Excuse me, sir,” he murmured, “a gentleman has driven up in a large
car.”
“Ah! Ah!” said Poirot. He rose briskly to his feet. “The elusive Mr. Victor
Astwell. I go down to make his acquaintance.”
Poirot was destined to hear Mr. Victor Astwell some time before he saw
him. A loud voice rang out from the hall.
“Mind what you are doing, you damned idiot! That case has got glass in
it. Curse you, Parsons, get out of the way! Put it down, you fool!”
Poirot skipped nimbly down the stairs. Victor Astwell was a big man.
Poirot bowed to him politely.
“Who the devil are you?” roared the big man.
Poirot bowed again.
“My name is Hercule Poirot.”
“Lord!” said Victor Astwell. “So Nancy sent for you, after all, did she?”
He put a hand on Poirot’s shoulder and steered him into the library.
“So you are the fellow they make such a fuss about,” he remarked,
looking him up and down. “Sorry for my language just now. That chauffeur of
mine is a damned ass, and Parsons always does get on my nerves, blithering
old idiot.
“I don’t suffer fools gladly, you know,” he said, half-apologetically, “but
by all accounts you are not a fool, eh, M. Poirot?”
He laughed breezily.
“Those who have thought so have been sadly mistaken,” said Poirot
placidly.
“Is that so? Well, so Nancy has carted you down here—got a bee in her
bonnet about the secretary. There is nothing in that; Trefusis is as mild as milk
—drinks milk, too, I believe. The fellow is a teetotaller. Rather a waste of
your time isn’t it?”
“If one has an opportunity to observe human nature, time is never
wasted,” said Poirot quietly.
“Human nature, eh?”
Victor Astwell stared at him, then he flung himself down in a chair.
“Anything I can do for you?”
“Yes, you can tell me what your quarrel with your brother was about that
evening.”
Victor Astwell shook his head.
“Nothing to do with the case,” he said decisively.
“One can never be sure,” said Poirot.
“It had nothing to do with Charles Leverson.”
“Lady Astwell thinks that Charles had nothing to do with the murder.”
“Oh, Nancy!”
“Parsons assumes that it was M. Charles Leverson who came in that night,
but he didn’t see him. Remember nobody saw him.”
“It’s very simple. Reuben had been pitching into young Charles—not
without good reason, I must say. Later on he tried to bully me. I told him a
few home truths and, just to annoy him, I made up my mind to back the boy. I
meant to see him that night, so as to tell him how the land lay. When I went
up to my room I didn’t go to bed. Instead, I left the door ajar and sat on a
chair smoking. My room is on the second floor, M. Poirot, and Charles’s
room is next to it.”
“Pardon my interrupting you—Mr. Trefusis, he, too, sleeps on that floor?”
Astwell nodded.
“Yes, his room is just beyond mine.”
“Nearer the stairs?”
“No, the other way.”
A curious light came into Poirot’s face, but the other didn’t notice it and
went on:
“As I say, I waited up for Charles. I heard the front door slam, as I
thought, about five minutes to twelve, but there was no sign of Charles for
about ten minutes. When he did come up the stairs I saw that it was no good
tackling him that night.”
He lifted his elbow significantly.
“I see,” murmured Poirot.
“Poor devil couldn’t walk straight,” said Astwell. “He was looking pretty
ghastly, too. I put it down to his condition at the time. Of course, now, I
realize that he had come straight from committing the crime.”
Poirot interposed a quick question.
“You heard nothing from the Tower room?”
“No, but you must remember that I was right at the other end of the
building. The walls are thick, and I don’t believe you would even hear a pistol
shot fired from there.”
Poirot nodded.
“I asked if he would like some help getting to bed,” continued Astwell.
“But he said he was all right and went into his room and banged the door. I
undressed and went to bed.”
Poirot was staring thoughtfully at the carpet.
“You realize, M. Astwell,” he said at last, “that your evidence is very
important?”
“I suppose so, at least—what do you mean?”
“Your evidence that ten minutes elapsed between the slamming of the
front door and Leverson’s appearance upstairs. He himself says, so I
understand, that he came into the house and went straight up to bed. But there
is more than that. Lady Astwell’s accusation of the secretary is fantastic, I
admit, yet up to now it has not been proved impossible. But your evidence
creates an alibi.”
“How is that?”
“Lady Astwell says that she left her husband at a quarter to twelve, while
the secretary had gone to bed at eleven o’clock. The only time he could have
committed the crime was between a quarter to twelve and Charles Leverson’s
return. Now, if, as you say, you sat with your door open, he could not have
come out of his room without your seeing him.”
“That is so,” agreed the other.
“There is no other staircase?”
“No, to get down to the Tower room he would have had to pass my door,
and he didn’t, I am quite sure of that. And, anyway, M. Poirot, as I said just
now, the man is as meek as a parson, I assure you.”
“But yes, but yes,” said Poirot soothingly, “I understand all that.” He
paused. “And you will not tell me the subject of your quarrel with Sir
Reuben?”
The other’s face turned a dark red.
“You’ll get nothing out of me.”
Poirot looked at the ceiling.
“I can always be discreet,” he murmured, “where a lady is concerned.”
Victor Astwell sprang to his feet.
“Damn you, how did you—what do you mean?”
“I was thinking,” said Poirot, “of Miss Lily Margrave.”
Victor Astwell stood undecided for a minute or two, then his colour
subsided, and he sat down again.
“You are too clever for me, M. Poirot. Yes, it was Lily we quarrelled
about. Reuben had his knife into her; he had ferreted out something or other
about the girl—false references, something of that kind. I don’t believe a
word of it myself.
“And then he went further than he had any right to go, talked about her
stealing down at night and getting out of the house to meet some fellow or
other. My God! I gave it to him; I told him that better men than he had been
killed for saying less. That shut him up. Reuben was inclined to be a bit afraid
of me when I got going.”
“I hardly wonder at it,” murmured Poirot politely.
“I think a lot of Lily Margrave,” said Victor in another tone. “A nice girl
through and through.”
Poirot did not answer. He was staring in front of him, seemingly lost in
abstraction. He came out of his brown study with a jerk.
“I must, I think, promenade myself a little. There is a hotel here, yes?”
“Two,” said Victor Astwell, “the Golf Hotel up by the links and the Mitre
down by the station.”
“I thank you,” said Poirot. “Yes, certainly I must promenade myself a
little.”
The Golf Hotel, as befits its name, stands on the golf links almost adjoining
the club house. It was to this hostelry that Poirot repaired first in the course of
that “promenade” which he had advertised himself as being about to take. The
little man had his own way of doing things. Three minutes after he had
entered the Golf Hotel he was in private consultation with Miss Langdon, the
manageress.
“I regret to incommode you in any way, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, “but
you see I am a detective.”
Simplicity always appealed to him. In this case the method proved
efficacious at once.
“A detective!” exclaimed Miss Langdon, looking at him doubtfully.
“Not from Scotland Yard,” Poirot assured her. “In fact—you may have
noticed it? I am not an Englishman. No, I make the private inquiries into the
death of Sir Reuben Astwell.”
“You don’t say, now!” Miss Langdon goggled at him expectantly.
“Precisely,” said Poirot beaming. “Only to someone of discretion like
yourself would I reveal the fact. I think, Mademoiselle, you may be able to
aid me. Can you tell me of any gentleman staying here on the night of the
murder who was absent from the hotel that evening and returned to it about
twelve or half past?”
Miss Langdon’s eyes opened wider than ever.
“You don’t think—?” she breathed.
“That you had the murderer here? No, but I have reason to believe that a
guest staying here promenaded himself in the direction of Mon Repos that
night, and if so he may have seen something which, though conveying no
meaning to him, might be very useful to me.”
The manageress nodded her head sapiently, with an air of one thoroughly
well up in the annals of detective logic.
“I understand perfectly. Now, let me see; who did we have staying here?”
She frowned, evidently running over the names in her mind, and helping
her memory by occasionally checking them off on her fingertips.
“Captain Swann, Mr. Elkins, Major Blyunt, old Mr. Benson. No, really,
sir, I don’t believe anyone went out that evening.”
“You would have noticed if they had done so, eh?”
“Oh, yes, sir, it is not very usual, you see. I mean gentlemen go out to
dinner and all that, but they don’t go out after dinner, because—well, there is
nowhere to go to, is there?”
The attractions of Abbots Cross were golf and nothing but golf.
“That is so,” agreed Poirot. “Then, as far as you remember, Mademoiselle,
nobody from here was out that night?”
“Captain England and his wife were out to dinner.”
Poirot shook his head.
“That is not the kind of thing I mean. I will try the other hotel; the Mitre,
is it not?”
“Oh, the Mitre,” said Miss Langdon. “Of course, anyone might have gone
out walking from there.”
The disparagement of her tone, though vague, was evident, and Poirot
beat a tactful retreat.
Ten minutes later he was repeating the scene, this time with Miss Cole, the
brusque manageress of the Mitre, a less pretentious hotel with lower prices,
situated close to the station.
“There was one gentleman out late that night, came in about half past
twelve, as far as I can remember. Quite a habit of his it was, to go out for a
walk at that time of the evening. He had done it once or twice before. Let me
see now, what was his name? Just for the moment I can’t remember it.”
She pulled a large ledger towards her and began turning over the pages.
“Nineteenth, twentieth, twenty-first, twenty-second. Ah, here we are.
Naylor, Captain Humphrey Naylor.”
“He had stayed here before? You know him well?”
“Once before,” said Miss Cole, “about a fortnight earlier. He went out
then in the evening, I remember.”
“He came to play golf, eh?”
“I suppose so,” said Miss Cole, “that’s what most of the gentlemen come
for.”
“Very true,” said Poirot. “Well, Mademoiselle, I thank you infinitely, and I
wish you good day.”
He went back to Mon Repos with a very thoughtful face. Once or twice he
drew something from his pocket and looked at it.
“It must be done,” he murmured to himself, “and soon, as soon as I can
make the opportunity.”
His first proceeding on reentering the house was to ask Parsons where
Miss Margrave might be found. He was told that she was in the small study
dealing with Lady Astwell’s correspondence, and the information seemed to
afford Poirot satisfaction.
He found the little study without difficulty. Lily Margrave was seated at a
desk by the window, writing. But for her the room was empty. Poirot carefully
shut the door behind him and came towards the girl.
“I may have a little minute of your time, Mademoiselle, you will be so
kind?”
“Certainly.”
Lily Margrave put the papers aside and turned towards him.
“What can I do for you?”
“On the evening of the tragedy, Mademoiselle, I understand that when
Lady Astwell went to her husband you went straight up to bed. Is that so?”
Lily Margrave nodded.
“You did not come down again, by any chance?”
The girl shook her head.
“I think you said, Mademoiselle, that you had not at any time that evening
been in the Tower room?”
“I don’t remember saying so, but as a matter of fact that is quite true. I
was not in the Tower room that evening.”
Poirot raised his eyebrows.
“Curious,” he murmured.
“What do you mean?”
“Very curious,” murmured Hercule Poirot again. “How do you account,
then, for this?”
He drew from his pocket a little scrap of stained green chiffon and held it
up for the girl’s inspection.
Her expression did not change, but he felt rather than heard the sharp
intake of breath.
“I don’t understand, M. Poirot.”
“You wore, I understand, a green chiffon dress that evening,
Mademoiselle. This—” he tapped the scrap in his fingers—“was torn from it.”
“And you found it in the Tower room?” asked the girl sharply.
“Whereabouts?”
Hercule Poirot looked at the ceiling.
“For the moment shall we just say—in the Tower room?”
For the first time, a look of fear sprang into the girl’s eyes. She began to
speak, then checked herself. Poirot watched her small white hands clenching
themselves on the edge of the desk.
“I wonder if I did go into the Tower room that evening?” she mused.
“Before dinner, I mean. I don’t think so. I am almost sure I didn’t. If that
scrap has been in the Tower room all this time, it seems to me a very
extraordinary thing the police did not find it right away.”
“The police,” said the little man, “do not think of things that Hercule
Poirot thinks of.”
“I may have run in there for a minute just before dinner,” mused Lily
Margrave, “or it may have been the night before. I wore the same dress then.
Yes, I am almost sure it was the night before.”
“I think not,” said Poirot evenly.
“Why?”
He only shook his head slowly from side to side.
“What do you mean?” whispered the girl.
She was leaning forward, staring at him, all the colour ebbing out of her
face.
“You do not notice, Mademoiselle, that this fragment is stained? There is
no doubt about it, that stain is human blood.”
“You mean—”
“I mean, Mademoiselle, that you were in the Tower room after the crime
was committed, not before. I think you will do well to tell me the whole truth,
lest worse should befall you.”
He stood up now, a stern little figure of a man, his forefinger pointed
accusingly at the girl.
“How did you find out?” gasped Lily.
“No matter, Mademoiselle. I tell you Hercule Poirot knows. I know all
about Captain Humphrey Naylor, and that you went down to meet him that
night.”
Lily suddenly put her head down on her arms and burst into tears.
Immediately Poirot relinquished his accusing attitude.
“There, there, my little one,” he said, patting the girl on the shoulder. “Do
not distress yourself. Impossible to deceive Hercule Poirot; once realize that
and all your troubles will be at an end. And now you will tell me the whole
story, will you not? You will tell old Papa Poirot?”
“It is not what you think, it isn’t, indeed. Humphrey—my brother—never
touched a hair of his head.”
“Your brother, eh?” said Poirot. “So that is how the land lies. Well, if you
wish to save him from suspicion, you must tell me the whole story now,
without reservation.”
Lily sat up again, pushing back the hair from her forehead. After a minute
or two, she began to speak in a low, clear voice.
“I will tell you the truth, M. Poirot. I can see now that it would be absurd
to do anything else. My real name is Lily Naylor, and Humphrey is my only
brother. Some years ago, when he was out in Africa, he discovered a gold
mine, or rather, I should say, discovered the presence of gold. I can’t tell you
this part of it properly, because I don’t understand the technical details, but
what it amounted to was this:
“The thing seemed likely to be a very big undertaking, and Humphrey
came home with letters to Sir Reuben Astwell in the hopes of getting him
interested in the matter. I don’t understand the rights of it even now, but I
gather that Sir Reuben sent out an expert to report, and that he subsequently
told my brother that the expert’s report was unfavourable and that he,
Humphrey, had made a great mistake. My brother went back to Africa on an
expedition into the interior and was lost sight of. It was assumed that he and
the expedition had perished.
“It was soon after that that a company was formed to exploit the Mpala
Gold Fields. When my brother got back to England he at once jumped to the
conclusion that these gold fields were identical with those he had discovered.
Sir Reuben Astwell had apparently nothing to do with this company, and they
had seemingly discovered the place on their own. But my brother was not
satisfied; he was convinced that Sir Reuben had deliberately swindled him.
“He became more and more violent and unhappy about the matter. We
two are alone in the world, M. Poirot, and as it was necessary then for me to
go out and earn my own living, I conceived the idea of taking a post in this
household and trying to find out if any connection existed between Sir
Reuben and the Mpala Gold Fields. For obvious reasons I concealed my real
name, and I’ll admit frankly that I used a forged reference.
“There were many applicants for the post, most of them with better
qualifications than mine, so—well, M. Poirot, I wrote a beautiful letter from
the Duchess of Perthshire, who I knew had gone to America. I thought a
duchess would have a great effect upon Lady Astwell, and I was quite right.
She engaged me on the spot.
“Since then I have been that hateful thing, a spy, and until lately with no
success. Sir Reuben is not a man to give away his business secrets, but when
Victor Astwell came back from Africa he was less guarded in his talk, and I
began to believe that, after all, Humphrey had not been mistaken. My brother
came down here about a fortnight before the murder, and I crept out of the
house to meet him secretly at night. I told him the things Victor Astwell had
said, and he became very excited and assured me I was definitely on the right
track.
“But after that things began to go wrong; someone must have seen me
stealing out of the house and have reported the matter to Sir Reuben. He
became suspicious and hunted up my references, and soon discovered the fact
that they were forged. The crisis came on the day of the murder. I think he
thought I was after his wife’s jewels. Whatever his suspicions were, he had no
intention of allowing me to remain any longer at Mon Repos, though he
agreed not to prosecute me on account of the references. Lady Astwell took
my part throughout and stood up valiantly to Sir Reuben.”
She paused. Poirot’s face was very grave.
“And now, Mademoiselle,” he said, “we come to the night of the murder.”
Lily swallowed hard and nodded her head.
“To begin with, M. Poirot, I must tell you that my brother had come down
again, and that I had arranged to creep out and meet him once more. I went up
to my room, as I have said, but I did not go to bed. Instead, I waited till I
thought everyone was asleep, and then stole downstairs again and out by the
side door. I met Humphrey and acquainted him in a few hurried words with
what had occurred. I told him that I believed the papers he wanted were in Sir
Reuben’s safe in the Tower room, and we agreed as a last desperate adventure
to try and get hold of them that night.
“I was to go in first and see that the way was clear. I heard the church
clock strike twelve as I went in by the side door. I was halfway up the stairs
leading to the Tower room, when I heard a thud of something falling, and a
voice cried out, ‘My God!’ A minute or two afterwards the door of the Tower
room opened, and Charles Leverson came out. I could see his face quite
clearly in the moonlight, but I was crouching some way below him on the
stairs where it was dark, and he did not see me at all.
“He stood there a moment swaying on his feet and looking ghastly. He
seemed to be listening; then with an effort he seemed to pull himself together
and, opening the door into the Tower room, called out something about there
being no harm done. His voice was quite jaunty and debonair, but his face
gave the lie to it. He waited a minute more, and then slowly went on upstairs
and out of sight.
“When he had gone I waited a minute or two and then crept to the Tower
room door. I had a feeling that something tragic had happened. The main light
was out, but the desk lamp was on, and by its light I saw Sir Reuben lying on
the floor by the desk. I don’t know how I managed it, but I nerved myself at
last to go over and kneel down by him. I saw at once that he was dead, struck
down from behind, and also that he couldn’t have been dead long; I touched
his hand and it was still quite warm. It was just horrible, M. Poirot. Horrible!”
She shuddered again at the remembrance.
“And then?” said Poirot, looking at her keenly.
Lily Margrave nodded.
“Yes, M. Poirot, I know what you are thinking. Why didn’t I give the
alarm and raise the house? I should have done so, I know, but it came over me
in a flash, as I knelt there, that my quarrel with Sir Reuben, my stealing out to
meet Humphrey, the fact that I was being sent away on the morrow, made a
fatal sequence. They would say that I had let Humphrey in, and that
Humphrey had killed Sir Reuben out of revenge. If I said that I had seen
Charles Leverson leaving the room, no one would believe me.
“It was terrible, M. Poirot! I knelt there, and thought and thought, and the
more I thought the more my nerve failed me. Presently I noticed Sir Reuben’s
keys which had dropped from his pocket as he fell. Among them was the key
of the safe, the combination word I already knew, since Lady Astwell had
mentioned it once in my hearing. I went over to that safe, M. Poirot, unlocked
it and rummaged through the papers I found there.
“In the end I found what I was looking for. Humphrey had been perfectly
right. Sir Reuben was behind the Mpala Gold Fields, and he had deliberately
swindled Humphrey. That made it all the worse. It gave a perfectly definite
motive for Humphrey having committed the crime. I put the papers back in
the safe, left the key in the door of it, and went straight upstairs to my room.
In the morning I pretended to be surprised and horror-stricken, like everyone
else, when the housemaid discovered the body.”
She stopped and looked piteously across at Poirot.
“You do believe me, M. Poirot. Oh, do say you believe me!”
“I believe you, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot; “you have explained many
things that puzzled me. Your absolute certainty, for one thing, that Charles
Leverson had committed the crime, and at the same time your persistent
efforts to keep me from coming down here.”
Lily nodded.
“I was afraid of you,” she admitted frankly. “Lady Astwell could not
know, as I did, that Charles was guilty, and I couldn’t say anything. I hoped
against hope that you would refuse to take the case.”
“But for that obvious anxiety on your part, I might have done so,” said
Poirot drily.
Lily looked at him swiftly, her lips trembled a little.
“And now, M. Poirot, what—what are you going to do?”
“As far as you are concerned, Mademoiselle, nothing. I believe your story,
and I accept it. The next step is to go to London and see Inspector Miller.”
“And then?” asked Lily.
“And then,” said Poirot, “we shall see.”
Outside the door of the study he looked once more at the little square of
stained green chiffon which he held in his hand.
“Amazing,” he murmured to himself complacently, “the ingenuity of
Hercule Poirot.”
Detective-Inspector Miller was not particularly fond of M. Hercule Poirot. He
did not belong to that small band of inspectors at the Yard who welcomed the
little Belgian’s cooperation. He was wont to say that Hercule Poirot was much
overrated. In this case he felt pretty sure of himself, and greeted Poirot with
high good humour in consequence.
“Acting for Lady Astwell, are you? Well, you have taken up a mare’s nest
in that case.”
“There is, then, no possible doubt about the matter?”
Miller winked. “Never was a clearer case, short of catching a murderer
absolutely red-handed.”
“M. Leverson has made a statement, I understand?”
“He had better have kept his mouth shut,” said the detective. “He repeats
over and over again that he went straight up to his room and never went near
his uncle. That’s a fool story on the face of it.”
“It is certainly against the weight of evidence,” murmured Poirot. “How
does he strike you, this young M. Leverson?”
“Darned young fool.”
“A weak character, eh?”
The inspector nodded.
“One would hardly think a young man of that type would have the—how
do you say it—the bowels to commit such a crime.”
“On the face of it, no,” agreed the inspector. “But, bless you, I have come
across the same thing many times. Get a weak, dissipated young man into a
corner, fill him up with a drop too much to drink, and for a limited amount of
time you can turn him into a fire-eater. A weak man in a corner is more
dangerous than a strong man.”
“That is true, yes; that is true what you say.”
Miller unbent a little further.
“Of course, it is all right for you, M. Poirot,” he said. “You get your fees
just the same, and naturally you have to make a pretence of examining the
evidence to satisfy her ladyship. I can understand all that.”
“You understand such interesting things,” murmured Poirot, and took his
leave.
His next call was upon the solicitor representing Charles Leverson. Mr.
Mayhew was a thin, dry, cautious gentleman. He received Poirot with reserve.
Poirot, however, had his own ways of inducing confidence. In ten minutes’
time the two were talking together amicably.
“You will understand,” said Poirot, “I am acting in this case solely on
behalf of Mr. Leverson. That is Lady Astwell’s wish. She is convinced that he
is not guilty.”
“Yes, yes, quite so,” said Mr. Mayhew without enthusiasm.
Poirot’s eyes twinkled. “You do not perhaps attach much importance to
the opinions of Lady Astwell?” he suggested.
“She might be just as sure of his guilt tomorrow,” said the lawyer drily.
“Her intuitions are not evidence certainly,” agreed Poirot, “and on the face
of it the case looks very black against this poor young man.”
“It is a pity he said what he did to the police,” said the lawyer; “it will be
no good his sticking to that story.”
“Has he stuck to it with you?” inquired Poirot.
Mayhew nodded. “It never varies an iota. He repeats it like a parrot.”
“And that is what destroys your faith in him,” mused the other. “Ah, don’t
deny it,” he added quickly, holding up an arresting hand. “I see it only too
plainly. In your heart you believe him guilty. But listen now to me, to me,
Hercule Poirot. I present to you a case.
“This young man comes home, he has drunk the cocktail, the cocktail, and
again the cocktail, also without doubt the English whisky and soda many
times. He is full of, what you call it? the courage Dutch, and in that mood he
let himself into the house with his latchkey, and he goes with unsteady steps
up to the Tower room. He looks in at the door and sees in the dim light his
uncle, apparently bending over the desk.
“M. Leverson is full, as we have said, of the courage Dutch. He lets
himself go, he tells his uncle just what he thinks of him. He defies him, he
insults him, and the more his uncle does not answer back, the more he is
encouraged to go on, to repeat himself, to say the same thing over and over
again, and each time more loudly. But at last the continued silence of his
uncle awakens an apprehension. He goes nearer to him, he lays his hand on
his uncle’s shoulder, and his uncle’s figure crumples under his touch and sinks
in a heap to the ground.
“He is sobered then, this M. Leverson. The chair falls with a crash, and he
bends over Sir Reuben. He realizes what has happened, he looks at his hand
covered with something warm and red. He is in a panic then, he would give
anything on earth to recall the cry which has just sprung from his lips,
echoing through the house. Mechanically he picks up the chair, then he
hastens out through the door and listens. He fancies he hears a sound, and
immediately, automatically, he pretends to be speaking to his uncle through
the open door.
“The sound is not repeated. He is convinced he has been mistaken in
thinking he heard one. Now all is silence, he creeps up to his room, and at
once it occurs to him how much better it will be if he pretends never to have
been near his uncle that night. So he tells his story. Parsons at that time,
remember, has said nothing of what he heard. When he does do so, it is too
late for M. Leverson to change. He is stupid, and he is obstinate, he sticks to
his story. Tell me, Monsieur, is that not possible?”
“Yes,” said the lawyer, “I suppose in the way you put it that it is possible.”
Poirot rose to his feet.
“You have the privilege of seeing M. Leverson,” he said. “Put to him the
story I have told you, and ask him if it is not true.”
Outside the lawyer’s office, Poirot hailed a taxi.
“Three-four-eight Harley Street,” he murmured to the driver.
Poirot’s departure for London had taken Lady Astwell by surprise, for the
little man had not made any mention of what he proposed doing. On his
return, after an absence of twenty-four hours, he was informed by Parsons
that Lady Astwell would like to see him as soon as possible. Poirot found the
lady in her own boudoir. She was lying down on the divan, her head propped
up by cushions, and she looked startlingly ill and haggard; far more so than
she had done on the day Poirot arrived.
“So you have come back, M. Poirot?”
“I have returned, Madame.”
“You went to London?”
Poirot nodded.
“You didn’t tell me you were going,” said Lady Astwell sharply.
“A thousand apologies, Madame, I am in error, I should have done so. La
prochaine fois—”
“You will do exactly the same,” interrupted Lady Astwell with a shrewd
touch of humour. “Do things first and tell people afterwards, that is your
motto right enough.”
“Perhaps it has also been Madame’s motto?” His eyes twinkled.
“Now and then, perhaps,” admitted the other. “What did you go up to
London for, M. Poirot? You can tell me now, I suppose?”
“I had an interview with the good Inspector Miller, and also with the
excellent Mr. Mayhew.”
Lady Astwell’s eyes searched his face.
“And you think, now—?” she said slowly.
Poirot’s eyes were fixed on her steadily.
“That there is a possibility of Charles Leverson’s innocence,” he said
gravely.
“Ah!” Lady Astwell half-sprung up, sending two cushions rolling to the
ground. “I was right, then, I was right!”
“I said a possibility, Madame, that is all.”
Something in his tone seemed to strike her. She raised herself on one
elbow and regarded him piercingly.
“Can I do anything?” she asked.
“Yes,” he nodded his head, “you can tell me, Lady Astwell, why you
suspect Owen Trefusis.”
“I have told you I know—that’s all.”
“Unfortunately, that is not enough,” said Poirot drily. “Cast your mind
back to the fatal evening, Madame. Remember each detail, each tiny
happening. What did you notice or observe about the secretary? I, Hercule
Poirot, tell you there must have been something.”
Lady Astwell shook her head.
“I hardly noticed him at all that evening,” she said, “and I certainly was
not thinking of him.”
“Your mind was taken up by something else?”
“Yes.”
“With your husband’s animus against Miss Lily Margrave?”
“That’s right,” said Lady Astwell, nodding her head; “you seem to know
all about it, M. Poirot.”
“Me, I know everything,” declared the little man with an absurdly
grandiose air.
“I am fond of Lily, M. Poirot; you have seen that for yourself. Reuben
began kicking up a rumpus about some reference or other of hers. Mind you, I
don’t say she hadn’t cheated about it. She had. But, bless you, I have done
many worse things than that in the old days. You have got to be up to all sorts
of tricks to get round theatrical managers. There is nothing I wouldn’t have
written, or said, or done, in my time.
“Lily wanted this job, and she put in a lot of slick work that was not quite
—well, quite the thing, you know. Men are so stupid about that sort of thing;
Lily really might have been a bank clerk absconding with millions for the fuss
he made about it. I was terribly worried all the evening, because, although I
could usually get round Reuben in the end, he was terribly pigheaded at times,
poor darling. So of course I hadn’t time to go noticing secretaries, not that one
does notice Mr. Trefusis much, anyway. He is just there and that’s all there is
to it.”
“I have noticed that fact about M. Trefusis,” said Poirot. “His is not a
personality that stands forth, that shines, that hits you cr-r-rack.”
“No,” said Lady Astwell, “he is not like Victor.”
“M. Victor Astwell is, I should say, explosive.”
“That is a splendid word for him,” said Lady Astwell. “He explodes all
over the house, like one of those thingimyjig firework things.”
“A somewhat quick temper, I should imagine?” suggested Poirot.
“Oh, he’s a perfect devil when roused,” said Lady Astwell, “but bless you,
I’m not afraid of him. All bark and no bite to Victor.”
Poirot looked at the ceiling.
“And you can tell me nothing about the secretary that evening?” he
murmured gently.
“I tell you, M. Poirot, I know. It’s intuition. A woman’s intuition—”
“Will not hang a man,” said Poirot, “and what is more to the point, it will
not save a man from being hanged. Lady Astwell, if you sincerely believe that
M. Leverson is innocent, and that your suspicions of the secretary are well-
founded, will you consent to a little experiment?”
“What kind of an experiment?” demanded Lady Astwell suspiciously.
“Will you permit yourself to be put into a condition of hypnosis?”
“Whatever for?”
Poirot leaned forward.
“If I were to tell you, Madame, that your intuition is based on certain facts
recorded subconsciously, you would probably be sceptical. I will only say,
then, that this experiment I propose may be of great importance to that
unfortunate young man, Charles Leverson. You will not refuse?”
“Who is going to put me into a trance?” demanded Lady Astwell
suspiciously. “You?”
“A friend of mine, Lady Astwell, arrives, if I mistake not, at this very
minute. I hear the wheels of the car outside.”
“Who is he?”
“A Dr. Cazalet of Harley Street.”
“Is he—all right?” asked Lady Astwell apprehensively.
“He is not a quack, Madame, if that is what you mean. You can trust
yourself in his hands quite safely.”
“Well,” said Lady Astwell with a sigh, “I think it is all bunkum, but you
can try if you like. Nobody is going to say that I stood in your way.”
“A thousand thanks, Madame.”
Poirot hurried from the room. In a few minutes he returned ushering in a
cheerful, round-faced little man, with spectacles, who was very upsetting to
Lady Astwell’s conception of what a hypnotist should look like. Poirot
introduced them.
“Well,” said Lady Astwell good-humouredly, “how do we start this
tomfoolery?”
“Quite simple, Lady Astwell, quite simple,” said the little doctor. “Just
lean back, so—that’s right, that’s right. No need to be uneasy.”
“I am not in the least uneasy,” said Lady Astwell. “I should like to see
anyone hypnotizing me against my will.”
Dr. Cazalet smiled broadly.
“Yes, but if you consent, it won’t be against your will, will it?” he said
cheerfully. “That’s right. Turn off that other light, will you, M. Poirot? Just let
yourself go to sleep, Lady Astwell.”
He shifted his position a little.
“It’s getting late. You are sleepy—very sleepy. Your eyelids are heavy,
they are closing—closing—closing. Soon you will be asleep. . . .”
His voice droned on, low, soothing, and monotonous. Presently he leaned
forward and gently lifted Lady Astwell’s right eyelid. Then he turned to
Poirot, nodding in a satisfied manner.
“That’s all right,” he said in a low voice. “Shall I go ahead?”
“If you please.”
The doctor spoke out sharply and authoritatively: “You are asleep, Lady
Astwell, but you hear me, and you can answer my questions.”
Without stirring or raising an eyelid, the motionless figure on the sofa
replied in a low, monotonous voice:
“I hear you. I can answer your questions.”
“Lady Astwell, I want you to go back to the evening on which your
husband was murdered. You remember that evening?”
“Yes.”
“You are at the dinner table. Describe to me what you saw and felt.”
The prone figure stirred a little restlessly.
“I am in great distress. I am worried about Lily.”
“We know that; tell us what you saw.”
“Victor is eating all the salted almonds; he is greedy. Tomorrow I shall tell
Parsons not to put the dish on that side of the table.”
“Go on, Lady Astwell.”
“Reuben is in a bad humour tonight. I don’t think it is altogether about
Lily. It is something to do with business. Victor looks at him in a queer way.”
“Tell us about Mr. Trefusis, Lady Astwell.”
“His left shirt cuff is frayed. He puts a lot of grease on his hair. I wish men
didn’t, it ruins the covers in the drawing room.”
Cazalet looked at Poirot; the other made a motion with his head.
“It is after dinner, Lady Astwell, you are having coffee. Describe the
scene to me.”
“The coffee is good tonight. It varies. Cook is very unreliable over her
coffee. Lily keeps looking out of the window, I don’t know why. Now Reuben
comes into the room; he is in one of his worst moods tonight, and bursts out
with a perfect flood of abuse to poor Mr. Trefusis. Mr. Trefusis has his hand
round the paper knife, the big one with the sharp blade like a knife. How hard
he is grasping it; his knuckles are quite white. Look, he has dug it so hard in
the table that the point snaps. He holds it just as you would hold a dagger you
were going to stick into someone. There, they have gone out together now.
Lily has got her green evening dress on; she looks so pretty in green, just like
a lily. I must have the covers cleaned next week.”
“Just a minute, Lady Astwell.”
The doctor leaned across to Poirot.
“We have got it, I think,” he murmured; “that action with the paper knife,
that’s what convinced her that the secretary did the thing.”
“Let us go on to the Tower room now.”
The doctor nodded, and began once more to question Lady Astwell in his
high, decisive voice.
“It is later in the evening; you are in the Tower room with your husband.
You and he have had a terrible scene together, have you not?”
Again the figure stirred uneasily.
“Yes—terrible—terrible. We said dreadful things—both of us.”
“Never mind that now. You can see the room clearly, the curtains were
drawn, the lights were on.”
“Not the middle light, only the desk light.”
“You are leaving your husband now, you are saying good night to him.”
“No, I was too angry.”
“It is the last time you will see him; very soon he will be murdered. Do
you know who murdered him, Lady Astwell?”
“Yes. Mr. Trefusis.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because of the bulge—the bulge in the curtain.”
“There was a bulge in the curtain?”
“Yes.”
“You saw it?”
“Yes. I almost touched it.”
“Was there a man concealed there—Mr. Trefusis?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
For the first time the monotonous answering voice hesitated and lost
confidence.
“I—I—because of the paper knife.”
Poirot and the doctor again interchanged swift glances.
“I don’t understand you, Lady Astwell. There was a bulge in the curtain,
you say? Someone concealed there? You didn’t see that person?”
“No.”
“You thought it was Mr. Trefusis because of the way he held the paper
knife earlier?”
“Yes.”
“But Mr. Trefusis had gone to bed, had he not?”
“Yes—yes, that’s right, he had gone away to his room.”
“So he couldn’t have been behind the curtain in the window?”
“No—no, of course not, he wasn’t there.”
“He had said good night to your husband some time before, hadn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t see him again?”
“No.”
She was stirring now, throwing herself about, moaning faintly.
“She is coming out,” said the doctor. “Well, I think we have got all we
can, eh?”
Poirot nodded. The doctor leaned over Lady Astwell.
“You are waking,” he murmured softly. “You are waking now. In another
minute you will open your eyes.”
The two men waited, and presently Lady Astwell sat upright and stared at
them both.
“Have I been having a nap?”
“That’s it, Lady Astwell, just a little sleep,” said the doctor.
She looked at him.
“Some of your hocus-pocus, eh?”
“You don’t feel any the worse, I hope,” he asked.
Lady Astwell yawned.
“I feel rather tired and done up.”
The doctor rose.
“I will ask them to send you up some coffee,” he said, “and we will leave
you for the present.”
“Did I—say anything?” Lady Astwell called after them as they reached
the door.
Poirot smiled back at her.
“Nothing of great importance, Madame. You informed us that the drawing
room covers needed cleaning.”
“So they do,” said Lady Astwell. “You needn’t have put me into a trance
to get me to tell you that.” She laughed good-humouredly. “Anything more?”
“Do you remember M. Trefusis picking up a paper knife in the drawing
room that night?” asked Poirot.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Lady Astwell. “He may have done so.”
“Does a bulge in the curtain convey anything to you?”
Lady Astwell frowned.
“I seem to remember,” she said slowly. “No—it’s gone, and yet—”
“Do not distress yourself, Lady Astwell,” said Poirot quickly; “it is of no
importance—of no importance whatever.”
The doctor went with Poirot to the latter’s room.
“Well,” said Cazalet, “I think this explains things pretty clearly. No doubt
when Sir Reuben was dressing down the secretary, the latter grabbed tight
hold on a paper knife, and had to exercise a good deal of self-control to
prevent himself answering back. Lady Astwell’s conscious mind was wholly
taken up with the problem of Lily Margrave, but her subconscious mind
noticed and misconstrued the action.
“It implanted in her the firm conviction that Trefusis murdered Sir
Reuben. Now we come to the bulge in the curtain. That is interesting. I take it
from what you have told me of the Tower room that the desk was right in the
window. There are curtains across that window, of course?”
“Yes, mon ami, black velvet curtains.”
“And there is room in the embrasure of the window for anyone to remain
concealed behind them?”
“There would be just room, I think.”
“Then there seems at least a possibility,” said the doctor slowly, “that
someone was concealed in the room, but if so it could not be the secretary,
since they both saw him leave the room. It could not be Victor Astwell, for
Trefusis met him going out, and it could not be Lily Margrave. Whoever it
was must have been concealed there before Sir Reuben entered the room that
evening. You have told me pretty well how the land lies. Now what about
Captain Naylor? Could it have been he who was concealed there?”
“It is always possible,” admitted Poirot. “He certainly dined at the hotel,
but how soon he went out afterwards is difficult to fix exactly. He returned
about half past twelve.”
“Then it might have been he,” said the doctor, “and if so, he committed
the crime. He had the motive, and there was a weapon near at hand. You don’t
seem satisfied with the idea, though?”
“Me, I have other ideas,” confessed Poirot. “Tell me now, M. le Docteur,
supposing for one minute that Lady Astwell herself had committed this crime,
would she necessarily betray the fact in the hypnotic state?”
The doctor whistled.
“So that’s what you are getting at? Lady Astwell is the criminal, eh? Of
course—it is possible; I never thought of it till this minute. She was the last to
be with him, and no one saw him alive afterwards. As to your question, I
should be inclined to say—no. Lady Astwell would go into the hypnotic state
with a strong mental reservation to say nothing of her own part in the crime.
She would answer my questions truthfully, but she would be dumb on that
one point. Yet I should hardly have expected her to be so insistent on Mr.
Trefusis’s guilt.”
“I comprehend,” said Poirot. “But I have not said that I believe Lady
Astwell to be the criminal. It is a suggestion, that is all.”
“It is an interesting case,” said the doctor after a minute or two. “Granting
Charles Leverson is innocent, there are so many possibilities, Humphrey
Naylor, Lady Astwell, and even Lily Margrave.”
“There is another you have not mentioned,” said Poirot quietly, “Victor
Astwell. According to his own story, he sat in his room with the door open
waiting for Charles Leverson’s return, but we have only his own words for it,
you comprehend?”
“He is the bad-tempered fellow, isn’t he?” asked the doctor. “The one you
told me about?”
“That is so,” agreed Poirot.
The doctor rose to his feet.
“Well, I must be getting back to town. You will let me know how things
shape, won’t you?”
After the doctor had left, Poirot pulled the bell for George.
“A cup of tisane, George. My nerves are much disturbed.”
“Certainly, sir,” said George. “I will prepare it immediately.”
Ten minutes later he brought a steaming cup to his master. Poirot inhaled
the noxious fumes with pleasure. As he sipped it, he soliloquized aloud.
“The chase is different all over the world. To catch the fox you ride hard
with the dogs. You shout, you run, it is a matter of speed. I have not shot the
stag myself, but I understand that to do so you crawl for many long, long
hours upon your stomach. My friend Hastings has recounted the affair to me.
Our method here, my good George, must be neither of these. Let us reflect
upon the household cat. For many long, weary hours, he watches the mouse
hole, he makes no movement, he betrays no energy, but—he does not go
away.”
He sighed and put the empty cup down on its saucer.
“I told you to pack for a few days. Tomorrow, my good George, you will
go to London and bring down what is necessary for a fortnight.”
“Very good, sir,” said George. As usual he displayed no emotion.
The apparently permanent presence of Hercule Poirot at Mon Repos was
disquieting to many people. Victor Astwell remonstrated with his sister-in-law
about it.
“It’s all very well, Nancy. You don’t know what fellows of that kind are
like. He has found jolly comfortable quarters here, and he is evidently going
to settle down comfortably for about a month, charging you several guineas a
day all the while.”
Lady Astwell’s reply was to the effect that she could manage her own
affairs without interference.
Lily Margrave tried earnestly to conceal her perturbation. At the time, she
had felt sure that Poirot believed her story. Now she was not so certain.
Poirot did not play an entirely quiescent game. On the fifth day of his
sojourn he brought down a small thumbograph album to dinner. As a method
of getting the thumbprints of the household, it seemed a rather clumsy device,
yet not perhaps so clumsy as it seemed, since no one could afford to refuse
their thumbprints. Only after the little man had retired to bed did Victor
Astwell state his views.
“You see what it means, Nancy. He is out after one of us.”
“Don’t be absurd, Victor.”
“Well, what other meaning could that blinking little book of his have?”
“M. Poirot knows what he is doing,” said Lady Astwell complacently, and
looked with some meaning at Owen Trefusis.
On another occasion, Poirot introduced the game of tracing footprints on a
sheet of paper. The following morning, going with his soft cat-like tread into
the library, the detective startled Owen Trefusis, who leaped from his chair as
though he had been shot.
“You must really excuse me, M. Poirot,” he said primly, “but you have us
on the jump.”
“Indeed, how is that?” demanded the little man innocently.
“I will admit,” said the secretary, “that I thought the case against Charles
Leverson utterly overwhelming. You apparently do not find it so.”
Poirot was standing looking out of the window. He turned suddenly to the
other.
“I shall tell you something, M. Trefusis—in confidence.”
“Yes?”
Poirot seemed in no hurry to begin. He waited a minute, hesitating. When
he did speak, the opening words were coincident with the opening and
shutting of the front door. For a man saying something in confidence, he
spoke rather loudly, his voice drowning the sound of a footstep in the hall
outside.
“I shall tell you this in confidence, Mr. Trefusis. There is new evidence. It
goes to prove that when Charles Leverson entered the Tower room that night,
Sir Reuben was already dead.”
The secretary stared at him.
“But what evidence? Why have we not heard of it?”
“You will hear,” said the little man mysteriously. “In the meantime, you
and I alone know the secret.”
He skipped nimbly out of the room, and almost collided with Victor
Astwell in the hall outside.
“You have just come in, eh, monsieur?”
Astwell nodded.
“Beastly day outside,” he said breathing hard, “cold and blowy.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “I shall not promenade myself today—me, I am like a
cat, I sit by the fire and keep myself warm.”
“Ça marche, George,” he said that evening to the faithful valet, rubbing
his hands as he spoke, “they are on the tenterhooks—the jump! It is hard,
George, to play the game of the cat, the waiting game, but it answers, yes, it
answers wonderfully. Tomorrow we make a further effect.”
On the following day, Trefusis was obliged to go up to town. He went up
by the same train as Victor Astwell. No sooner had they left the house than
Poirot was galvanized into a fever of activity.
“Come, George, let us hurry to work. If the housemaid should approach
these rooms, you must delay her. Speak to her sweet nothings, George, and
keep her in the corridor.”
He went first to the secretary’s room, and began a thorough search. Not a
drawer or a shelf was left uninspected. Then he replaced everything hurriedly,
and declared his quest finished. George, on guard in the doorway, gave way to
a deferential cough.
“If you will excuse me, sir?”
“Yes, my good George?”
“The shoes, sir. The two pairs of brown shoes were on the second shelf,
and the patent leather ones were on the shelf underneath. In replacing them
you have reversed the order.”
“Marvellous!” cried Poirot, holding up his hands. “But let us not distress
ourselves over that. It is of no importance, I assure you, George. Never will
M. Trefusis notice such a trifling matter.”
“As you think, sir,” said George.
“It is your business to notice such things,” said Poirot encouragingly as he
clapped the other on the shoulder. “It reflects credit upon you.”
The valet did not reply, and when, later in the day, the proceeding was
repeated in the room of Victor Astwell, he made no comment on the fact that
Mr. Astwell’s underclothing was not returned to its drawers strictly according
to plan. Yet, in the second case at least, events proved the valet to be right and
Poirot wrong. Victor Astwell came storming into the drawing room that
evening.
“Now, look here, you blasted little Belgian jackanapes, what do you mean
by searching my room? What the devil do you think you are going to find
there? I won’t have it, do you hear? That’s what comes of having a ferreting
little spy in the house.”
Poirot’s hands spread themselves out eloquently as his words tumbled one
over the other. He offered a hundred apologies, a thousand, a million. He had
been maladroit, officious, he was confused. He had taken an unwarranted
liberty. In the end the infuriated gentleman was forced to subside, still
growling.
And again that evening, sipping his tisane, Poirot murmured to George:
“It marches, my good George, yes—it marches.”
“Friday,” observed Hercule Poirot thoughtfully, “is my lucky day.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“You are not superstitious, perhaps, my good George?”
“I prefer not to sit down thirteen at table, sir, and I am adverse to passing
under ladders. I have no superstitions about a Friday, sir.”
“That is well,” said Poirot, “for, see you, today we make our Waterloo.”
“Really, sir.”
“You have such enthusiasm, my good George, you do not even ask what I
propose to do.”
“And what is that, sir?”
“Today, George, I make a final thorough search of the Tower room.”
True enough, after breakfast, Poirot, with the permission of Lady Astwell,
went to the scene of the crime. There, at various times of the morning,
members of the household saw him crawling about on all fours, examining
minutely the black velvet curtains and standing on high chairs to examine the
picture frames on the wall. Lady Astwell for the first time displayed
uneasiness.
“I have to admit it,” she said. “He is getting on my nerves at last. He has
something up his sleeve, and I don’t know what it is. And the way he is
crawling about on the floor up there like a dog makes me downright shivery.
What is he looking for, I’d like to know? Lily, my dear, I wish you would go
up and see what he is up to now. No, on the whole, I’d rather you stayed with
me.”
“Shall I go, Lady Astwell?” asked the secretary, rising from the desk.
“If you would, Mr. Trefusis.”
Owen Trefusis left the room and mounted the stairs to the Tower room. At
first glance, he thought the room was empty, there was certainly no sign of
Hercule Poirot there. He was just returning to go down again when a sound
caught his ears; he then saw the little man halfway down the spiral staircase
that led to the bedroom above.
He was on his hands and knees; in his left hand was a little pocket lens,
and through this he was examining minutely something on the woodwork
beside the stair carpet.
As the secretary watched him, he uttered a sudden grunt, and slipped the
lens into his pocket. He then rose to his feet, holding something between his
finger and thumb. At that moment he became aware of the secretary’s
presence.
“Ah, hah! M. Trefusis, I didn’t hear you enter.”
He was in that moment a different man. Triumph and exultation beamed
all over his face. Trefusis stared at him in surprise.
“What is the matter, M. Poirot? You look very pleased.”
The little man puffed out his chest.
“Yes, indeed. See you I have at last found that which I have been looking
for from the beginning. I have here between my finger and thumb the one
thing necessary to convict the criminal.”
“Then,” the secretary raised his eyebrows, “it was not Charles Leverson?”
“It was not Charles Leverson,” said Poirot. “Until this moment, though I
know the criminal, I am not sure of his name, but at last all is clear.”
He stepped down the stairs and tapped the secretary on the shoulder.
“I am obliged to go to London immediately. Speak to Lady Astwell for
me. Will you request of her that everyone should be assembled in the Tower
room this evening at nine o’clock? I shall be there then, and I shall reveal the
truth. Ah, me, but I am well content.”
And breaking into a fantastic little dance, he skipped from the Tower
room. Trefusis was left staring after him.
A few minutes later Poirot appeared in the library, demanding if anyone
could supply him with a little cardboard box.
“Unfortunately, I have not such a thing with me,” he explained, “and there
is something of great value that it is necessary for me to put inside.”
From one of the drawers in the desk Trefusis produced a small box, and
Poirot professed himself highly delighted with it.
He hurried upstairs with his treasure trove; meeting George on the
landing, he handed the box to him.
“There is something of great importance inside,” he explained. “Place it,
my good George, in the second drawer of my dressing table, beside the jewel
case that contains my pearl studs.”
“Very good, sir,” said George.
“Do not break it,” said Poirot. “Be very careful. Inside that box is
something that will hang a criminal.”
“You don’t say, sir,” said George.
Poirot hurried down the stairs again and, seizing his hat, departed from the
house at a brisk run.
His return was more unostentatious. The faithful George, according to orders,
admitted him by the side door.
“They are all in the Tower room?” inquired Poirot.
“Yes, sir.”
There was a murmured interchange of a few words, and then Poirot
mounted with the triumphant step of the victor to that room where the murder
had taken place less than a month ago. His eyes swept around the room. They
were all there, Lady Astwell, Victor Astwell, Lily Margrave, the secretary,
and Parsons, the butler. The latter was hovering by the door uncertainly.
“George, sir, said I should be needed here,” said Parsons as Poirot made
his appearance. “I don’t know if that is right, sir?”
“Quite right,” said Poirot. “Remain, I pray of you.”
He advanced to the middle of the room.
“This has been a case of great interest,” he said in a slow, reflective voice.
“It is interesting because anyone might have murdered Sir Reuben Astwell.
Who inherits his money? Charles Leverson and Lady Astwell. Who was with
him last that night? Lady Astwell. Who quarrelled with him violently? Again
Lady Astwell.”
“What are you talking about?” cried Lady Astwell. “I don’t understand, I
—”
“But someone else quarrelled with Sir Reuben,” continued Poirot in a
pensive voice. “Someone else left him that night white with rage. Supposing
Lady Astwell left her husband alive at a quarter to twelve that night, there
would be ten minutes before Mr. Charles Leverson returned, ten minutes in
which it would be possible for someone from the second floor to steal down
and do the deed, and then return to his room again.”
Victor Astwell sprang up with a cry.
“What the hell—?” He stopped, choking with rage.
“In a rage, Mr. Astwell, you once killed a man in West Africa.”
“I don’t believe it,” cried Lily Margrave.
She came forward, her hands clenched, two bright spots of colour in her
cheeks.
“I don’t believe it,” repeated the girl. She came close to Victor Astwell’s
side.
“It’s true, Lily,” said Astwell, “but there are things this man doesn’t know.
The fellow I killed was a witchdoctor who had just massacred fifteen
children. I consider that I was justified.”
Lily came up to Poirot.
“M. Poirot,” she said earnestly, “you are wrong. Because a man has a
sharp temper, because he breaks out and says all kinds of things, that is not
any reason why he should do a murder. I know—I know, I tell you—that Mr.
Astwell is incapable of such a thing.”
Poirot looked at her, a very curious smile on his face. Then he took her
hand in his and patted it gently.
“You see, Mademoiselle,” he said gently, “you also have your intuitions.
So you believe in Mr. Astwell, do you?”
Lily spoke quietly.
“Mr. Astwell is a good man,” she said, “and he is honest. He had nothing
to do with the inside work of the Mpala Gold Fields. He is good through and
through, and—I have promised to marry him.”
Victor Astwell came to her side and took her other hand.
“Before God, M. Poirot,” he said, “I didn’t kill my brother.”
“I know you did not,” said Poirot.
His eyes swept around the room.
“Listen, my friends. In a hypnotic trance, Lady Astwell mentioned having
seen a bulge in the curtain that night.”
Everyone’s eyes swept to the window.
“You mean there was a burglar concealed there?” exclaimed Victor
Astwell. “What a splendid solution!”
“Ah,” said Poirot gently. “But it was not that curtain.”
He wheeled around and pointed to the curtain that masked the little
staircase.
“Sir Reuben used the bedroom the night prior to the crime. He breakfasted
in bed, and he had Mr. Trefusis up there to give him instructions. I don’t know
what it was that Mr. Trefusis left in that bedroom, but there was something.
When he said good night to Sir Reuben and Lady Astwell, he remembered
this thing and ran up the stairs to fetch it. I don’t think either the husband or
wife noticed him, for they had already begun a violent discussion. They were
in the middle of this quarrel when Mr. Trefusis came down the stairs again.
“The things they were saying to each other were of so intimate and
personal a nature that Mr. Trefusis was placed in a very awkward position. It
was clear to him that they imagined he had left the room some time ago.
Fearing to arouse Sir Reuben’s anger against himself, he decided to remain
where he was and slip out later. He stayed there behind the curtain, and as
Lady Astwell left the room she subconsciously noticed the outline of his form
there.
“When Lady Astwell had left the room, Trefusis tried to steal out
unobserved, but Sir Reuben happened to turn his head, and became aware of
the secretary’s presence. Already in a bad temper, Sir Reuben hurled abuse at
his secretary, and accused him of deliberately eavesdropping and spying.
“Messieurs and Mesdames, I am a student of psychology. All through this
case I have looked, not for the bad-tempered man or woman, for bad temper
is its own safety valve. He who can bark does not bite. No, I have looked for
the good-tempered man, for the man who is patient and self-controlled, for
the man who for nine years has played the part of the under dog. There is no
strain so great as that which has endured for years, there is no resentment like
that which accumulates slowly.
“For nine years Sir Reuben has bullied and browbeaten his secretary, and
for nine years that man has endured in silence. But there comes a day when at
last the strain reaches its breaking point. Something snaps! It was so that
night. Sir Reuben sat down at his desk again, but the secretary, instead of
turning humbly and meekly to the door, picks up the heavy wooden club, and
strikes down the man who had bullied him once too often.”
He turned to Trefusis, who was staring at him as though turned to stone.
“It was so simple, your alibi. Mr. Astwell thought you were in your room,
but no one saw you go there. You were just stealing out after striking down
Sir Reuben when you heard a sound, and you hastened back to cover, behind
the curtain. You were behind there when Charles Leverson entered the room,
you were there when Lily Margrave came. It was not till long after that that
you crept up through a silent house to your bedroom. Do you deny it?”
Trefusis began to stammer.
“I—I never—”
“Ah! Let us finish this. For two weeks now I have played the comedy. I
have showed you the net closing slowly around you. The fingerprints,
footprints, the search of your room with the things artistically replaced. I have
struck terror into you with all of this; you have lain awake at night fearing and
wondering; did you leave a fingerprint in the room or a footprint somewhere?
“Again and again you have gone over the events of that night wondering
what you have done or left undone, and so I brought you to the state where
you made a slip. I saw the fear leap into your eyes today when I picked up
something from the stairs where you had stood hidden that night. Then I made
a great parade, the little box, the entrusting of it to George, and I go out.”
Poirot turned towards the door.
“George?”
“I am here, sir.”
The valet came forward.
“Will you tell these ladies and gentlemen what my instructions were?”
“I was to remain concealed in the wardrobe in your room, sir, having
placed the cardboard box where you told me to. At half past three this
afternoon, sir, Mr. Trefusis entered the room; he went to the drawer and took
out the box in question.”
“And in that box,” continued Poirot, “was a common pin. Me, I speak
always the truth. I did pick up something on the stairs this morning. That is
your English saying, is it not? ‘See a pin and pick it up, all the day you’ll have
good luck.’ Me, I have had good luck, I have found the murderer.”
He turned to the secretary.
“You see?” he said gently. “You betrayed yourself.”
Suddenly Trefusis broke down. He sank into a chair sobbing, his face
buried in his hands.
“I was mad,” he groaned. “I was mad. But, oh, my God, he badgered and
bullied me beyond bearing. For years I had hated and loathed him.”
“I knew!” cried Lady Astwell.
She sprang forward, her face irradiated with savage triumph.
“I knew that man had done it.”
She stood there, savage and triumphant.
“And you were right,” said Poirot. “One may call things by different
names, but the fact remains. Your ‘intuition,’ Lady Astwell, proved correct. I
felicitate you.”
Twenty-seven
DOUBLE SIN
“Double Sin” was first published as “By Road or Rail” in the Sunday Dispatch, September 23,
1928.
I had called in at my friend Poirot’s rooms to find him sadly overworked. So
much had he become the rage that every rich woman who had mislaid a
bracelet or lost a pet kitten rushed to secure the services of the great Hercule
Poirot. My little friend was a strange mixture of Flemish thrift and artistic
fervour. He accepted many cases in which he had little interest owing to the
first instinct being predominant.
He also undertook cases in which there was a little or no monetary reward
sheerly because the problem involved interested him. The result was that, as I
say, he was overworking himself. He admitted as much himself, and I found
little difficulty in persuading him to accompany me for a week’s holiday to
that well-known South Coast resort, Ebermouth.
We had spent four very agreeable days when Poirot came to me, an open
letter in his hand.
“Mon ami, you remember my friend Joseph Aarons, the theatrical agent?”
I assented after a moment’s thought. Poirot’s friends are so many and so
varied, and range from dustmen to dukes.
“Eh bien, Hastings, Joseph Aarons finds himself at Charlock Bay. He is
far from well, and there is a little affair that it seems is worrying him. He begs
me to go over and see him. I think, mon ami, that I must accede to his request.
He is a faithful friend, the good Joseph Aarons, and has done much to assist
me in the past.”
“Certainly, if you think so,” I said. “I believe Charlock Bay is a beautiful
spot, and as it happens I’ve never been there.”
“Then we combine business with pleasure,” said Poirot. “You will inquire
the trains, yes?”
“It will probably mean a change or two,” I said with a grimace. “You
know what these cross-country lines are. To go from the South Devon coast to
the North Devon coast is sometimes a day’s journey.”
However, on inquiry, I found that the journey could be accomplished by
only one change at Exeter and that the trains were good. I was hastening back
to Poirot with the information when I happened to pass the offices of the
Speedy cars and saw written up:
Tomorrow. All-day excursion to Charlock Bay. Starting 8:30 through
some of the most beautiful scenery in Devon.
I inquired a few particulars and returned to the hotel full of enthusiasm.
Unfortunately, I found it hard to make Poirot share my feelings.
“My friend, why this passion for the motor coach? The train, see you, it is
true? The tyres, they do not burst; the accidents, they do not happen. One is
not incommoded by too much air. The windows can be shut and no draughts
admitted.”
I hinted delicately that the advantage of fresh air was what attracted me
most to the motor-coach scheme.
“And if it rains? Your English climate is so uncertain.”
“There’s a hood and all that. Besides, if it rains badly, the excursion
doesn’t take place.”
“Ah!” said Poirot. “Then let us hope that it rains.”
“Of course, if you feel like that and. . . .”
“No, no, mon ami. I see that you have set your heart on the trip.
Fortunately, I have my greatcoat with me and two mufflers.” He sighed. “But
shall we have sufficient time at Charlock Bay?”
“Well, I’m afraid it means staying the night there. You see, the tour goes
round by Dartmoor. We have lunch at Monkhampton. We arrive at Charlock
Bay about four o’clock, and the coach starts back at five, arriving here at ten
o’clock.”
“So!” said Poirot. “And there are people who do this for pleasure! We
shall, of course, get a reduction of the fare since we do not make the return
journey?”
“I hardly think that’s likely.”
“You must insist.”
“Come now, Poirot, don’t be mean. You know you’re coining money.”
“My friend, it is not the meanness. It is the business sense. If I were a
millionaire, I would pay only what was just and right.”
As I had foreseen, however, Poirot was doomed to fail in this respect. The
gentleman who issued tickets at the Speedy office was calm and
unimpassioned but adamant. His point was that we ought to return. He even
implied that we ought to pay extra for the privilege of leaving the coach at
Charlock Bay.
Defeated, Poirot paid over the required sum and left the office.
“The English, they have no sense of money,” he grumbled. “Did you
observe a young man, Hastings, who paid over the full fare and yet mentioned
his intention of leaving the coach at Monkhampton?”
“I don’t think I did. As a matter of fact. . . .”
“You were observing the pretty young lady who booked No. 5, the next
seat to ours. Ah! Yes, my friend, I saw you. And that is why when I was on
the point of taking seats No. 13 and 14—which are in the middle and as well
sheltered as it is possible to be—you rudely pushed yourself forward and said
that 3 and 4 would be better.”
“Really, Poirot,” I said, blushing.
“Auburn hair—always the auburn hair!”
“At any rate, she was more worth looking at than an odd young man.”
“That depends upon the point of view. To me, the young man was
interesting.”
Something rather significant in Poirot’s tone made me look at him
quickly. “Why? What do you mean?”
“Oh, do not excite yourself. Shall I say that he interested me because he
was trying to grow a moustache and as yet the result is poor.” Poirot stroked
his own magnificent moustache tenderly. “It is an art,” he murmured, “the
growing of the moustache! I have sympathy for all who attempt it.”
It is always difficult with Poirot to know when he is serious and when he
is merely amusing himself at one’s expense. I judged it safest to say no more.
The following morning dawned bright and sunny. A really glorious day!
Poirot, however, was taking no chances. He wore a woolly waistcoat, a
mackintosh, a heavy overcoat, and two mufflers, in addition to wearing his
thickest suit. He also swallowed two tablets of “Anti-grippe” before starting
and packed a further supply.
We took a couple of small suitcases with us. The pretty girl we had
noticed the day before had a small suitcase, and so did the young man whom I
gathered to have been the object of Poirot’s sympathy. Otherwise, there was
no luggage. The four pieces were stowed away by the driver, and we all took
our places.
Poirot, rather maliciously, I thought, assigned me the outside place as “I
had the mania for the fresh air” and himself occupied the seat next to our fair
neighbour. Presently, however, he made amends. The man in seat 6 was a
noisy fellow, inclined to be facetious and boisterous, and Poirot asked the girl
in a low voice if she would like to change seats with him. She agreed
gratefully, and the change having been effected, she entered into conversation
with us and we were soon all three chattering together merrily.
She was evidently quite young, not more than nineteen, and as ingenuous
as a child. She soon confided to us the reason for her trip. She was going, it
seemed, on business for her aunt who kept a most interesting antique shop in
Ebermouth.
This aunt had been left in very reduced circumstances on the death of her
father and had used her small capital and a houseful of beautiful things which
her father had left her to start in business. She had been extremely successful
and had made quite a name for herself in the trade. This girl, Mary Durrant,
had come to be with her aunt and learn the business and was very excited
about it—much preferring it to the other alternative—becoming a nursery
governess or companion.
Poirot nodded interest and approval to all this.
“Mademoiselle will be successful, I am sure,” he said gallantly. “But I
will give her a little word of advice. Do not be too trusting, mademoiselle.
Everywhere in the world there are rogues and vagabonds, even it may be on
this very coach of ours. One should always be on the guard, suspicious!”
She stared at him openmouthed, and he nodded sapiently.
“But yes, it is as I say. Who knows? Even I who speak to you may be a
malefactor of the worst description.”
And he twinkled more than ever at her surprised face.
We stopped for lunch at Monkhampton, and, after a few words with the
waiter, Poirot managed to secure us a small table for three close by the
window. Outside, in a big courtyard, about twenty char-a-bancs were parked
—char-a-bancs which had come from all over the country. The hotel dining
room was full, and the noise was rather considerable.
“One can have altogether too much of the holiday spirit,” I said with a
grimace.
Mary Durrant agreed. “Ebermouth is quite spoiled in the summers
nowadays. My aunt says it used to be quite different. Now one can hardly get
along the pavements for the crowd.”
“But it is good for business, mademoiselle.”
“Not for ours particularly. We sell only rare and valuable things. We do
not go in for cheap bric-a-brac. My aunt has clients all over England. If they
want a particular period table or chair, or a certain piece of china, they write
to her, and, sooner or later, she gets it for them. That is what has happened in
this case.”
We looked interested and she went on to explain. A certain American
gentleman, Mr. J. Baker Wood, was a connoisseur and collector of miniatures.
A very valuable set of miniatures had recently come into the market, and Miss
Elizabeth Penn—Mary’s aunt—had purchased them. She had written to Mr.
Wood describing the miniatures and naming a price. He had replied at once,
saying that he was prepared to purchase if the miniatures were as represented
and asking that someone should be sent with them for him to see where he
was staying at Charlock Bay. Miss Durrant had accordingly been despatched,
acting as representative for the firm.
“They’re lovely things, of course,” she said. “But I can’t imagine anyone
paying all that money for them. Five hundred pounds! Just think of it!
They’re by Cosway. Is it Cosway I mean? I get so mixed up in these things.”
Poirot smiled. “You are not yet experienced, eh, mademoiselle?”
“I’ve had no training,” said Mary ruefully. “We weren’t brought up to
know about old things. It’s a lot to learn.”
She sighed. Then suddenly, I saw her eyes widen in surprise. She was
sitting facing the window, and her glance now was directed out of that
window, into the courtyard. With a hurried word, she rose from her seat and
almost ran out of the room. She returned in a few moments, breathless and
apologetic.
“I’m so sorry rushing off like that. But I thought I saw a man taking my
suitcase out of the coach. I went flying after him, and it turned out to be his
own. It’s one almost exactly like mine. I felt like such a fool. It looked as
though I were accusing him of stealing it.”
She laughed at the idea.
Poirot, however, did not laugh. “What man was it, mademoiselle?
Describe him to me.”
“He had on a brown suit. A thin weedy young man with a very
indeterminate moustache.”
“Aha,” said Poirot. “Our friend of yesterday, Hastings. You know this
young man, mademoiselle? You have seen him before?”
“No, never. Why?”
“Nothing. It is rather curious—that is all.”
He relapsed into silence and took no further part in the conversation until
something Mary Durrant said caught his attention.
“Eh, mademoiselle, what is that you say?”
“I said that on my return journey I should have to be careful of
‘malefactors’, as you call them. I believe Mr. Wood always pays for things in
cash. If I have five hundred pounds in notes on me, I shall be worth some
malefactor’s attention.”
She laughed but Poirot did not respond. Instead, he asked her what hotel
she proposed to stay at in Charlock Bay.
“The Anchor Hotel. It is small and not expensive, but quite good.”
“So!” said Poirot. “The Anchor Hotel. Precisely where Hastings here has
made up his mind to stay. How odd!”
He twinkled at me.
“You are staying long in Charlock Bay?” asked Mary.
“One night only. I have business there. You could not guess, I am sure,
what my profession is, mademoiselle?”
I saw Mary consider several possibilities and reject them—probably from
a feeling of caution. At last, she hazarded the suggestion that Poirot was a
conjurer. He was vastly entertained.
“Ah! But it is an idea that! You think I take the rabbits out of the hat? No,
mademoiselle. Me, I am the opposite of a conjurer. The conjurer, he makes
things disappear. Me, I make things that have disappeared, reappear.” He
leaned forward dramatically so as to give the words full effect. “It is a secret,
mademoiselle, but I will tell you, I am a detective!”
He leaned back in his chair pleased with the effect he had created. Mary
Durrant stared at him spellbound. But any further conversation was barred for
the braying of various horns outside announced that the road monsters were
ready to proceed.
As Poirot and I went out together I commented on the charm of our
luncheon companion. Poirot agreed.
“Yes, she is charming. But, also rather silly?”
“Silly?”
“Do not be outraged. A girl may be beautiful and have auburn hair and yet
be silly. It is the height of foolishness to take two strangers into her
confidence as she has done.”
“Well, she could see we were all right.”
“That is imbecile, what you say, my friend. Anyone who knows his job—
naturally he will appear ‘all right.’ That little one she talked of being careful
when she would have five hundred pounds in money with her. But she has
five hundred pounds with her now.”
“In miniatures.”
“Exactly. In miniatures. And between one and the other, there is no great
difference, mon ami.”
“But no one knew about them except us.”
“And the waiter and the people at the next table. And, doubtless, several
people in Ebermouth! Mademoiselle Durrant, she is charming, but, if I were
Miss Elizabeth Penn, I would first of all instruct my new assistant in the
common sense.” He paused and then said in a different voice: “You know, my
friend, it would be the easiest thing in the world to remove a suitcase from
one of those char-a-bancs while we were all at luncheon.”
“Oh, come, Poirot, somebody will be sure to see.”
“And what would they see? Somebody removing his luggage. It would be
done in an open and aboveboard manner, and it would be nobody’s business
to interfere.”
“Do you mean—Poirot, are you hinting—But that fellow in the brown suit
—it was his own suitcase?”
Poirot frowned. “So it seems. All the same, it is curious, Hastings, that he
should have not removed his suitcase before, when the car first arrived. He
has not lunched here, you notice.”
“If Miss Durrant hadn’t been sitting opposite the window, she wouldn’t
have seen him,” I said slowly.
“And since it was his own suitcase, that would not have mattered,” said
Poirot. “So let us dismiss it from our thoughts, mon ami.”
Nevertheless, when we had resumed our places and were speeding along
once more, he took the opportunity of giving Mary Durrant a further lecture
on the dangers of indiscretion which she received meekly enough but with the
air of thinking it all rather a joke.
We arrived at Charlock Bay at four o’clock and were fortunate enough to
be able to get rooms at the Anchor Hotel—a charming old-world inn in one of
the side streets.
Poirot had just unpacked a few necessaries and was applying a little
cosmetic to his moustache preparatory to going out to call upon Joseph
Aarons when there came a frenzied knocking at the door. I called “Come in,”
and, to my utter amazement, Mary Durrant appeared, her face white and large
tears standing in her eyes.
“I do beg your pardon—but—but the most awful thing has happened. And
you did say you were a detective?” This to Poirot.
“What has happened, mademoiselle?”
“I opened my suitcase. The miniatures were in a crocodile despatch case
—locked, of course. Now, look!”
She held out a small square crocodile-covered case. The lid hung loose.
Poirot took it from her. The case had been forced; great strength must have
been used. The marks were plain enough. Poirot examined it and nodded.
“The miniatures?” he asked, though we both knew the answer well
enough.
“Gone. They’ve been stolen. Oh, what shall I do?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “My friend is Hercule Poirot. You must have heard
of him. He’ll get them back for you if anyone can.”
“Monsieur Poirot. The great Monsieur Poirot.”
Poirot was vain enough to be pleased at the obvious reverence in her
voice. “Yes, my child,” he said. “It is I, myself. And you can leave your little
affair in my hands. I will do all that can be done. But I fear—I much fear—
that it will be too late. Tell me, was the lock of your suitcase forced also?”
She shook her head.
“Let me see it, please.”
We went together to her room, and Poirot examined the suitcase closely. It
had obviously been opened with a key.
“Which is simple enough. These suitcase locks are all much of the same
pattern. Eh bien, we must ring up the police and we must also get in touch
with Mr. Baker Wood as soon as possible. I will attend to that myself.”
I went with him and asked what he meant by saying it might be too late.
“Mon cher, I said today that I was the opposite of the conjurer—that I make
the disappearing things reappear—but suppose someone has been beforehand
with me. You do not understand? You will in a minute.”
He disappeared into the telephone box. He came out five minutes later
looking very grave. “It is as I feared. A lady called upon Mr. Wood with the
miniatures half an hour ago. She represented herself as coming from Miss
Elizabeth Penn. He was delighted with the miniatures and paid for them
forthwith.”
“Half an hour ago—before we arrived here.”
Poirot smiled rather enigmatically. “The Speedy cars are quite speedy, but
a fast motor from, say, Monkhampton would get here a good hour ahead of
them at least.”
“And what do we do now?”
“The good Hastings—always practical. We inform the police, do all we
can for Miss Durrant, and—yes, I think decidedly, we have an interview with
Mr. J. Baker Wood.”
We carried out this programme. Poor Mary Durrant was terribly upset,
fearing her aunt would blame her.
“Which she probably will,” observed Poirot, as we set out for the Seaside
Hotel where Mr. Wood was staying. “And with perfect justice. The idea of
leaving five hundred pounds’ worth of valuables in a suitcase and going to
lunch! All the same, mon ami, there are one or two curious points about the
case. That despatch box, for instance, why was it forced?”
“To get out the miniatures.”
“But was not that a foolishness? Say our thief is tampering with the
luggage at lunchtime under the pretext of getting out his own. Surely it is
much simpler to open the suitcase, transfer the despatch case unopened to his
own suitcase, and get away, than to waste the time forcing the lock?”
“He had to make sure the miniatures were inside.”
Poirot did not look convinced, but, as we were just being shown into Mr.
Wood’s suite, we had no time for more discussion.
I took an immediate dislike to Mr. Baker Wood.
He was a large vulgar man, very much overdressed and wearing a
diamond solitaire ring. He was blustering and noisy.
Of course, he’d not suspected anything amiss. Why should he? The
woman said she had the miniatures all right. Very fine specimens, too! Had he
the numbers of the notes? No, he hadn’t. And who was Mr.—er—Poirot,
anyway, to come asking him all these questions?
“I will not ask you anything more, monsieur, except for one thing. A
description of the woman who called upon you. Was she young and pretty?”
“No, sir, she was not. Most emphatically not. A tall woman, middle-aged,
grey hair, blotchy complexion and a budding moustache. A siren? Not on your
life.”
“Poirot,” I cried, as we took our departure. “A moustache. Did you hear?”
“I have the use of my ears, thank you, Hastings!”
“But what a very unpleasant man.”
“He has not the charming manner, no.”
“Well, we ought to get the thief all right,” I remarked. “We can identify
him.”
“You are of such a naïve simplicity, Hastings. Do you not know that there
is such a thing as an alibi?”
“You think he will have an alibi?”
Poirot replied unexpectedly: “I sincerely hope so.”
“The trouble with you is,” I said, “that you like a thing to be difficult.”
“Quite right, mon ami. I do not like—how do you say it—the bird who
sits!”
Poirot’s prophecy was fully justified. Our travelling companion in the
brown suit turned out to be a Mr. Norton Kane. He had gone straight to the
George Hotel at Monkhampton and had been there during the afternoon. The
only evidence against him was that of Miss Durrant who declared that she had
seen him getting out his luggage from the car while we were at lunch.
“Which in itself is not a suspicious act,” said Poirot meditatively.
After that remark, he lapsed into silence and refused to discuss the matter
any further, saying when I pressed him, that he was thinking of moustaches in
general, and that I should be well advised to do the same.
I discovered, however, that he had asked Joseph Aarons—with whom he
spent the evening—to give him every detail possible about Mr. Baker Wood.
As both men were staying at the same hotel, there was a chance of gleaning
some stray crumbs of information. Whatever Poirot learned, he kept to
himself, however.
Mary Durrant, after various interviews with the police, had returned to
Ebermouth by an early morning train. We lunched with Joseph Aarons, and
after lunch, Poirot announced to me that he had settled the theatrical agent’s
problem satisfactorily, and that we could return to Ebermouth as soon as we
liked. “But not by road, mon ami; we go by rail this time.”
“Are you afraid of having your pocket picked, or of meeting another
damsel in distress?”
“Both those affairs, Hastings, might happen to me on the train. No, I am
in haste to be back in Ebermouth, because I want to proceed with our case.”
“Our case?”
“But, yes, my friend. Mademoiselle Durrant appealed to me to help her.
Because the matter is now in the hands of the police, it does not follow that I
am free to wash my hands of it. I came here to oblige an old friend, but it
shall never be said of Hercule Poirot that he deserted a stranger in need!” And
he drew himself up grandiloquently.
“I think you were interested before that,” I said shrewdly. “In the office of
cars, when you first caught sight of that young man, though what drew your
attention to him I don’t know.”
“Don’t you, Hastings? You should. Well, well, that must remain my little
secret.”
We had a short conversation with the police inspector in charge of the
case before leaving. He had interviewed Mr. Norton Kane, and told Poirot in
confidence that the young man’s manner had not impressed him favourably.
He had blustered, denied, and contradicted himself.
“But just how the trick was done, I don’t know,” he confessed. “He could
have handed the stuff to a confederate who pushed off at once in a fast car.
But that’s just theory. We’ve got to find the car and the confederate and pin
the thing down.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
“Do you think that was how it was done?” I asked him, as we were seated
in the train.
“No, my friend, that was not how it was done. It was cleverer than that.”
“Won’t you tell me?”
“Not yet. You know—it is my weakness—I like to keep my little secrets
till the end.”
“Is the end going to be soon?”
“Very soon now.”
We arrived in Ebermouth a little after six and Poirot drove at once to the
shop which bore the name “Elizabeth Penn.” The establishment was closed,
but Poirot rang the bell, and presently Mary herself opened the door, and
expressed surprise and delight at seeing us.
“Please come in and see my aunt,” she said.
She led us into a back room. An elderly lady came forward to meet us; she
had white hair and looked rather like a miniature herself with her pink-andwhite skin and her blue eyes. Round her rather bent shoulders she wore a cape
of priceless old lace.
“Is this the great Monsieur Poirot?” she asked in a low charming voice.
“Mary has been telling me. I could hardly believe it. And you will really help
us in our trouble. You will advise us?”
Poirot looked at her for a moment, then bowed.
“Mademoiselle Penn—the effect is charming. But you should really grow
a moustache.”
Miss Penn gave a gasp and drew back.
“You were absent from business yesterday, were you not?”
“I was here in the morning. Later I had a bad headache and went directly
home.”
“Not home, mademoiselle. For your headache you tried the change of air,
did you not? The air of Charlock Bay is very bracing, I believe.”
He took me by the arm and drew me towards the door. He paused there
and spoke over his shoulder.
“You comprehend, I know everything. This little—farce—it must cease.”
There was a menace in his tone. Miss Penn, her face ghastly white,
nodded mutely. Poirot turned to the girl.
“Mademoiselle,” he said gently, “you are young and charming. But
participating in these little affairs will lead to that youth and charm being
hidden behind prison walls—and I, Hercule Poirot, tell you that that will be a
pity.”
Then he stepped out into the street and I followed him, bewildered.
“From the first, mon ami, I was interested. When that young man booked
his place as far as Monkhampton only, I saw the girl’s attention suddenly
riveted on him. Now why? He was not of the type to make a woman look at
him for himself alone. When we started on the coach, I had a feeling that
something would happen. Who saw the young man tampering with the
luggage? Mademoiselle and mademoiselle only, and remember she chose that
seat—a seat facing the window—a most unfeminine choice.
“And then she comes to us with the tale of robbery—the despatch box
forced which makes not the common sense, as I told you at the time.
“And what is the result of it all? Mr. Baker Wood has paid over good
money for stolen goods. The miniatures will be returned to Miss Penn. She
will sell them and will have made a thousand pounds instead of five hundred.
I make the discreet inquiries and learn that her business is in a bad state—
touch and go. I say to myself—the aunt and niece are in this together.”
“Then you never suspected Norton Kane?”
“Mon ami! With that moustache? A criminal is either clean-shaven or he
has a proper moustache that can be removed at will. But what an opportunity
for the clever Miss Penn—a shrinking elderly lady with a pink-and-white
complexion as we saw her. But if she holds herself erect, wears large boots,
alters her complexion with a few unseemly blotches and—crowning touch—
adds a few sparse hairs to her upper lip. What then? A masculine woman, says
Mr. Wood and ‘a man in disguise’ say we at once.”
“She really went to Charlock yesterday?”
“Assuredly. The train, as you may remember telling me, left here at eleven
and got to Charlock Bay at two o’clock. Then the return train is even quicker
—the one we came by. It leaves Charlock at four-five and gets here at sixfifteen. Naturally, the miniatures were never in the despatch case at all. That
was artistically forced before being packed. Mademoiselle Mary has only to
find a couple of mugs who will be sympathetic to her charm and champion
beauty in distress. But one of the mugs was no mug—he was Hercule Poirot!”
I hardly liked the inference. I said hurriedly: “Then when you said you
were helping a stranger, you were wilfully deceiving me. That’s exactly what
you were doing.”
“Never do I deceive you, Hastings. I only permit you to deceive yourself.
I was referring to Mr. Baker Wood—a stranger to these shores.” His face
darkened. “Ah! When I think of that imposition, that iniquitous overcharge,
the same fare single to Charlock as return, my blood boils to protect the
visitor! Not a pleasant man, Mr. Baker Wood, not, as you would say,
sympathetic. But a visitor! And we visitors, Hastings, must stand together.
Me, I am all for the visitors!”
Twenty-eight
WASPS’ NEST
“Wasps’ Nest” was first published as “The Wasps’ Nest” in the Daily Mail, November 20,
1928.
Out of the house came John Harrison and stood a moment on the terrace
looking out over the garden. He was a big man with a lean, cadaverous face.
His aspect was usually somewhat grim but when, as now, the rugged features
softened into a smile, there was something very attractive about him.
John Harrison loved his garden, and it had never looked better than it did
on this August evening, summery and languorous. The rambler roses were
still beautiful; sweet peas scented the air.
A well-known creaking sound made Harrison turn his head sharply. Who
was coming in through the garden gate? In another minute, an expression of
utter astonishment came over his face, for the dandified figure coming up the
path was the last he expected to see in this part of the world.
“By all that’s wonderful,” cried Harrison. “Monsieur Poirot!”
It was, indeed, the famous Hercule Poirot whose renown as a detective
had spread over the whole world.
“Yes,” he said, “it is. You said to me once: ‘If you are ever in this part of
the world, come and see me.’ I take you at your word. I arrive.”
“And I’m obliged,” said Harrison heartily. “Sit down and have a drink.”
With a hospitable hand, he indicated a table on the veranda bearing
assorted bottles.
“I thank you,” said Poirot, sinking down into a basket chair. “You have, I
suppose, no sirop? No, no. I thought not. A little plain soda water then—no
whisky.” And he added in a feeling voice as the other placed the glass beside
him: “Alas, my moustaches are limp. It is this heat!”
“And what brings you into this quiet spot?” asked Harrison as he dropped
into another chair. “Pleasure?”
“No, mon ami, business.”
“Business? In this out-of-the-way place?”
Poirot nodded gravely. “But yes, my friend, all crimes are not committed
in crowds, you know?”
The other laughed. “I suppose that was rather an idiotic remark of mine.
But what particular crime are you investigating down here, or is that a thing I
mustn’t ask?”
“You may ask,” said the detective. “Indeed, I would prefer that you
asked.”
Harrison looked at him curiously. He sensed something a little unusual in
the other’s manner. “You are investigating a crime, you say?” he advanced
rather hesitatingly. “A serious crime?”
“A crime of the most serious there is.”
“You mean. . . .”
“Murder.”
So gravely did Hercule Poirot say that word that Harrison was quite taken
aback. The detective was looking straight at him and again there was
something so unusual in his glance that Harrison hardly knew how to proceed.
At last, he said: “But I have heard of no murder.”
“No,” said Poirot, “you would not have heard of it.”
“Who has been murdered?”
“As yet,” said Hercule Poirot, “nobody.”
“What?”
“That is why I said you would not have heard of it. I am investigating a
crime that has not yet taken place.”
“But look here, that is nonsense.”
“Not at all. If one can investigate a murder before it has happened, surely
that is very much better than afterwards. One might even—a little idea—
prevent it.”
Harrison stared at him. “You are not serious, Monsieur Poirot.”
“But yes, I am serious.”
“You really believe that a murder is going to be committed? Oh, it’s
absurd!”
Hercule Poirot finished the first part of the sentence without taking any
notice of the exclamation.
“Unless we can manage to prevent it. Yes, mon ami, that is what I mean.”
“We?”
“I said we. I shall need your cooperation.”
“Is that why you came down here?”
Again Poirot looked at him, and again an indefinable something made
Harrison uneasy.
“I came here, Monsieur Harrison, because I—well—like you.”
And then he added in an entirely different voice: “I see, Monsieur
Harrison, that you have a wasps’ nest there. You should destroy it.”
The change of subject made Harrison frown in a puzzled way. He
followed Poirot’s glance and said in a bewildered voice: “As a matter of fact,
I’m going to. Or rather, young Langton is. You remember Claude Langton?
He was at that same dinner where I met you. He’s coming over this evening to
take the nest. Rather fancies himself at the job.”
“Ah,” said Poirot. “And how is he going to do it?”
“Petrol and the garden syringe. He’s bringing his own syringe over; it’s a
more convenient size than mine.”
“There is another way, is there not?” asked Poirot. “With cyanide of
potassium?”
Harrison looked a little surprised. “Yes, but that’s rather dangerous stuff.
Always a risk having it about the place.”
Poirot nodded gravely. “Yes, it is deadly poison.” He waited a minute and
then repeated in a grave voice, “Deadly poison.”
“Useful if you want to do away with your mother-in-law, eh?” said
Harrison with a laugh.
But Hercule Poirot remained grave. “And you are quite sure, Monsieur
Harrison, that it is with petrol that Monsieur Langton is going to destroy your
wasps’ nest?”
“Quite sure. Why?”
“I wondered. I was at the chemist’s in Barchester this afternoon. For one
of my purchases I had to sign the poison book. I saw the last entry. It was for
cyanide of potassium and it was signed by Claude Langton.”
Harrison stared. “That’s odd,” he said. “Langton told me the other day that
he’d never dream of using the stuff; in fact, he said it oughtn’t to be sold for
the purpose.”
Poirot looked out over the garden. His voice was very quiet as he asked a
question. “Do you like Langton?”
The other started. The question somehow seemed to find him quite
unprepared. “I—I—well, I mean—of course, I like him. Why shouldn’t I?”
“I only wondered,” said Poirot placidly, “whether you did.”
And as the other did not answer, he went on. “I also wondered if he liked
you?”
“What are you getting at, Monsieur Poirot? There’s something in your
mind I can’t fathom.”
“I am going to be very frank. You are engaged to be married, Monsieur
Harrison. I know Miss Molly Deane. She is a very charming, a very beautiful
girl. Before she was engaged to you, she was engaged to Claude Langton. She
threw him over for you.”
Harrison nodded.
“I do not ask what her reasons were: she may have been justified. But I
tell you this, it is not too much to suppose that Langton has not forgotten or
forgiven.”
“You’re wrong, Monsieur Poirot. I swear you’re wrong. Langton’s been a
sportsman; he’s taken things like a man. He’s been amazingly decent to me—
gone out of his way to be friendly.”
“And that does not strike you as unusual? You use the word ‘amazingly,’
but you do not seem to be amazed.”
“What do you mean, M. Poirot?”
“I mean,” said Poirot, and his voice had a new note in it, “that a man may
conceal his hate till the proper time comes.”
“Hate?” Harrison shook his head and laughed.
“The English are very stupid,” said Poirot. “They think that they can
deceive anyone but that no one can deceive them. The sportsman—the good
fellow—never will they believe evil of him. And because they are brave, but
stupid, sometimes they die when they need not die.”
“You are warning me,” said Harrison in a low voice. “I see it now—what
has puzzled me all along. You are warning me against Claude Langton. You
came here today to warn me. . . .”
Poirot nodded. Harrison sprang up suddenly. “But you are mad, Monsieur
Poirot. This is England. Things don’t happen like that here. Disappointed
suitors don’t go about stabbing people in the back and poisoning them. And
you’re wrong about Langton. That chap wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“The lives of flies are not my concern,” said Poirot placidly. “And
although you say Monsieur Langton would not take the life of one, yet you
forget that he is even now preparing to take the lives of several thousand
wasps.”
Harrison did not at once reply. The little detective in his turn sprang to his
feet. He advanced to his friend and laid a hand on his shoulder. So agitated
was he that he almost shook the big man, and, as he did so, he hissed into his
ear: “Rouse yourself, my friend, rouse yourself. And look—look where I am
pointing. There on the bank, close by that tree root. See you, the wasps
returning home, placid at the end of the day? In a little hour, there will be
destruction, and they know it not. There is no one to tell them. They have not,
it seems, a Hercule Poirot. I tell you, Monsieur Harrison, I am down here on
business. Murder is my business. And it is my business before it has happened
as well as afterwards. At what time does Monsieur Langton come to take this
wasps’ nest?”
“Langton would never. . . .”
“At what time?”
“At nine o’clock. But I tell you, you’re all wrong. Langton would never.
. . .”
“These English!” cried Poirot in a passion. He caught up his hat and stick
and moved down the path, pausing to speak over his shoulder. “I do not stay
to argue with you. I should only enrage myself. But you understand, I return
at nine o’clock?”
Harrison opened his mouth to speak, but Poirot did not give him the
chance. “I know what you would say: ‘Langton would never,’ et cetera. Ah,
Langton would never! But all the same I return at nine o’clock. But, yes, it
will amuse me—put it like that—it will amuse me to see the taking of a
wasps’ nest. Another of your English sports!”
He waited for no reply but passed rapidly down the path and out through
the door that creaked. Once outside on the road, his pace slackened. His
vivacity died down, his face became grave and troubled. Once he drew his
watch from his pocket and consulted it. The hands pointed to ten minutes past
eight. “Over three quarters of an hour,” he murmured. “I wonder if I should
have waited.”
His footsteps slackened; he almost seemed on the point of returning.
Some vague foreboding seemed to assail him. He shook it off resolutely,
however, and continued to walk in the direction of the village. But his face
was still troubled, and once or twice he shook his head like a man only partly
satisfied.
It was still some minutes off nine when he once more approached the
garden door. It was a clear, still evening; hardly a breeze stirred the leaves.
There was, perhaps, something a little sinister in the stillness, like the lull
before a storm.
Poirot’s footsteps quickened ever so slightly. He was suddenly alarmed—
and uncertain. He feared he knew not what.
And at that moment the garden door opened and Claude Langton stepped
quickly out into the road. He started when he saw Poirot.
“Oh—er—good evening.”
“Good evening, Monsieur Langton. You are early.”
Langton stared at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You have taken the wasps’ nest?”
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t.”
“Oh,” said Poirot softly. “So you did not take the wasps’ nest. What did
you do then?”
“Oh, just sat and yarned a bit with old Harrison. I really must hurry along
now, Monsieur Poirot. I’d no idea you were remaining in this part of the
world.”
“I had business here, you see.”
“Oh! Well, you’ll find Harrison on the terrace. Sorry I can’t stop.”
He hurried away. Poirot looked after him. A nervous young fellow, goodlooking with a weak mouth!
“So I shall find Harrison on the terrace,” murmured Poirot. “I wonder.”
He went in through the garden door and up the path. Harrison was sitting in a
chair by the table. He sat motionless and did not even turn his head as Poirot
came up to him.
“Ah! Mon ami,” said Poirot. “You are all right, eh?”
There was a long pause and then Harrison said in a queer, dazed voice,
“What did you say?”
“I said—are you all right?”
“All right? Yes, I’m all right. Why not?”
“You feel no ill effects? That is good.”
“Ill effects? From what?”
“Washing soda.”
Harrison roused himself suddenly. “Washing soda? What do you mean?”
Poirot made an apologetic gesture. “I infinitely regret the necessity, but I
put some in your pocket.”
“You put some in my pocket? What on earth for?”
Harrison stared at him. Poirot spoke quietly and impersonally like a
lecturer coming down to the level of a small child.
“You see, one of the advantages, or disadvantages, of being a detective is
that it brings you into contact with the criminal classes. And the criminal
classes, they can teach you some very interesting and curious things. There
was a pickpocket once—I interested myself in him because for once in a way
he had not done what they say he has done—and so I get him off. And
because he is grateful he pays me in the only way he can think of—which is
to show me the tricks of his trade.
“And so it happens that I can pick a man’s pocket if I choose without his
ever suspecting the fact. I lay one hand on his shoulder, I excite myself, and
he feels nothing. But all the same I have managed to transfer what is in his
pocket to my pocket and leave washing soda in its place.
“You see,” continued Poirot dreamily, “if a man wants to get at some
poison quickly to put in a glass, unobserved, he positively must keep it in his
right-hand coat pocket; there is nowhere else. I knew it would be there.”
He dropped his hand into his pocket and brought out a few white, lumpy
crystals. “Exceedingly dangerous,” he murmured, “to carry it like that—
loose.”
Calmly and without hurrying himself, he took from another pocket a
wide-mouthed bottle. He slipped in the crystals, stepped to the table and filled
up the bottle with plain water. Then carefully corking it, he shook it until all
the crystals were dissolved. Harrison watched him as though fascinated.
Satisfied with his solution, Poirot stepped across to the nest. He uncorked
the bottle, turned his head aside, and poured the solution into the wasps’ nest,
then stood back a pace or two watching.
Some wasps that were returning alighted, quivered a little and then lay
still. Other wasps crawled out of the hole only to die. Poirot watched for a
minute or two and then nodded his head and came back to the veranda.
“A quick death,” he said. “A very quick death.”
Harrison found his voice. “How much do you know?”
Poirot looked straight ahead. “As I told you, I saw Claude Langton’s name
in the book. What I did not tell you was that almost immediately afterwards, I
happened to meet him. He told me he had been buying cyanide of potassium
at your request—to take a wasps’ nest. That struck me as a little odd, my
friend, because I remember that at that dinner of which you spoke, you held
forth on the superior merits of petrol and denounced the buying of cyanide as
dangerous and unnecessary.”
“Go on.”
“I knew something else. I had seen Claude Langton and Molly Deane
together when they thought no one saw them. I do not know what lovers’
quarrel it was that originally parted them and drove her into your arms, but I
realized that misunderstandings were over and that Miss Deane was drifting
back to her love.”
“Go on.”
“I knew something more, my friend. I was in Harley Street the other day,
and I saw you come out of a certain doctor’s house. I know the doctor and for
what disease one consults him, and I read the expression on your face. I have
seen it only once or twice in my lifetime, but it is not easily mistaken. It was
the face of a man under sentence of death. I am right, am I not?”
“Quite right. He gave me two months.”
“You did not see me, my friend, for you had other things to think about. I
saw something else on your face—the thing that I told you this afternoon men
try to conceal. I saw hate there, my friend. You did not trouble to conceal it,
because you thought there were none to observe.”
“Go on,” said Harrison.
“There is not much more to say. I came down here, saw Langton’s name
by accident in the poison book as I tell you, met him, and came here to you. I
laid traps for you. You denied having asked Langton to get cyanide, or rather
you expressed surprise at his having done so. You were taken aback at first at
my appearance, but presently you saw how well it would fit in and you
encouraged my suspicions. I knew from Langton himself that he was coming
at half past eight. You told me nine o’clock, thinking I should come and find
everything over. And so I knew everything.”
“Why did you come?” cried Harrison. “If only you hadn’t come!”
Poirot drew himself up. “I told you,” he said, “murder is my business.”
“Murder? Suicide, you mean.”
“No.” Poirot’s voice rang out sharply and clearly. “I mean murder. Your
death was to be quick and easy, but the death you planned for Langton was
the worst death any man can die. He bought the poison; he comes to see you,
and he is alone with you. You die suddenly, and the cyanide is found in your
glass, and Claude Langton hangs. That was your plan.”
Again Harrison moaned.
“Why did you come? Why did you come?”
“I have told you, but there is another reason. I liked you. Listen, mon ami,
you are a dying man; you have lost the girl you loved, but there is one thing
that you are not; you are not a murderer. Tell me now: are you glad or sorry
that I came?”
There was a moment’s pause and Harrison drew himself up. There was a
new dignity in his face—the look of a man who has conquered his own baser
self. He stretched out his hand across the table.
“Thank goodness you came,” he cried. “Oh, thank goodness you came.”
Twenty-nine
THE THIRD FLOOR FLAT
“The Third Floor Flat” was first published in Hutchinson’s Story Magazine, January 1929.
Bother!” said Pat.
With a deepening frown she rummaged wildly in the silken trifle she
called an evening bag. Two young men and another girl watched her
anxiously. They were all standing outside the closed door of Patricia Garnett’s
flat.
“It’s no good,” said Pat. “It’s not there. And now what shall we do?”
“What is life without a latchkey?” murmured Jimmy Faulkener.
He was a short, broad-shouldered young man, with good-tempered blue
eyes.
Pat turned on him angrily. “Don’t make jokes, Jimmy. This is serious.”
“Look again, Pat,” said Donovan Bailey. “It must be there somewhere.”
He had a lazy, pleasant voice that matched his lean, dark figure.
“If you ever brought it out,” said the other girl, Mildred Hope.
“Of course I brought it out,” said Pat. “I believe I gave it to one of you
two.” She turned on the men accusingly. “I told Donovan to take it for me.”
But she was not to find a scapegoat so easily. Donovan put in a firm
disclaimer, and Jimmy backed him up.
“I saw you put it in your bag, myself,” said Jimmy.
“Well, then, one of you dropped it out when you picked up my bag. I’ve
dropped it once or twice.”
“Once or twice!” said Donovan. “You’ve dropped it a dozen times at least,
besides leaving it behind on every possible occasion.”
“I can’t see why everything on earth doesn’t drop out of it the whole
time,” said Jimmy.
“The point is—how are we going to get in?” said Mildred.
She was a sensible girl, who kept to the point, but she was not nearly so
attractive as the impulsive and troublesome Pat.
All four of them regarded the closed door blankly.
“Couldn’t the porter help?” suggested Jimmy. “Hasn’t he got a master key
or something of that kind?”
Pat shook her head. There were only two keys. One was inside the flat
hung up in the kitchen and the other was—or should be—in the maligned bag.
“If only the flat were on the ground floor,” wailed Pat. “We could have
broken open a window or something. Donovan, you wouldn’t like to be a cat
burglar, would you?”
Donovan declined firmly but politely to be a cat burglar.
“A flat on the fourth floor is a bit of an undertaking,” said Jimmy.
“How about a fire escape?” suggested Donovan.
“There isn’t one.”
“There should be,” said Jimmy. “A building five storeys high ought to
have a fire escape.”
“I daresay,” said Pat. “But what should be doesn’t help us. How am I ever
to get into my flat?”
“Isn’t there a sort of thingummybob?” said Donovan. “A thing the
tradesmen send up chops and brussels sprouts in?”
“The service lift,” said Pat. “Oh yes, but it’s only a sort of wire-basket
thing. Oh wait—I know. What about the coal lift?”
“Now that,” said Donovan, “is an idea.”
Mildred made a discouraging suggestion. “It’ll be bolted,” she said. “In
Pat’s kitchen, I mean, on the inside.”
But the idea was instantly negatived.
“Don’t you believe it,” said Donovan.
“Not in Pat’s kitchen,” said Jimmy. “Pat never locks and bolts things.”
“I don’t think it’s bolted,” said Pat. “I took the dustbin off this morning,
and I’m sure I never bolted it afterwards, and I don’t think I’ve been near it
since.”
“Well,” said Donovan, “that fact’s going to be very useful to us tonight,
but, all the same, young Pat, let me point out to you that these slack habits are
leaving you at the mercy of burglars—non-feline—every night.”
Pat disregarded these admonitions.
“Come on,” she cried, and began racing down the four flights of stairs.
The others followed her. Pat led them through a dark recess, apparently full to
overflowing of perambulators, and through another door into the well of the
flats, and guided them to the right lift. There was, at the moment, a dustbin on
it. Donovan lifted it off and stepped gingerly on to the platform in its place.
He wrinkled up his nose.
“A little noisome,” he remarked. “But what of that? Do I go alone on this
venture or is anyone coming with me?”
“I’ll come, too,” said Jimmy.
He stepped on by Donovan’s side.
“I suppose the lift will bear me,” he added doubtfully.
“You can’t weigh much more than a ton of coal,” said Pat, who had never
been particularly strong on her weights-and-measures table.
“And, anyway, we shall soon find out,” said Donovan cheerfully, as he
hauled on the rope.
With a grinding noise they disappeared from sight.
“This thing makes an awful noise,” remarked Jimmy, as they passed up
through blackness. “What will the people in the other flats think?”
“Ghosts or burglars, I expect,” said Donovan. “Hauling this rope is quite
heavy work. The porter of Friars Mansions does more work than I ever
suspected. I say, Jimmy, old son, are you counting the floors?”
“Oh, Lord! No. I forgot about it.”
“Well, I have, which is just as well. That’s the third we’re passing now.
The next is ours.”
“And now, I suppose,” grumbled Jimmy, “we shall find that Pat did bolt
the door after all.”
But these fears were unfounded. The wooden door swung back at a touch,
and Donovan and Jimmy stepped out into the inky blackness of Pat’s kitchen.
“We ought to have a torch for this wild night work,” exclaimed Donovan.
“If I know Pat, everything’s on the floor, and we shall smash endless crockery
before I can get to the light switch. Don’t move about, Jimmy, till I get the
light on.”
He felt his way cautiously over the floor, uttering one fervent “Damn!” as
a corner of the kitchen table took him unawares in the ribs. He reached the
switch, and in another moment another “Damn!” floated out of the darkness.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jimmy.
“Light won’t come on. Dud bulb, I suppose. Wait a minute. I’ll turn the
sitting room light on.”
The sitting room was the door immediately across the passage. Jimmy
heard Donovan go out of the door, and presently fresh muffled curses reached
him. He himself edged his way cautiously across the kitchen.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know. Rooms get bewitched at night, I believe. Everything seems
to be in a different place. Chairs and tables where you least expected them.
Oh, hell! Here’s another!”
But at this moment Jimmy fortunately connected with the electric light
switch and pressed it down. In another minute two young men were looking
at each other in silent horror.
This room was not Pat’s sitting room. They were in the wrong flat.
To begin with, the room was about ten times more crowded than Pat’s,
which explained Donovan’s pathetic bewilderment at repeatedly cannoning
into chairs and tables. There was a large round table in the centre of the room
covered with a baize cloth, and there was an aspidistra in the window. It was,
in fact, the kind of room whose owner, the young men felt sure, would be
difficult to explain to. With silent horror they gazed down at the table, on
which lay a little pile of letters.
“Mrs. Ernestine Grant,” breathed Donovan, picking them up and reading
the name. “Oh, help! Do you think she’s heard us?”
“It’s a miracle she hasn’t heard you,” said Jimmy. “What with your
language and the way you’ve been crashing into the furniture. Come on, for
the Lord’s sake, let’s get out of here quickly.”
They hastily switched off the light and retraced their steps on tiptoe to the
lift. Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief as they regained the fastness of its depths
without further incident.
“I do like a woman to be a good, sound sleeper,” he said approvingly.
“Mrs. Ernestine Grant has her points.”
“I see it now,” said Donovan; “why we made the mistake in the floor, I
mean. Out in that well we started up from the basement.”
He heaved on the rope, and the lift shot up. “We’re right this time.”
“I devoutly trust we are,” said Jimmy as he stepped out into another inky
void. “My nerves won’t stand many more shocks of this kind.”
But no further nerve strain was imposed. The first click of the light
showed them Pat’s kitchen, and in another minute they were opening the front
door and admitting the two girls who were waiting outside.
“You have been a long time,” grumbled Pat. “Mildred and I have been
waiting here ages.”
“We’ve had an adventure,” said Donovan. “We might have been hauled
off to the police station as dangerous malefactors.”
Pat had passed on into the sitting room, where she switched on the light
and dropped her wrap on the sofa. She listened with lively interest to
Donovan’s account of his adventures.
“I’m glad she didn’t catch you,” she commented. “I’m sure she’s an old
curmudgeon. I got a note from her this morning—wanted to see me some
time—something she had to complain about—my piano, I suppose. People
who don’t like pianos over their heads shouldn’t come and live in flats. I say,
Donovan, you’ve hurt your hand. It’s all over blood. Go and wash it under the
tap.”
Donovan looked down at his hand in surprise. He went out of the room
obediently and presently his voice called to Jimmy.
“Hullo,” said the other, “what’s up? You haven’t hurt yourself badly, have
you?”
“I haven’t hurt myself at all.”
There was something so queer in Donovan’s voice that Jimmy stared at
him in surprise. Donovan held out his washed hand and Jimmy saw that there
was no mark or cut of any kind on it.
“That’s odd,” he said, frowning. “There was quite a lot of blood. Where
did it come from?” And then suddenly he realized what his quicker-witted
friend had already seen. “By Jove,” he said. “It must have come from that
flat.” He stopped, thinking over the possibilities his words implied. “You’re
sure it was—er—blood?” he said. “Not paint?”
Donovan shook his head. “It was blood, all right,” he said, and shivered.
They looked at each other. The same thought was clearly in each of their
minds. It was Jimmy who voiced it first.
“I say,” he said awkwardly. “Do you think we ought to—well—go down
again—and have—a—look around? See it’s all right, you know?”
“What about the girls?”
“We won’t say anything to them. Pat’s going to put on an apron and make
us an omelette. We’ll be back by the time they wonder where we are.”
“Oh, well, come on,” said Donovan. “I suppose we’ve got to go through
with it. I daresay there isn’t anything really wrong.”
But his tone lacked conviction. They got into the lift and descended to the
floor below. They found their way across the kitchen without much difficulty
and once more switched on the sitting room light.
“It must have been in here,” said Donovan, “that—that I got the stuff on
me. I never touched anything in the kitchen.”
He looked round him. Jimmy did the same, and they both frowned.
Everything looked neat and commonplace and miles removed from any
suggestion of violence or gore.
Suddenly Jimmy started violently and caught his companion’s arm.
“Look!”
Donovan followed the pointing finger, and in his turn uttered an
exclamation. From beneath the heavy rep curtains there protruded a foot—a
woman’s foot in a gaping patent leather shoe.
Jimmy went to the curtains and drew them sharply apart. In the recess of
the window a woman’s huddled body lay on the floor, a sticky dark pool
beside it. She was dead, there was no doubt of that. Jimmy was attempting to
raise her up when Donovan stopped him.
“You’d better not do that. She oughtn’t to be touched till the police come.”
“The police. Oh, of course. I say, Donovan, what a ghastly business. Who
do you think she is? Mrs. Ernestine Grant?”
“Looks like it. At any rate, if there’s anyone else in the flat they’re
keeping jolly quiet.”
“What do we do next?” asked Jimmy. “Run out and get a policeman or
ring up from Pat’s flat?”
“I should think ringing up would be best. Come on, we might as well go
out the front door. We can’t spend the whole night going up and down in that
evil-smelling lift.”
Jimmy agreed. Just as they were passing through the door he hesitated.
“Look here; do you think one of us ought to stay—just to keep an eye on
things—till the police come?”
“Yes, I think you’re right. If you’ll stay I’ll run up and telephone.”
He ran quickly up the stairs and rang the bell of the flat above. Pat came
to open it, a very pretty Pat with a flushed face and a cooking apron on. Her
eyes widened in surprise.
“You? But how—Donovan, what is it? Is anything the matter?”
He took both her hands in his. “It’s all right, Pat—only we’ve made a
rather unpleasant discovery in the flat below. A woman—dead.”
“Oh!” She gave a little gasp. “How horrible. Has she had a fit or
something?”
“No. It looks—well—it looks rather as though she had been murdered.”
“Oh, Donovan!”
“I know. It’s pretty beastly.”
Her hands were still in his. She had left them there—was even clinging to
him. Darling Pat—how he loved her. Did she care at all for him? Sometimes
he thought she did. Sometimes he was afraid that Jimmy Faulkener—
remembrances of Jimmy waiting patiently below made him start guiltily.
“Pat, dear, we must telephone to the police.”
“Monsieur is right,” said a voice behind him. “And in the meantime, while
we are waiting their arrival, perhaps I can be of some slight assistance.”
They had been standing in the doorway of the flat, and now they peered
out on the landing. A figure was standing on the stairs a little way above
them. It moved down and into their range of vision.
They stood staring at the little man with a very fierce moustache and an
egg-shaped head. He wore a resplendent dressing gown and embroidered
slippers. He bowed gallantly to Patricia.
“Mademoiselle!” he said. “I am, as perhaps you know, the tenant of the
flat above. I like to be up high—in the air—the view over London. I take the
flat in the name of Mr. O’Connor. But I am not an Irishman. I have another
name. That is why I venture to put myself at your service. Permit me.” With a
flourish he pulled out a card and handed it to Pat. She read it.
“M. Hercule Poirot. Oh!” She caught her breath. “The M. Poirot! The
great detective? And you will really help?”
“That is my intention, mademoiselle. I nearly offered my help earlier in
the evening.”
Pat looked puzzled.
“I heard you discussing how to gain admission to your flat. Me, I am very
clever at picking locks. I could, without doubt, have opened your door for
you, but I hesitated to suggest it. You would have had the grave suspicions of
me.”
Pat laughed.
“Now, monsieur,” said Poirot to Donovan. “Go in, I pray of you, and
telephone to the police. I will descend to the flat below.”
Pat came down the stairs with him. They found Jimmy on guard, and Pat
explained Poirot’s presence. Jimmy, in his turn, explained to Poirot his and
Donovan’s adventures. The detective listened attentively.
“The lift door was unbolted, you say? You emerged into the kitchen, but
the light it would not turn on.”
He directed his footsteps to the kitchen as he spoke. His fingers pressed
the switch.
“Tiens! Voilà ce qui est curieux!” he said as the light flashed on. “It
functions perfectly now. I wonder—” He held up a finger to ensure silence
and listened. A faint sound broke the stillness—the sound of an unmistakable
snore. “Ah!” said Poirot. “La chambre de domestique.”
He tiptoed across the kitchen into a little pantry, out of which led a door.
He opened the door and switched on the light. The room was the kind of dog
kennel designed by the builders of flats to accommodate a human being. The
floor space was almost entirely occupied by the bed. In the bed was a rosycheeked girl lying on her back with her mouth wide open, snoring placidly.
Poirot switched off the light and beat a retreat.
“She will not wake,” he said. “We will let her sleep till the police come.”
He went back to the sitting room. Donovan had joined them.
“The police will be here almost immediately, they say,” he said
breathlessly. “We are to touch nothing.”
Poirot nodded. “We will not touch,” he said. “We will look, that is all.”
He moved into the room. Mildred had come down with Donovan, and all
four young people stood in the doorway and watched him with breathless
interest.
“What I can’t understand, sir, is this,” said Donovan. “I never went near
the window—how did the blood come on my hand?”
“My young friend, the answer to that stares you in the face. Of what
colour is the tablecloth? Red, is it not? and doubtless you did put your hand
on the table.”
“Yes, I did. Is that—?” He stopped.
Poirot nodded. He was bending over the table. He indicated with his hand
a dark patch on the red.
“It was here that the crime was committed,” he said solemnly. “The body
was moved afterwards.”
Then he stood upright and looked slowly round the room. He did not
move, he handled nothing, but nevertheless the four watching felt as though
every object in that rather frowsty place gave up its secret to his observant
eye.
Hercule Poirot nodded his head as though satisfied. A little sigh escaped
him. “I see,” he said.
“You see what?” asked Donovan curiously.
“I see,” said Poirot, “what you doubtless felt—that the room is overfull of
furniture.”
Donovan smiled ruefully. “I did go barging about a bit,” he confessed. “Of
course, everything was in a different place to Pat’s room, and I couldn’t make
it out.”
“Not everything,” said Poirot.
Donovan looked at him inquiringly.
“I mean,” said Poirot apologetically, “that certain things are always fixed.
In a block of flats the door, the window, the fireplace—they are in the same
place in the rooms which are below each other.”
“Isn’t that rather splitting hairs?” asked Mildred. She was looking at
Poirot with faint disapproval.
“One should always speak with absolute accuracy. That is a little—how
do you say?—fad of mine.”
There was the noise of footsteps on the stairs, and three men came in.
They were a police inspector, a constable, and the divisional surgeon. The
inspector recognized Poirot and greeted him in an almost reverential manner.
Then he turned to the others.
“I shall want statements from everyone,” he began, “but in the first place
—”
Poirot interrupted. “A little suggestion. We will go back to the flat upstairs
and mademoiselle here shall do what she was planning to do—make us an
omelette. Me, I have a passion for the omelettes. Then, M. l’Inspecteur, when
you have finished here, you will mount to us and ask questions at your
leisure.”
It was arranged accordingly, and Poirot went up with them.
“M. Poirot,” said Pat, “I think you’re a perfect dear. And you shall have a
lovely omelette. I really make omelettes frightfully well.”
“That is good. Once, mademoiselle, I loved a beautiful young English girl,
who resembled you greatly—but alas!—she could not cook. So perhaps
everything was for the best.”
There was a faint sadness in his voice, and Jimmy Faulkener looked at
him curiously.
Once in the flat, however, he exerted himself to please and amuse. The
grim tragedy below was almost forgotten.
The omelette had been consumed and duly praised by the time that
Inspector Rice’s footsteps were heard. He came in accompanied by the doctor,
having left the constable below.
“Well, Monsieur Poirot,” he said. “It all seems clear and aboveboard—not
much in your line, though we may find it hard to catch the man. I’d just like
to hear how the discovery came to be made.”
Donovan and Jimmy between them recounted the happenings of the
evening. The inspector turned reproachfully to Pat.
“You shouldn’t leave your lift door unbolted, miss. You really shouldn’t.”
“I shan’t again,” said Pat, with a shiver. “Somebody might come in and
murder me like that poor woman below.”
“Ah, but they didn’t come in that way, though,” said the inspector.
“You will recount to us what you have discovered, yes?” said Poirot.
“I don’t know as I ought to—but seeing it’s you, M. Poirot—”
“Précisément,” said Poirot. “And these young people—they will be
discreet.”
“The newspapers will get hold of it, anyway, soon enough,” said the
inspector. “There’s no real secret about the matter. Well, the dead woman’s
Mrs. Grant, all right. I had the porter up to identify her. Woman of about
thirty-five. She was sitting at the table, and she was shot with an automatic
pistol of small calibre, probably by someone sitting opposite her at table. She
fell forward, and that’s how the bloodstain came on the table.”
“But wouldn’t someone have heard the shot?” asked Mildred.
“The pistol was fitted with a silencer. No, you wouldn’t hear anything. By
the way, did you hear the screech the maid let out when we told her her
mistress was dead? No. Well, that just shows how unlikely it was that anyone
would hear the other.”
“Has the maid no story to tell?” asked Poirot.
“It was her evening out. She’s got her own key. She came in about ten
o’clock. Everything was quiet. She thought her mistress had gone to bed.”
“She did not look in the sitting room, then?”
“Yes, she took the letters in there which had come by the evening post, but
she saw nothing unusual—any more than Mr. Faulkener and Mr. Bailey did.
You see, the murderer had concealed the body rather neatly behind the
curtains.”
“But it was a curious thing to do, don’t you think?”
Poirot’s voice was very gentle, yet it held something that made the
inspector look up quickly.
“Didn’t want the crime discovered till he’d had time to make his
getaway.”
“Perhaps, perhaps—but continue with what you were saying.”
“The maid went out at five o’clock. The doctor here puts the time of death
as—roughly—about four to five hours ago. That’s right, isn’t it?”
The doctor, who was a man of few words, contented himself with jerking
his head affirmatively.
“It’s a quarter to twelve now. The actual time can, I think, be narrowed
down to a fairly definite hour.”
He took out a crumpled sheet of paper.
“We found this in the pocket of the dead woman’s dress. You needn’t be
afraid of handling it. There are no fingerprints on it.”
Poirot smoothed out the sheet. Across it some words were printed in
small, prim capitals.
I WILL COME TO SEE YOU THIS EVENING AT HALF PAST SEVEN.
J.F.
“A compromising document to leave behind,” commented Poirot, as he
handed it back.
“Well, he didn’t know she’d got it in her pocket,” said the inspector. “He
probably thought she’d destroyed it. We’ve evidence that he was a careful
man, though. The pistol she was shot with we found under the body—and
there again no fingerprints. They’d been wiped off very carefully with a silk
handkerchief.”
“How do you know,” said Poirot, “that it was a silk handkerchief?”
“Because we found it,” said the inspector triumphantly. “At the last, as he
was drawing the curtains, he must have let it fall unnoticed.”
He handed across a big white silk handkerchief—a good-quality
handkerchief. It did not need the inspector’s finger to draw Poirot’s attention
to the mark on it in the centre. It was neatly marked and quite legible. Poirot
read the name out.
“John Fraser.”
“That’s it,” said the inspector. “John Fraser—J.F. in the note. We know the
name of the man we have to look for, and I daresay when we find out a little
about the dead woman, and her relations come forward, we shall soon get a
line on him.”
“I wonder,” said Poirot. “No, mon cher, somehow I do not think he will be
easy to find, your John Fraser. He is a strange man—careful, since he marks
his handkerchiefs and wipes the pistol with which he has committed the crime
—yet careless since he loses his handkerchief and does not search for a letter
that might incriminate him.”
“Flurried, that’s what he was,” said the inspector.
“It is possible,” said Poirot. “Yes, it is possible. And he was not seen
entering the building?”
“There are all sorts of people going in and out all the time. These are big
blocks. I suppose none of you—” he addressed the four collectively—“saw
anyone coming out of the flat?”
Pat shook her head. “We went out earlier—about seven o’clock.”
“I see.” The inspector rose. Poirot accompanied him to the door.
“As a little favour, may I examine the flat below?”
“Why, certainly, M. Poirot. I know what they think of you at headquarters.
I’ll leave you a key. I’ve got two. It will be empty. The maid cleared out to
some relatives, too scared to stay there alone.”
“I thank you,” said M. Poirot. He went back into the flat, thoughtful.
“You’re not satisfied, M. Poirot?” said Jimmy.
“No,” said Poirot. “I am not satisfied.”
Donovan looked at him curiously. “What is it that—well, worries you?”
Poirot did not answer. He remained silent for a minute or two, frowning,
as though in thought, then he made a sudden impatient movement of the
shoulders.
“I will say good night to you, mademoiselle. You must be tired. You have
had much cooking to do—eh?”
Pat laughed. “Only the omelette. I didn’t do dinner. Donovan and Jimmy
came and called for us, and we went out to a little place in Soho.”
“And then without doubt, you went to a theatre?”
“Yes. The Brown Eyes of Caroline.”
“Ah!” said Poirot. “It should have been blue eyes—the blue eyes of
mademoiselle.”
He made a sentimental gesture, and then once more wished Pat good
night, also Mildred, who was staying the night by special request, as Pat
admitted frankly that she would get the horrors if left alone on this particular
night.
The two young men accompanied Poirot. When the door was shut, and
they were preparing to say good-bye to him on the landing, Poirot forestalled
them.
“My young friends, you heard me say I was not satisfied? Eh bien, it is
true—I am not. I go now to make some little investigations of my own. You
would like to accompany me—yes?”
An eager assent greeted this proposal. Poirot led the way to the flat below
and inserted the key the inspector had given him in the lock. On entering, he
did not, as the others had expected, enter the sitting room. Instead he went
straight to the kitchen. In a little recess which served as a scullery a big iron
bin was standing. Poirot uncovered this and, doubling himself up, began to
rootle in it with the energy of a ferocious terrier.
Both Jimmy and Donovan stared at him in amazement.
Suddenly with a cry of triumph he emerged. In his hand he held aloft a
small stoppered bottle.
“Voilà!” he said. “I find what I seek.” He sniffed at it delicately. “Alas! I
am enrhumé—I have the cold in the head.”
Donovan took the bottle from him and sniffed in his turn, but could smell
nothing. He took out the stopper and held the bottle to his nose before Poirot’s
warning cry could stop him.
Immediately he fell like a log. Poirot, by springing forward, partly broke
his fall.
“Imbecile!” he cried. “The idea. To remove the stopper in that foolhardy
manner! Did he not observe how delicately I handled it? Monsieur—
Faulkener—is it not? Will you be so good as to get me a little brandy? I
observed a decanter in the sitting room.”
Jimmy hurried off, but by the time he returned, Donovan was sitting up
and declaring himself quite all right again. He had to listen to a short lecture
from Poirot on the necessity of caution in sniffing at possibly poisonous
substances.
“I think I’ll be off home,” said Donovan, rising shakily to his feet. “That
is, if I can’t be any more use here. I feel a bit wonky still.”
“Assuredly,” said Poirot. “That is the best thing you can do. M. Faulkener,
attend me here a little minute. I will return on the instant.”
He accompanied Donovan to the door and beyond. They remained outside
on the landing talking for some minutes. When Poirot at last re-entered the
flat he found Jimmy standing in the sitting room gazing round him with
puzzled eyes.
“Well, M. Poirot,” he said, “what next?”
“There is nothing next. The case is finished.”
“What?”
“I know everything—now.”
Jimmy stared at him. “That little bottle you found?”
“Exactly. That little bottle.”
Jimmy shook his head. “I can’t make head or tail of it. For some reason or
other I can see you are dissatisfied with the evidence against this John Fraser,
whoever he may be.”
“Whoever he may be,” repeated Poirot softly. “If he is anyone at all—
well, I shall be surprised.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He is a name—that is all—a name carefully marked on a handkerchief!”
“And the letter?”
“Did you notice that it was printed? Now, why? I will tell you.
Handwriting might be recognized, and a typewritten letter is more easily
traced than you would imagine—but if a real John Fraser wrote that letter
those two points would not have appealed to him! No, it was written on
purpose, and put in the dead woman’s pocket for us to find. There is no such
person as John Fraser.”
Jimmy looked at him inquiringly.
“And so,” went on Poirot, “I went back to the point that first struck me.
You heard me say that certain things in a room were always in the same place
under given circumstances. I gave three instances. I might have mentioned a
fourth—the electric light switch, my friend.”
Jimmy still stared uncomprehendingly. Poirot went on.
“Your friend Donovan did not go near the window—it was by resting his
hand on this table that he got it covered in blood! But I asked myself at once
—why did he rest it there? What was he doing groping about this room in
darkness? For remember, my friend, the electric light switch is always in the
same place—by the door. Why, when he came to this room, did he not at once
feel for the light and turn it on? That was the natural, the normal thing to do.
According to him, he tried to turn on the light in the kitchen, but failed. Yet
when I tried the switch it was in perfect working order. Did he, then, not wish
the light to go on just then? If it had gone on you would both have seen at
once that you were in the wrong flat. There would have been no reason to
come into this room.”
“What are you driving at, M. Poirot? I don’t understand. What do you
mean?”
“I mean—this.”
Poirot held up a Yale door key.
“The key of this flat?”
“No, mon ami, the key of the flat above. Mademoiselle Patricia’s key,
which M. Donovan Bailey abstracted from her bag some time during the
evening.”
“But why—why?”
“Parbleu! So that he could do what he wanted to do—gain admission to
this flat in a perfectly unsuspicious manner. He made sure that the lift door
was unbolted earlier in the evening.”
“Where did you get the key?”
Poirot’s smile broadened. “I found it just now—where I looked for it—in
M. Donovan’s pocket. See you, that little bottle I pretended to find was a ruse.
M. Donovan is taken in. He does what I knew he would do—unstoppers it
and sniffs. And in that little bottle is ethyl chloride, a very powerful instant
anaesthetic. It gives me just the moment or two of unconsciousness I need. I
take from his pocket the two things that I knew would be there. This key was
one of them—the other—”
He stopped and then went on.
“I questioned at the time the reason the inspector gave for the body being
concealed behind the curtain. To gain time? No, there was more than that.
And so I thought of just one thing—the post, my friend. The evening post that
comes at half past nine or thereabouts. Say the murderer does not find
something he expects to find, but that something may be delivered by post
later. Clearly, then, he must come back. But the crime must not be discovered
by the maid when she comes in, or the police would take possession of the
flat, so he hides the body behind the curtain. And the maid suspects nothing
and lays the letters on the table as usual.”
“The letters?”
“Yes, the letters.” Poirot drew something from his pocket. “This is the
second article I took from M. Donovan when he was unconscious.” He
showed the superscription—a typewritten envelope addressed to Mrs.
Ernestine Grant. “But I will ask you one thing first, M. Faulkener, before we
look at the contents of this letter. Are you or are you not in love with
Mademoiselle Patricia?”
“I care for Pat damnably—but I’ve never thought I had a chance.”
“You thought that she cared for M. Donovan? It may be that she had
begun to care for him—but it was only a beginning, my friend. It is for you to
make her forget—to stand by her in her trouble.”
“Trouble?” said Jimmy sharply.
“Yes, trouble. We will do all we can to keep her name out of it, but it will
be impossible to do so entirely. She was, you see, the motive.”
He ripped open the envelope that he held. An enclosure fell out. The
covering letter was brief, and was from a firm of solicitors.
Dear Madam,
The document you enclose is quite in order, and the fact of the
marriage having taken place in a foreign country does not invalidate it
in any way.
Yours truly, etc.
Poirot spread out the enclosure. It was a certificate of marriage between
Donovan Bailey and Ernestine Grant, dated eight years ago.
“Oh, my God!” said Jimmy. “Pat said she’d had a letter from the woman
asking to see her, but she never dreamed it was anything important.”
Poirot nodded. “Donovan knew—he went to see his wife this evening
before going to the flat above—a strange irony, by the way, that led the
unfortunate woman to come to this building where her rival lived—he
murdered her in cold blood, and then went on to his evening’s amusement.
His wife must have told him that she had sent the marriage certificate to her
solicitors and was expecting to hear from them. Doubtless he himself had
tried to make her believe that there was a flaw in the marriage.”
“He seemed in quite good spirits, too, all the evening. M. Poirot, you
haven’t let him escape?” Jimmy shuddered.
“There is no escape for him,” said Poirot gravely. “You need not fear.”
“It’s Pat I’m thinking about mostly,” said Jimmy. “You don’t think—she
really cared.”
“Mon ami, that is your part,” said Poirot gently. “To make her turn to you
and forget. I do not think you will find it very difficult!”
Thirty
THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGHDAD CHEST
“The Mystery of the Baghdad Chest” was first published in The Strand, January 1932.
The words made a catchy headline, and I said as much to my friend, Hercule
Poirot. I knew none of the parties. My interest was merely the dispassionate
one of the man in the street. Poirot agreed.
“Yes, it has a flavour of the Oriental, of the mysterious. The chest may
very well have been a sham Jacobean one from the Tottenham Court Road;
none the less the reporter who thought of naming it the Baghdad Chest was
happily inspired. The word ‘mystery’ is also thoughtfully placed in
juxtaposition, though I understand there is very little mystery about the case.”
“Exactly. It is all rather horrible and macabre, but it is not mysterious.”
“Horrible and macabre,” repeated Poirot thoughtfully.
“The whole idea is revolting,” I said, rising to my feet and pacing up and
down the room. “The murderer kills this man—his friend—shoves him into
the chest, and half an hour later is dancing in that same room with the wife of
his victim. Think! If she had imagined for one moment—”
“True,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “That much-vaunted possession, a
woman’s intuition—it does not seem to have been working.”
“The party seems to have gone off very merrily,” I said with a slight
shiver. “And all that time, as they danced and played poker, there was a dead
man in the room with them. One could write a play about such an idea.”
“It has been done,” said Poirot. “But console yourself, Hastings,” he
added kindly. “Because a theme has been used once, there is no reason why it
should not be used again. Compose your drama.”
I had picked up the paper and was studying the rather blurred
reproduction of a photograph.
“She must be a beautiful woman,” I said slowly. “Even from this, one gets
an idea.”
Below the picture ran the inscription:
A recent portrait of Mrs. Clayton,
the wife of the murdered man
Poirot took the paper from me.
“Yes,” he said. “She is beautiful. Doubtless she is of those born to trouble
the souls of men.”
He handed the paper back to me with a sigh.
“Dieu merci, I am not of an ardent temperament. It has saved me from
many embarrassments. I am duly thankful.”
I do not remember that we discussed the case further. Poirot displayed no
special interest in it at the time. The facts were so clear, and there was so little
ambiguity about them, that discussion seemed merely futile.
Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and Major Rich were friends of fairly longstanding.
On the day in question, the tenth of March, the Claytons had accepted an
invitation to spend the evening with Major Rich. At about seven thirty,
however, Clayton explained to another friend, a Major Curtiss, with whom he
was having a drink, that he had been unexpectedly called to Scotland and was
leaving by the eight o’clock train.
“I’ll just have time to drop in and explain to old Jack,” went on Clayton.
“Marguerita is going, of course. I’m sorry about it, but Jack will understand
how it is.”
Mr. Clayton was as good as his word. He arrived at Major Rich’s rooms
about twenty to eight. The major was out at the time, but his manservant, who
knew Mr. Clayton well, suggested that he come in and wait. Mr. Clayton said
that he had no time, but that he would come in and write a note. He added that
he was on his way to catch a train.
The valet accordingly showed him into the sitting room.
About five minutes later Major Rich, who must have let himself in
without the valet hearing him, opened the door of the sitting room, called his
man and told him to go out and get some cigarettes. On his return the man
brought them to his master, who was then alone in the sitting room. The man
naturally concluded that Mr. Clayton had left.
The guests arrived shortly afterwards. They comprised Mrs. Clayton,
Major Curtiss and a Mr. and Mrs. Spence. The evening was spent dancing to
the phonograph and playing poker. The guests left shortly after midnight.
The following morning, on coming to do the sitting room, the valet was
startled to find a deep stain discolouring the carpet below and in front of a
piece of furniture which Major Rich had brought from the East and which was
called the Baghdad Chest.
Instinctively the valet lifted the lid of the chest and was horrified to find
inside the doubled-up body of a man who had been stabbed to the heart.
Terrified, the man ran out of the flat and fetched the nearest policeman.
The dead man proved to be Mr. Clayton. The arrest of Major Rich followed
very shortly afterward. The major’s defence, it was understood, consisted of a
sturdy denial of everything. He had not seen Mr. Clayton the preceding
evening and the first he had heard of his going to Scotland had been from
Mrs. Clayton.
Such were the bald facts of the case. Innuendoes and suggestions naturally
abounded. The close friendship and intimacy of Major Rich and Mrs. Clayton
were so stressed that only a fool could fail to read between the lines. The
motive for the crime was plainly indicated.
Long experience has taught me to make allowance for baseless calumny.
The motive suggested might, for all the evidence, be entirely nonexistent.
Some quite other reason might have precipitated the issue. But one thing did
stand out clearly—that Rich was the murderer.
As I say, the matter might have rested there, had it not happened that
Poirot and I were due at a party given by Lady Chatterton that night.
Poirot, whilst bemoaning social engagements and declaring a passion for
solitude, really enjoyed these affairs enormously. To be made a fuss of and
treated as a lion suited him down to the ground.
On occasions he positively purred! I have seen him blandly receiving the
most outrageous compliments as no more than his due, and uttering the most
blatantly conceited remarks, such as I can hardly bear to set down.
Sometimes he would argue with me on the subject.
“But, my friend, I am not an Anglo-Saxon. Why should I play the
hypocrite? Si, si, that is what you do, all of you. The airman who has made a
difficult flight, the tennis champion—they look down their noses, they mutter
inaudibly that ‘it is nothing.’ But do they really think that themselves? Not for
a moment. They would admire the exploit in someone else. So, being
reasonable men, they admire it in themselves. But their training prevents them
from saying so. Me, I am not like that. The talents that I possess—I would
salute them in another. As it happens, in my own particular line, there is no
one to touch me. C’est dommage! As it is, I admit freely and without
hypocrisy that I am a great man. I have the order, the method and the
psychology in an unusual degree. I am, in fact, Hercule Poirot! Why should I
turn red and stammer and mutter into my chin that really I am very stupid? It
would not be true.”
“There is certainly only one Hercule Poirot,” I agreed—not without a
spice of malice of which, fortunately, Poirot remained quite oblivious.
Lady Chatterton was one of Poirot’s most ardent admirers. Starting from
the mysterious conduct of a Pekingese, he had unravelled a chain which led to
a noted burglar and housebreaker. Lady Chatterton had been loud in his
praises ever since.
To see Poirot at a party was a great sight. His faultless evening clothes,
the exquisite set of his white tie, the exact symmetry of his hair parting, the
sheen of pomade on his hair, and the tortured splendour of his famous
moustaches—all combined to paint the perfect picture of an inveterate dandy.
It was hard, at these moments, to take the little man seriously.
It was about half past eleven when Lady Chatterton, bearing down upon
us, whisked Poirot neatly out of an admiring group, and carried him off—I
need hardly say, with myself in tow.
“I want you to go into my little room upstairs,” said Lady Chatterton
rather breathlessly as soon as she was out of earshot of her other guests. “You
know where it is, M. Poirot. You’ll find someone there who needs your help
very badly—and you will help her, I know. She’s one of my dearest friends—
so don’t say no.”
Energetically leading the way as she talked, Lady Chatterton flung open a
door, exclaiming as she did so, “I’ve got him, Marguerita darling. And he’ll
do anything you want. You will help Mrs. Clayton, won’t you, M. Poirot?”
And taking the answer for granted, she withdrew with the same energy
that characterized all her movements.
Mrs. Clayton had been sitting in a chair by the window. She rose now and
came toward us. Dressed in deep mourning, the dull black showed up her fair
colouring. She was a singularly lovely woman, and there was about her a
simple childlike candour which made her charm quite irresistible.
“Alice Chatterton is so kind,” she said. “She arranged this. She said you
would help me, M. Poirot. Of course I don’t know whether you will or not—
but I hope you will.”
She had held out her hand and Poirot had taken it. He held it now for a
moment or two while he stood scrutinizing her closely. There was nothing illbred in his manner of doing it. It was more the kind but searching look that a
famous consultant gives a new patient as the latter is ushered into his
presence.
“Are you sure, madame,” he said at last, “that I can help you?”
“Alice says so.”
“Yes, but I am asking you, madame.”
A little flush rose to her cheeks.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“What is it, madame, that you want me to do?”
“You—you—know who I am?” she asked.
“Assuredly.”
“Then you can guess what it is I am asking you to do, M. Poirot—Captain
Hastings”—I was gratified that she realized my identity—“Major Rich did
not kill my husband.”
“Why not?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Poirot smiled at her slight discomfiture.
“I said, ‘Why not?’ ” he repeated.
“I’m not sure that I understand.”
“Yet it is very simple. The police—the lawyers—they will all ask the
same question: Why did Major Rich kill M. Clayton? I ask the opposite. I ask
you, madame, why did Major Rich not kill Mr. Clayton.”
“You mean—why I’m so sure? Well, but I know. I know Major Rich so
well.”
“You know Major Rich so well,” repeated Poirot tonelessly.
The colour flamed into her cheeks.
“Yes, that’s what they’ll say—what they’ll think! Oh, I know!”
“C’est vrai. That is what they will ask you about—how well you knew
Major Rich. Perhaps you will speak the truth, perhaps you will lie. It is very
necessary for a woman to lie, it is a good weapon. But there are three people,
madame, to whom a woman should speak the truth. To her Father Confessor,
to her hairdresser and to her private detective—if she trusts him. Do you trust
me, madame?”
Marguerita Clayton drew a deep breath. “Yes,” she said. “I do. I must,”
she added rather childishly.
“Then, how well do you know Major Rich?”
She looked at him for a moment in silence, then she raised her chin
defiantly.
“I will answer your question. I loved Jack from the first moment I saw
him—two years ago. Lately I think—I believe—he has come to love me. But
he has never said so.”
“Épatant!” said Poirot. “You have saved me a good quarter of an hour by
coming to the point without beating the bush. You have the good sense. Now
your husband—did he suspect your feelings?”
“I don’t know,” said Marguerita slowly. “I thought—lately—that he
might. His manner has been different . . . But that may have been merely my
fancy.”
“Nobody else knew?”
“I do not think so.”
“And—pardon me, madame—you did not love your husband?”
There were, I think, very few women who would have answered that
question as simply as this woman did. They would have tried to explain their
feelings.
Marguerita Clayton said quite simply: “No.”
“Bien. Now we know where we are. According to you, madame, Major
Rich did not kill your husband, but you realize that all the evidence points to
his having done so. Are you aware, privately, of any flaw in that evidence?”
“No. I know nothing.”
“When did your husband first inform you of his visit to Scotland?”
“Just after lunch. He said it was a bore, but he’d have to go. Something to
do with land values, he said it was.”
“And after that?”
“He went out—to his club, I think. I—I didn’t see him again.”
“Now as to Major Rich—what was his manner that evening? Just as
usual?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“You are not sure?”
Marguerita wrinkled her brows.
“He was—a little constrained. With me—not with the others. But I
thought I knew why that was. You understand? I am sure the constraint or—or
—absentmindedness perhaps describes it better—had nothing to do with
Edward. He was surprised to hear that Edward had gone to Scotland, but not
unduly so.”
“And nothing else unusual occurs to you in connection with that
evening?”
Marguerita thought.
“No, nothing whatever.”
“You—noticed the chest?”
She shook her head with a little shiver.
“I don’t even remember it—or what it was like. We played poker most of
the evening.”
“Who won?”
“Major Rich. I had very bad luck, and so did Major Curtiss. The Spences
won a little, but Major Rich was the chief winner.”
“The party broke up—when?”
“About half past twelve, I think. We all left together.”
“Ah!”
Poirot remained silent, lost in thought.
“I wish I could be more helpful to you,” said Mrs. Clayton. “I seem to be
able to tell you so little.”
“About the present—yes. What about the past, madame?”
“The past?”
“Yes. Have there not been incidents?”
She flushed.
“You mean that dreadful little man who shot himself. It wasn’t my fault,
M. Poirot. Indeed it wasn’t.”
“It was not precisely of that incident that I was thinking.”
“That ridiculous duel? But Italians do fight duels. I was so thankful the
man wasn’t killed.”
“It must have been a relief to you,” agreed Poirot gravely.
She was looking at him doubtfully. He rose and took her hand in his.
“I shall not fight a duel for you, madame,” he said. “But I will do what
you have asked me. I will discover the truth. And let us hope that your
instincts are correct—that the truth will help and not harm you.”
Our first interview was with Major Curtiss. He was a man of about forty,
of soldierly build, with very dark hair and a bronzed face. He had known the
Claytons for some years and Major Rich also. He confirmed the press reports.
Clayton and he had had a drink together at the club just before half past
seven, and Clayton had then announced his intention of looking in on Major
Rich on his way to Euston.
“What was Mr. Clayton’s manner? Was he depressed or cheerful?”
The major considered. He was a slow-spoken man.
“Seemed in fairly good spirits,” he said at last.
“He said nothing about being on bad terms with Major Rich?”
“Good Lord, no. They were pals.”
“He didn’t object to—his wife’s friendship with Major Rich?”
The major became very red in the face.
“You’ve been reading those damned newspapers, with their hints and lies.
Of course he didn’t object. Why, he said to me: ‘Marguerita’s going, of
course.’ ”
“I see. Now during the evening—the manner of Major Rich—was that
much as usual?”
“I didn’t notice any difference.”
“And madame? She, too, was as usual.”
“Well,” he reflected, “now I come to think of it, she was a bit quiet. You
know, thoughtful and faraway.”
“Who arrived first?”
“The Spences. They were there when I got there. As a matter of fact, I’d
called round for Mrs. Clayton, but found she’d already started. So I got there
a bit late.”
“And how did you amuse yourselves? You danced? You played the
cards?”
“A bit of both. Danced first of all.”
“There were five of you?”
“Yes, but that’s all right, because I don’t dance. I put on the records and
the others danced.”
“Who danced most with whom?”
“Well, as a matter of fact the Spences like dancing together. They’ve got a
sort of craze on it—fancy steps and all that.”
“So that Mrs. Clayton danced mostly with Major Rich?”
“That’s about it.”
“And then you played poker?”
“Yes.”
“And when did you leave?”
“Oh, quite early. A little after midnight.”
“Did you all leave together?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, we shared a taxi, dropped Mrs. Clayton first,
then me, and the Spences took it on to Kensington.”
Our next visit was to Mr. and Mrs. Spence. Only Mrs. Spence was at
home, but her account of the evening tallied with that of Major Curtiss except
that she displayed a slight acidity concerning Major Rich’s luck at cards.
Earlier in the morning Poirot had had a telephone conversation with
Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard. As a result we arrived at Major Rich’s rooms
and found his manservant, Burgoyne, expecting us.
The valet’s evidence was very precise and clear.
Mr. Clayton had arrived at twenty minutes to eight. Unluckily Major Rich
had just that very minute gone out. Mr. Clayton had said that he couldn’t wait,
as he had to catch a train, but he would just scrawl a note. He accordingly
went into the sitting room to do so. Burgoyne had not actually heard his
master come in, as he was running the bath, and Major Rich, of course, let
himself in with his own key. In his opinion it was about ten minutes later that
Major Rich called him and sent him out for cigarettes. No, he had not gone
into the sitting room. Major Rich had stood in the doorway. He had returned
with the cigarettes five minutes later and on this occasion he had gone into the
sitting room, which was then empty, save for his master, who was standing by
the window smoking. His master had inquired if his bath were ready and on
being told it was had proceeded to take it. He, Burgoyne, had not mentioned
Mr. Clayton, as he assumed that his master had found Mr. Clayton there and
let him out himself. His master’s manner had been precisely the same as
usual. He had taken his bath, changed, and shortly after, Mr. and Mrs. Spence
had arrived, to be followed by Major Curtiss and Mrs. Clayton.
It had not occurred to him, Burgoyne explained, that Mr. Clayton might
have left before his master’s return. To do so, Mr. Clayton would have had to
bang the front door behind him and that the valet was sure he would have
heard.
Still in the same impersonal manner, Burgoyne proceeded to his finding of
the body. For the first time my attention was directed to the fatal chest. It was
a good-sized piece of furniture standing against the wall next to the
phonograph cabinet. It was made of some dark wood and plentifully studded
with brass nails. The lid opened simply enough. I looked in and shivered.
Though well scrubbed, ominous stains remained.
Suddenly Poirot uttered an exclamation. “Those holes there—they are
curious. One would say that they had been newly made.”
The holes in question were at the back of the chest against the wall. There
were three or four of them. They were about a quarter of an inch in diameter
and certainly had the effect of having been freshly made.
Poirot bent down to examine them, looking inquiringly at the valet.
“It’s certainly curious, sir. I don’t remember ever seeing those holes in the
past, though maybe I wouldn’t notice them.”
“It makes no matter,” said Poirot.
Closing the lid of the chest, he stepped back into the room until he was
standing with his back against the window. Then he suddenly asked a
question.
“Tell me,” he said. “When you brought the cigarettes into your master that
night, was there not something out of place in the room?”
Burgoyne hesitated for a minute, then with some slight reluctance he
replied, “It’s odd your saying that, sir. Now you come to mention it, there
was. That screen there that cuts off the draught from the bedroom door—it
was moved a bit more to the left.”
“Like this?”
Poirot darted nimbly forward and pulled at the screen. It was a handsome
affair of painted leather. It already slightly obscured the view of the chest, and
as Poirot adjusted it, it hid the chest altogether.
“That’s right, sir,” said the valet. “It was like that.”
“And the next morning?”
“It was still like that. I remember. I moved it away and it was then I saw
the stain. The carpet’s gone to be cleaned, sir. That’s why the boards are
bare.”
Poirot nodded.
“I see,” he said. “I thank you.”
He placed a crisp piece of paper in the valet’s palm.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Poirot,” I said when we were out in the street, “that point about the
screen—is that a point helpful to Rich?”
“It is a further point against him,” said Poirot ruefully. “The screen hid the
chest from the room. It also hid the stain on the carpet. Sooner or later the
blood was bound to soak through the wood and stain the carpet. The screen
would prevent discovery for the moment. Yes—but there is something there
that I do not understand. The valet, Hastings, the valet.”
“What about the valet? He seemed a most intelligent fellow.”
“As you say, most intelligent. Is it credible, then, that Major Rich failed to
realize that the valet would certainly discover the body in the morning?
Immediately after the deed he had no time for anything—granted. He shoves
the body into the chest, pulls the screen in front of it and goes through the
evening hoping for the best. But after the guests are gone? Surely, then is the
time to dispose of the body.”
“Perhaps he hoped the valet wouldn’t notice the stain?”
“That, mon ami, is absurd. A stained carpet is the first thing a good
servant would be bound to notice.
“And Major Rich, he goes to bed and snores there comfortably and does
nothing at all about the matter. Very remarkable and interesting, that.”
“Curtiss might have seen the stains when he was changing the records the
night before?” I suggested.
“That is unlikely. The screen would throw a deep shadow just there, No,
but I begin to see. Yes, dimly I begin to see.”
“See what?” I asked eagerly.
“The possibilities, shall we say, of an alternative explanation. Our next
visit may throw light on things.”
Our next visit was to the doctor who had examined the body. His evidence
was a mere recapitulation of what he had already given at the inquest.
Deceased had been stabbed to the heart with a long thin knife something like
a stiletto. The knife had been left in the wound. Death had been instantaneous.
The knife was the property of Major Rich and usually lay on his writing table.
There were no fingerprints on it, the doctor understood. It had been either
wiped or held in a handkerchief. As regards time, any time between seven and
nine seemed indicated.
“He could not, for instance, have been killed after midnight?” asked
Poirot.
“No. That I can say. Ten o’clock at the outside—but seven thirty to eight
seems clearly indicated.”
“There is a second hypothesis possible,” Poirot said when we were back
home. “I wonder if you see it, Hastings. To me it is very plain, and I only
need one point to clear up the matter for good and all.”
“It’s no good,” I said. “I’m not there.”
“But make an effort, Hastings. Make an effort.”
“Very well,” I said. “At seven-forty Clayton is alive and well. The last
person to see him alive is Rich—”
“So we assume.”
“Well, isn’t it so?”
“You forget, mon ami, that Major Rich denies that. He states explicitly
that Clayton had gone when he came in.”
“But the valet says that he would have heard Clayton leave because of the
bang of the door. And also, if Clayton had left, when did he return? He
couldn’t have returned after midnight because the doctor says positively that
he was dead at least two hours before that. That only leaves one alternative.”
“Yes, mon ami?” said Poirot.
“That in the five minutes Clayton was alone in the sitting room, someone
else came in and killed him. But there we have the same objection. Only
someone with a key could come in without the valet’s knowing, and in the
same way the murderer on leaving would have had to bang the door, and that
again the valet would have heard.”
“Exactly,” said Poirot. “And therefore—”
“And therefore—nothing,” I said. “I can see no other solution.”
“It is a pity,” murmured Poirot. “And it is really so exceedingly simple—
as the clear blue eyes of Madame Clayton.”
“You really believe—”
“I believe nothing—until I have got proof. One little proof will convince
me.”
He took up the telephone and called Japp at Scotland Yard.
Twenty minutes later we were standing before a little heap of assorted
objects laid out on a table. They were the contents of the dead man’s pockets.
There was a handkerchief, a handful of loose change, a pocketbook
containing three pounds ten shillings, a couple of bills and a worn snapshot of
Marguerita Clayton. There was also a pocketknife, a gold pencil and a
cumbersome wooden tool.
It was on this latter that Poirot swooped. He unscrewed it and several
small blades fell out.
“You see, Hastings, a gimlet and all the rest of it. Ah! it would be a matter
of a very few minutes to bore a few holes in the chest with this.”
“Those holes we saw?”
“Precisely.”
“You mean it was Clayton who bored them himself?”
“Mais, oui—mais, oui! What did they suggest to you, those holes? They
were not to see through, because they were at the back of the chest. What
were they for, then? Clearly for air? But you do not make air holes for a dead
body, so clearly they were not made by the murderer. They suggest one thing
—and one thing only—that a man was going to hide in that chest. And at
once, on that hypothesis, things become intelligible. Mr. Clayton is jealous of
his wife and Rich. He plays the old, old trick of pretending to go away. He
watches Rich go out, then he gains admission, is left alone to write a note,
quickly bores those holes and hides inside the chest. His wife is coming there
that night. Possibly Rich will put the others off, possibly she will remain after
the others have gone, or pretend to go and return. Whatever it is, Clayton will
know. Anything is preferable to the ghastly torment of suspicion he is
enduring.”
“Then you mean that Rich killed him after the others had gone? But the
doctor said that was impossible.”
“Exactly. So you see, Hastings, he must have been killed during the
evening.”
“But everyone was in the room!”
“Precisely,” said Poirot gravely. “You see the beauty of that? ‘Everyone
was in the room.’ What an alibi! What sang-froid—what nerve—what
audacity!”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Who went behind that screen to wind up the phonograph and change the
records? The phonograph and the chest were side by side, remember. The
others are dancing—the phonograph is playing. And the man who does not
dance lifts the lid of the chest and thrusts the knife he has just slipped into his
sleeve deep into the body of the man who was hiding there.”
“Impossible! The man would cry out.”
“Not if he were drugged first?”
“Drugged?”
“Yes. Who did Clayton have a drink with at seven thirty? Ah! Now you
see. Curtiss! Curtiss has inflamed Clayton’s mind with suspicions against his
wife and Rich. Curtiss suggests this plan—the visit to Scotland, the
concealment in the chest, the final touch of moving the screen. Not so that
Clayton can raise the lid a little and get relief—no, so that he, Curtiss, can
raise that lid unobserved. The plan is Curtiss’s, and observe the beauty of it,
Hastings. If Rich had observed the screen was out of place and moved it back
—well, no harm is done. He can make another plan. Clayton hides in the
chest, the mild narcotic that Curtiss had administered takes effect. He sinks
into unconsciousness. Curtiss lifts up the lid and strikes—and the phonograph
goes on playing ‘Walking My Baby Back Home.’ ”
I found my voice. “Why? But why?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Why did a man shoot himself? Why did two Italians fight a duel? Curtiss
is of a dark passionate temperament. He wanted Marguerita Clayton. With her
husband and Rich out of the way, she would, or so he thought, turn to him.”
He added musingly:
“These simple childlike women . . . they are very dangerous. But mon
Dieu! what an artistic masterpiece! It goes to my heart to hang a man like
that. I may be a genius myself, but I am capable of recognizing genius in
other people. A perfect murder, mon ami. I, Hercule Poirot, say it to you. A
perfect murder. Épatant!”
Thirty-one
DEAD MAN’S MIRROR
“Dead Man’s Mirror” is an expanded version of the story “The Second Gong,” which was
first published in the USA in Ladies’ Home Journal, June 1932, then in The Strand, July 1932.
I
The flat was a modern one. The furnishings of the room were modern, too.
The armchairs were squarely built, the upright chairs were angular. A modern
writing table was set squarely in front of the window, and at it sat a small,
elderly man. His head was practically the only thing in the room that was not
square. It was egg-shaped.
M. Hercule Poirot was reading a letter:
Station: Whimperley.
Telegrams:
Hamborough St. John.
Hamborough Close,
Hamborough St. Mary
Westshire.
September 24th, 1936.
M. Hercule Poirot.
Dear Sir,—A matter has arisen which requires handling with great
delicacy and discretion. I have heard good accounts of you, and have
decided to entrust the matter to you. I have reason to believe that I am
the victim of fraud, but for family reasons I do not wish to call in the
police. I am taking certain measures of my own to deal with the
business, but you must be prepared to come down here immediately on
receipt of a telegram. I should be obliged if you will not answer this
letter.
Yours faithfully,
Gervase Chevenix-Gore.
The eyebrows of M. Hercule Poirot climbed slowly up his forehead until
they nearly disappeared into his hair.
“And who, then,” he demanded of space, “is this Gervase ChevenixGore?”
He crossed to a bookcase and took out a large, fat book.
He found what he wanted easily enough.
Chevenix-Gore, Sir Gervase Francis Xavier, 10th Bt. cr. 1694;
formerly Captain 17th Lancers; b. 18th May, 1878; e.s. of Sir Guy
Chevenix-Gore, 9th Bt., and Lady Claudia Bretherton, 2nd. d. of 8th
Earl of Wallingford. S. father, 1911; m. 1912, Vanda Elizabeth, e.d. of
Colonel Frederick Arbuthnot, q.v.; educ. Eton. Served European War,
1914–18. Recreations: travelling, big game hunting. Address:
Hamborough St. Mary, Westshire, and 218 Lowndes Square, S.W.1.
Clubs: Cavalry. Travellers.
Poirot shook his head in a slightly dissatisfied manner. For a moment or
two he remained lost in thought, then he went to the desk, pulled open a
drawer and took out a little pile of invitation cards.
His face brightened.
“A la bonne heure! Exactly my affair! He will certainly be there.”
II
A duchess greeted M. Hercule Poirot in fulsome tones.
“So you could manage to come after all, M. Poirot! Why, that’s splendid.”
“The pleasure is mine, madame,” murmured Poirot, bowing.
He escaped from several important and splendid beings—a famous
diplomat, an equally famous actress and a well-known sporting peer—and
found at last the person he had come to seek, that invariably “also present”
guest, Mr. Satterthwaite.
Mr. Satterthwaite twittered amiably.
“The dear duchess—I always enjoy her parties . . . Such a personality, if
you know what I mean. I saw a lot of her in Corsica some years ago. . . .”
Mr. Satterthwaite’s conversation was apt to be unduly burdened by
mentions of his titled acquaintances. It is possible that he may sometimes
have found pleasure in the company of Messrs. Jones, Brown or Robinson,
but, if so, he did not mention the fact. And yet, to describe Mr. Satterthwaite
as a mere snob and leave it at that would have been to do him an injustice. He
was a keen observer of human nature, and if it is true that the looker-on
knows most of the game, Mr. Satterthwaite knew a good deal.
“You know, my dear fellow, it is really ages since I saw you. I always feel
myself privileged to have seen you work at close quarters in the Crow’s Nest
business. I feel since then that I am in the know, so to speak. I saw Lady Mary
only last week, by the way. A charming creature—potpourri and lavender!”
After passing lightly on one or two scandals of the moment—the
indiscretions of an earl’s daughter, and the lamentable conduct of a viscount
—Poirot succeeded in introducing the name of Gervase Chevenix-Gore.
Mr. Satterthwaite responded immediately.
“Ah, now, there is a character, if you like! The Last of the Baronets—
that’s his nickname.”
“Pardon, I do not quite comprehend.”
Mr. Satterthwaite unbent indulgently to the lower comprehension of a
foreigner.
“It’s a joke, you know—a joke. Naturally, he’s not really the last baronet
in England—but he does represent the end of an era. The Bold Bad Baronet—
the mad harum-scarum baronet so popular in the novels of the last century—
the kind of fellow who laid impossible wagers and won ’em.”
He went on to expound what he meant in more detail. In younger years,
Gervase Chevenix-Gore had sailed round the world in a windjammer. He had
been on an expedition to the Pole. He had challenged a racing peer to a duel.
For a wager he had ridden his favourite mare up the staircase of a ducal
house. He had once leapt from a box to the stage and carried off a well-known
actress in the middle of her rôle.
The anecdotes of him were innumerable.
“It’s an old family,” went on Mr. Satterthwaite. “Sir Guy de Chevenix
went on the first crusade. Now, alas, the line looks like it’s coming to an end.
Old Gervase is the last Chevenix-Gore.”
“The estate, it is impoverished?”
“Not a bit of it. Gervase is fabulously wealthy. Owns valuable house
property—coalfields—and in addition he staked out a claim to some mine in
Peru or somewhere in South America, when he was a young man, which has
yielded him a fortune. An amazing man. Always lucky in everything he’s
undertaken.”
“He is now an elderly man, of course?”
“Yes, poor old Gervase.” Mr. Satterthwaite sighed, shook his head. “Most
people would describe him to you as mad as a hatter. It’s true, in a way. He is
mad—not in the sense of being certifiable or having delusions—but mad in
the sense of being abnormal. He’s always been a man of great originality of
character.”
“And originality becomes eccentricity as the years go by?” suggested
Poirot.
“Very true. That’s exactly what’s happened to poor old Gervase.”
“He has perhaps, a swollen idea of his own importance?”
“Absolutely. I should imagine that, in Gervase’s mind, the world has
always been divided into two parts—there are the Chevenix-Gores, and the
other people!”
“An exaggerated sense of family!”
“Yes. The Chevenix-Gores are all arrogant as the devil—a law unto
themselves. Gervase, being the last of them, has got it badly. He is—well,
really, you know, to hear him talk, you might imagine him to be—er, the
Almighty!”
Poirot nodded his head slowly and thoughtfully.
“Yes, I imagined that. I have had, you see, a letter from him. It was an
unusual letter. It did not demand. It summoned!”
“A royal command,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, tittering a little.
“Precisely. It did not seem to occur to this Sir Gervase that I, Hercule
Poirot, am a man of importance, a man of infinite affairs! That it was
extremely unlikely that I should be able to fling everything aside and come
hastening like an obedient dog—like a mere nobody, gratified to receive a
commission!”
Mr. Satterthwaite bit his lip in an effort to suppress a smile. It may have
occurred to him that where egoism was concerned, there was not much to
choose between Hercule Poirot and Gervase Chevenix-Gore.
He murmured:
“Of course, if the cause of the summons was urgent—?”
“It was not!” Poirot’s hands rose in the air in an emphatic gesture. “I was
to hold myself at his disposition, that was all, in case he should require me!
Enfin, je vous demande!”
Again the hands rose eloquently, expressing better than words could do
M. Hercule Poirot’s sense of utter outrage.
“I take it,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “that you refused?”
“I have not yet had the opportunity,” said Poirot slowly.
“But you will refuse?”
A new expression passed over the little man’s face. His brow furrowed
itself perplexedly.
He said:
“How can I express myself? To refuse—yes, that was my first instinct.
But I do not know . . . One has, sometimes, a feeling. Faintly, I seem to smell
the fish. . . .”
Mr. Satterthwaite received this last statement without any sign of
amusement.
“Oh?” he said. “That is interesting. . . .”
“It seems to me,” went on Hercule Poirot, “that a man such as you have
described might be very vulnerable—”
“Vulnerable?” queried Mr. Satterthwaite. For the moment he was
surprised. The word was not one that he would naturally have associated with
Gervase Chevenix-Gore. But he was a man of perception, quick in
observation. He said slowly:
“I think I see what you mean.”
“Such a one is encased, is he not, in an armour—such an armour! The
armour of the crusaders was nothing to it—an armour of arrogance, of pride,
of complete self-esteem. This armour, it is in some ways a protection, the
arrows, the everyday arrows of life glance off it. But there is this danger;
Sometimes a man in armour might not even know he was being attacked. He
will be slow to see, slow to hear—slower still to feel.”
He paused, then asked with a change of manner:
“Of what does the family of this Sir Gervase consist?”
“There’s Vanda—his wife. She was an Arbuthnot—very handsome girl.
She’s still quite a handsome woman. Frightfully vague, though. Devoted to
Gervase. She’s got a leaning towards the occult, I believe. Wears amulets and
scarabs and gives out that she’s the reincarnation of an Egyptian Queen . . .
Then there’s Ruth—she’s their adopted daughter. They’ve no children of their
own. Very attractive girl in the modern style. That’s all the family. Except, of
course, for Hugo Trent. He’s Gervase’s nephew. Pamela Chevenix-Gore
married Reggie Trent and Hugo was their only child. He’s an orphan. He can’t
inherit the title, of course, but I imagine he’ll come in for most of Gervase’s
money in the end. Good-looking lad, he’s in the Blues.”
Poirot nodded his head thoughtfully. Then he asked:
“It is a grief to Sir Gervase, yes, that he has no son to inherit his name?”
“I should imagine that it cuts pretty deep.”
“The family name, it is a passion with him?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Satterthwaite was silent a moment or two. He was very intrigued.
Finally he ventured:
“You see a definite reason for going down to Hamborough Close?”
Slowly, Poirot shook his head.
“No,” he said. “As far as I can see, there is no reason at all. But, all the
same, I fancy I shall go.”
III
Hercule Poirot sat in the corner of a first-class carriage speeding through the
English countryside.
Meditatively he took from his pocket a neatly folded telegram, which he
opened and reread:
Take four-thirty from St. Pancras instruct guard have express stopped
at Whimperley.
Chevenix-Gore.
He folded up the telegram again and put it back in his pocket.
The guard on the train had been obsequious. The gentleman was going to
Hamborough Close? Oh, yes, Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore’s guests always had
the express stopped at Whimperley. “A special kind of prerogative, I think it
is, sir.”
Since then the guard had paid two visits to the carriage—the first in order
to assure the traveller that everything would be done to keep the carriage for
himself, the second to announce that the express was running ten minutes late.
The train was due to arrive at 7:50, but it was exactly two minutes past
eight when Hercule Poirot descended on to the platform of the little country
station and pressed the expected half crown into the attentive guard’s hand.
There was a whistle from the engine, and the Northern Express began to
move once more. A tall chauffeur in dark green uniform stepped up to Poirot.
“Mr. Poirot? For Hamborough Close?”
He picked up the detective’s neat valise and led the way out of the station.
A big Rolls was waiting. The chauffeur held the door open for Poirot to get in,
arranged a sumptuous fur rug over his knees, and they drove off.
After some ten minutes of cross-country driving, round sharp corners and
down country lanes, the car turned in at a wide gateway flanked with huge
stone griffons.
They drove through a park and up to the house. The door of it was opened
as they drew up, and a butler of imposing proportions showed himself upon
the front step.
“Mr. Poirot? This way, sir.”
He led the way along the hall and threw open a door halfway along it on
the right.
“Mr. Hercule Poirot,” he announced.
The room contained a number of people in evening dress, and as Poirot
walked in his quick eyes perceived at once that his appearance was not
expected. The eyes of all present rested on him in unfeigned surprise.
Then a tall woman, whose dark hair was threaded with grey, made an
uncertain advance towards him.
Poirot bowed over her hand.
“My apologies, madame,” he said. “I fear that my train was late.”
“Not at all,” said Lady Chevenix-Gore vaguely. Her eyes still stared at
him in a puzzled fashion. “Not at all, Mr.—er—I didn’t quite hear—”
“Hercule Poirot.”
He said the name clearly and distinctly.
Somewhere behind him he heard a sudden sharp intake of breath.
At the same time he realized that clearly his host could not be in the room.
He murmured gently:
“You knew I was coming, madame?”
“Oh—oh, yes . . .” Her manner was not convincing. “I think—I mean I
suppose so, but I am so terribly impractical, M. Poirot. I forget everything.”
Her tone held a melancholy pleasure in the fact. “I am told things. I appear to
take them in—but they just pass through my brain and are gone! Vanished! As
though they had never been.”
Then, with a slight air of performing a duty long overdue, she glanced
round her vaguely and murmured:
“I expect you know everybody.”
Though this was patently not the case, the phrase was clearly a well-worn
formula by means of which Lady Chevenix-Gore spared herself the trouble of
introduction and the strain of remembering people’s right names.
Making a supreme effort to meet the difficulties of this particular case, she
added:
“My daughter—Ruth.”
The girl who stood before him was also tall and dark, but she was of a
very different type. Instead of the flattish, indeterminate features of Lady
Chevenix-Gore, she had a well-chiselled nose, slightly aquiline, and a clear,
sharp line of jaw. Her black hair swept back from her face into a mass of little
tight curls. Her colouring was of carnation clearness and brilliance, and owed
little to makeup. She was, so Hercule Poirot thought, one of the loveliest girls
he had seen.
He recognized, too, that she had brains as well as beauty, and guessed at
certain qualities of pride and temper. Her voice, when she spoke, came with a
slight drawl that struck him as deliberately put on.
“How exciting,” she said, “to entertain M. Hercule Poirot! The old man
arranged a little surprise for us, I suppose.”
“So you did not know I was coming, mademoiselle?” he said quickly.
“I hadn’t an idea of it. As it is, I must postpone getting my autograph book
until after dinner.”
The notes of a gong sounded from the hall, then the butler opened the
door and announced:
“Dinner is served.”
And then, almost before the last word, “served,” had been uttered,
something very curious happened. The pontificial domestic figure became,
just for one moment, a highly astonished human being. . . .
The metamorphosis was so quick and the mask of the well-trained servant
was back again so soon, that anyone who had not happened to be looking
would not have noticed the change. Poirot, however, had happened to be
looking. He wondered.
The butler hesitated in the doorway. Though his face was again correctly
expressionless, an air of tension hung about his figure.
Lady Chevenix-Gore said uncertainly:
“Oh, dear—this is most extraordinary. Really, I—one hardly knows what
to do.”
Ruth said to Poirot:
“This singular consternation, M. Poirot, is occasioned by the fact that my
father, for the first time for at least twenty years, is late for dinner.”
“It is most extraordinary—” wailed Lady Chevenix-Gore. “Gervase never
—”
An elderly man of upright soldierly carriage came to her side. He laughed
genially.
“Good old Gervase! Late at last! Upon my word, we’ll rag him over this.
Elusive collar stud, d’you think? Or is Gervase immune from our common
weaknesses?”
Lady Chevenix-Gore said in a low, puzzled voice:
“But Gervase is never late.”
It was almost ludicrous, the consternation caused by this simple
contretemps. And yet, to Hercule Poirot, it was not ludicrous . . . Behind the
consternation he felt uneasiness—perhaps even apprehension. And he, too,
found it strange that Gervase Chevenix-Gore should not appear to greet the
guest he had summoned in such a mysterious manner.
In the meantime, it was clear that nobody knew quite what to do. An
unprecedented situation had arisen with which nobody knew how to deal.
Lady Chevenix-Gore at last took the initiative, if initiative it can be called.
Certainly her manner was vague in the extreme.
“Snell,” she said, “is your master—?”
She did not finish the sentence, merely looked at the butler expectantly.
Snell, who was clearly used to his mistress’s methods of seeking
information, replied promptly to the unspecified question:
“Sir Gervase came downstairs at five minutes to eight, m’lady, and went
straight to the study.”
“Oh, I see—” Her mouth remained open, her eyes seemed far away. “You
don’t think—I mean—he heard the gong?”
“I think he must have done so, m’lady, the gong being immediately
outside the study door. I did not, of course, know that Sir Gervase was still in
the study, otherwise I should have announced to him that dinner was ready.
Shall I do so now, m’lady?”
Lady Chevenix-Gore seized on the suggestion with manifest relief.
“Oh, thank you, Snell. Yes, please do. Yes, certainly.”
She said, as the butler left the room:
“Snell is such a treasure. I rely on him absolutely. I really don’t know
what I should do without Snell.”
Somebody murmured a sympathetic assent, but nobody spoke. Hercule
Poirot, watching that room full of people with suddenly sharpened attention,
had an idea that one and all were in a state of tension. His eyes ran quickly
over them, tabulating them roughly. Two elderly men, the soldierly one who
had spoken just now, and a thin, spare, grey-haired man with closely pinched
legal lips. Two youngish men—very different in type from each other. One
with a moustache and an air of modest arrogance, he guessed to be possibly
Sir Gervase’s nephew, the one in the Blues. The other, with sleek brushedback hair and a rather obvious style of good looks, he put down as of a
definitely inferior social class. There was a small middle-aged woman with
pince-nez and intelligent eyes, and there was a girl with flaming red hair.
Snell appeared at the door. His manner was perfect, but once again the
veneer of the impersonal butler showed signs of the perturbed human being
beneath the surface.
“Excuse me, m’lady, the study door is locked.”
“Locked?”
It was a man’s voice—young, alert, with a ring of excitement in it. It was
the good-looking young man with the slicked-back hair who had spoken. He
went on, hurrying forward:
“Shall I go and see—?”
But very quietly Hercule Poirot took command. He did it so naturally that
no one thought it odd that this stranger, who had just arrived, should suddenly
assume charge of the situation.
“Come,” he said. “Let us go to the study.”
He continued, speaking to Snell:
“Lead the way, if you please.”
Snell obeyed. Poirot followed close behind him, and, like a flock of sheep,
everyone else followed.
Snell led the way through the big hall, past the great branching curve of
the staircase, past an enormous grandfather clock and a recess in which stood
a gong, along a narrow passage which ended in a door.
Here Poirot passed Snell and gently tried the handle. It turned, but the
door did not open. Poirot rapped gently with his knuckles on the panel of the
door. He rapped louder and louder. Then, suddenly desisting, he dropped to
his knees and applied his eye to the keyhole.
Slowly he rose to his feet and looked round. His face was stern.
“Gentlemen!” he said. “This door must be broken open immediately!”
Under his direction the two young men, who were both tall and
powerfully built, attacked the door. It was no easy matter. The doors of
Hamborough Close were solidly built.
At last, however, the lock gave, and the door swung inwards with a noise
of splintering, rending wood.
And then, for a moment, everyone stood still, huddled in the doorway
looking at the scene inside. The lights were on. Along the left-hand wall was
a big writing table, a massive affair of solid mahogany. Sitting, not at the
table, but sideways to it, so that his back was directly towards them, was a big
man slouched down in a chair. His head and the upper part of his body hung
down over the right side of the chair, and his right hand and arm hung limply
down. Just below it on the carpet was a small, gleaming pistol. . . .
There was no need of speculation. The picture was clear. Sir Gervase
Chevenix-Gore had shot himself.
IV
For a moment or two the group in the doorway stood motionless, staring at
the scene. Then Poirot strode forward.
At the same moment Hugo Trent said crisply:
“My God, the Old Man’s shot himself!”
And there was a long, shuddering moan from Lady Chevenix-Gore.
“Oh, Gervase—Gervase!”
Over his shoulder Poirot said sharply:
“Take Lady Chevenix-Gore away. She can do nothing here.”
The elderly soldierly man obeyed. He said:
“Come, Vanda. Come, my dear. You can do nothing. It’s all over. Ruth,
come and look after your mother.”
But Ruth Chevenix-Gore had pressed into the room and stood close by
Poirot’s side as he bent over the dreadful sprawled figure in the chair—the
figure of a man of Herculean build with a Viking beard.
She said in a low, tense voice, curiously restrained and muffled:
“You’re quite sure he’s—dead?”
Poirot looked up.
The girl’s face was alive with some emotion—an emotion sternly checked
and repressed—that he did not quite understand. It was not grief—it seemed
more like a kind of half-fearful excitement.
The little woman in the pince-nez murmured:
“Your mother, my dear—don’t you think—?”
In a high, hysterical voice the girl with the red hair cried out:
“Then it wasn’t a car or a champagne cork! It was a shot we heard. . . .”
Poirot turned and faced them all.
“Somebody must communicate with the police—”
Ruth Chevenix-Gore cried out violently:
“No!”
The elderly man with the legal face said:
“Unavoidable, I am afraid. Will you see to that, Burrows? Hugo—”
Poirot said:
“You are Mr. Hugo Trent?” to the tall young man with the moustache. “It
would be well, I think, if everyone except you and I were to leave this room.”
Again his authority was not questioned. The lawyer shepherded the others
away. Poirot and Hugo Trent were left alone.
The latter said, staring:
“Look here—who are you? I mean, I haven’t the foggiest idea. What are
you doing here?”
Poirot took a card case from his pocket and selected a card.
Hugo Trent said, staring at it:
“Private detective—eh? Of course, I’ve heard of you . . . But I still don’t
see what you are doing here.”
“You did not know that your uncle—he was your uncle, was he not—?”
Hugo’s eyes dropped for a fleeting moment to the dead man.
“The Old Man? Yes, he was my uncle all right.”
“You did not know that he had sent for me?”
Hugo shook his head. He said slowly:
“I’d no idea of it.”
There was an emotion in his voice that was rather hard to classify. His
face looked wooden and stupid—the kind of expression, Poirot thought, that
made a useful mask in times of stress.
Poirot said quietly:
“We are in Westshire, are we not? I know your Chief Constable, Major
Riddle, very well.”
Hugo said:
“Riddle lives about half a mile away. He’ll probably come over himself.”
“That,” said Poirot, “will be very convenient.”
He began prowling gently round the room. He twitched aside the window
curtain and examined the French windows, trying them gently. They were
closed.
On the wall behind the desk there hung a round mirror. The mirror was
shivered. Poirot bent down and picked up a small object.
“What’s that?” asked Hugo Trent.
“The bullet.”
“It passed straight through his head and struck the mirror?”
“It seems so.”
Poirot replaced the bullet meticulously where he had found it. He came up
to the desk. Some papers were arranged neatly stacked in heaps. On the
blotting pad itself there was a loose sheet of paper with the word SORRY
printed across it in large, shaky handwriting.
Hugo said: “He must have written that just before he—did it.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
He looked again at the smashed mirror, then at the dead man. His brow
creased itself a little as though in perplexity. He went over to the door, where
it hung crookedly with its splintered lock. There was no key in the door, as he
knew—otherwise he would not have been able to see through the keyhole.
There was no sign of it on the floor. Poirot leaned over the dead man and ran
his fingers over him.
“Yes,” he said. “The key is in his pocket.”
Hugo drew out a cigarette case and lighted a cigarette. He spoke rather
hoarsely.
“It seems all quite clear,” he said. “My uncle shut himself up in here,
scrawled that message on a piece of paper, and then shot himself.”
Poirot nodded meditatively. Hugo went on:
“But I don’t understand why he sent for you. What was it all about?”
“That is rather more difficult to explain. While we are waiting, Mr. Trent,
for the authorities to take charge, perhaps you will tell me exactly who all the
people are whom I saw tonight when I arrived?”
“Who they are?” Hugo spoke almost absently. “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry.
Shall we sit down?” He indicated a settee in the farthest corner of the room
from the body. He went on, speaking jerkily: “Well, there’s Vanda—my aunt,
you know. And Ruth, my cousin. But you know them. Then the other girl is
Susan Cardwell. She’s just staying here. And there’s Colonel Bury. He’s an
old friend of the family. And Mr. Forbes. He’s an old friend, too, beside being
the family lawyer and all that. Both the old boys had a passion for Vanda
when she was young, and they still hang round in a faithful, devoted sort of
way. Ridiculous, but rather touching. Then there’s Godfrey Burrows, the Old
Man’s—I mean my uncle’s—secretary, and Miss Lingard, who’s here to help
him write a history of the Chevenix-Gores. She mugs up historical stuff for
writers. That’s the lot, I think.”
Poirot nodded. Then he said:
“And I understand you actually heard the shot that killed your uncle?”
“Yes, we did. Thought it was a champagne cork—at least, I did. Susan
and Miss Lingard thought it was a car backfiring outside—the road runs quite
near, you know.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, about ten past eight. Snell had just sounded the first gong.”
“And where were you when you heard it?”
“In the hall. We—we were laughing about it—arguing, you know, as to
where the sound came from. I said it came from the dining room, and Susan
said it came from the direction of the drawing room, and Miss Lingard said it
sounded like upstairs, and Snell said it came from the road outside, only it
came through the upstairs windows. And Susan said, “Any more theories?”
And I laughed and said there was always murder! Seems pretty rotten to think
of it now.”
His face twitched nervously.
“It did not occur to anyone that Sir Gervase might have shot himself?”
“No, of course not.”
“You have, in fact, no idea why he should have shot himself?”
Hugo said slowly:
“Oh, well, I shouldn’t say that—”
“You have an idea?”
“Yes—well—it’s difficult to explain. Naturally I didn’t expect him to
commit suicide, but all the same I’m not frightfully surprised. The truth of it
is that my uncle was as mad as a hatter, M. Poirot. Everyone knew that.”
“That strikes you as a sufficient explanation?”
“Well, people do shoot themselves when they’re a bit barmy.”
“An explanation of an admirable simplicity.”
Hugo stared.
Poirot got up again and wandered aimlessly round the room. It was
comfortably furnished, mainly in a rather heavy Victorian style. There were
massive bookcases, huge armchairs, and some upright chairs of genuine
Chippendale. There were not many ornaments, but some bronzes on the
mantelpiece attracted Poirot’s attention and apparently stirred his admiration.
He picked them up one by one, carefully examining them before replacing
them with care. From the one on the extreme left he detached something with
a fingernail.
“What’s that?” asked Hugo without much interest.
“Nothing very much. A tiny sliver of looking glass.”
Hugo said:
“Funny the way that mirror was smashed by the shot. A broken mirror
means bad luck. Poor old Gervase . . . I suppose his luck had held a bit too
long.”
“Your uncle was a lucky man?”
Hugo gave a short laugh.
“Why, his luck was proverbial! Everything he touched turned to gold! If
he backed an outsider, it romped home! If he invested in a doubtful mine, they
struck a vein of ore at once! He’s had the most amazing escapes from the
tightest of tight places. His life’s been saved by a kind of miracle more than
once. He was rather a fine old boy, in his way, you know. He’d certainly ‘been
places and seen things’—more than most of his generation.”
Poirot murmured in a conversational tone:
“You were attached to your uncle, Mr. Trent?”
Hugo Trent seemed a little startled by the question.
“Oh—er—yes, of course,” he said rather vaguely. “You know, he was a
bit difficult at times. Frightful strain to live with, and all that. Fortunately I
didn’t have to see much of him.”
“He was fond of you?”
“Not so that you’d notice it! As a matter of fact, he rather resented my
existence, so to speak.”
“How was that, Mr. Trent?”
“Well, you see, he had no son of his own—and he was pretty sore about it.
He was mad about family and all that sort of thing. I believe it cut him to the
quick to know that when he died the Chevenix-Gores would cease to exist.
They’ve been going ever since the Norman Conquest, you know. The Old
Man was the last of them. I suppose it was rather rotten from his point of
view.”
“You yourself do not share that sentiment?”
Hugo shrugged his shoulders.
“All that sort of thing seems to me rather out of date.”
“What will happen to the estate?”
“Don’t really know. I might get it. Or he may have left it to Ruth.
Probably Vanda has it for her lifetime.”
“Your uncle did not definitely declare his intentions?”
“Well, he had his pet idea.”
“And what was that?”
“His idea was that Ruth and I should make a match of it.”
“That would doubtless have been very suitable.”
“Eminently suitable. But Ruth—well, Ruth has very decided views of her
own about life. Mind you, she’s an extremely attractive young woman, and
she knows it. She’s in no hurry to marry and settle down.”
Poirot leaned forward.
“But you yourself would have been willing, M. Trent?”
Hugo said in a bored tone of voice:
“I really can’t see it makes a ha’p’orth of difference who you marry
nowadays. Divorce is so easy. If you’re not hitting it off, nothing is easier
than to cut the tangle and start again.”
The door opened and Forbes entered with a tall, spruce-looking man.
The latter nodded to Trent.
“Hallo, Hugo. I’m extremely sorry about this. Very rough on all of you.”
Hercule Poirot came forward.
“How do you do, Major Riddle? You remember me?”
“Yes, indeed.” The chief constable shook hands. “So you’re down here?”
There was a meditative note in his voice. He glanced curiously at Hercule
Poirot.
V
“Well?” said Major Riddle.
It was twenty minutes later. The chief constable’s interrogative “Well?”
was addressed to the police surgeon, a lank elderly man with grizzled hair.
The latter shrugged his shoulders.
“He’s been dead over half an hour—but not more than an hour. You don’t
want technicalities, I know, so I’ll spare you them. The man was shot through
the head, the pistol being held a few inches from the right temple. Bullet
passed right through the brain and out again.”
“Perfectly compatible with suicide?”
“Oh, perfectly. The body then slumped down in the chair, and the pistol
dropped from his hand.”
“You’ve got the bullet?”
“Yes.” The doctor held it up.
“Good,” said Major Riddle. “We’ll keep it for comparison with the pistol.
Glad it’s a clear case and no difficulties.”
Hercule Poirot asked gently:
“You are sure there are no difficulties, Doctor?”
The doctor replied slowly:
“Well, I suppose you might call one thing a little odd. When he shot
himself he must have been leaning slightly over to the right. Otherwise the
bullet would have hit the wall below the mirror, instead of plumb in the
middle.”
“An uncomfortable position in which to commit suicide,” said Poirot.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, well—comfort—if you’re going to end it all—” He left the sentence
unfinished.
Major Riddle said:
“The body can be moved now?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve done with it until the P.-M.”
“What about you, Inspector?” Major Riddle spoke to a tall impassivefaced man in plain clothes.
“O.K., sir. We’ve got all we want. Only the deceased’s fingerprints on the
pistol.”
“Then you can get on with it.”
The mortal remains of Gervase Chevenix-Gore were removed. The chief
constable and Poirot were left together.
“Well,” said Riddle, “everything seems quite clear and aboveboard. Door
locked, window fastened, key of door in dead man’s pocket. Everything
according to Cocker—but for one circumstance.”
“And what is that, my friend?” inquired Poirot.
“You!” said Riddle bluntly. “What are you doing down here?”
By way of reply, Poirot handed to him the letter he had received from the
dead man a week ago, and the telegram which had finally brought him there.
“Humph,” said the chief constable. “Interesting. We’ll have to get to the
bottom of this. I should say it had a direct bearing upon his suicide.”
“I agree.”
“We must check up on who is in the house.”
“I can tell you their names. I have just been making inquiries of Mr.
Trent.”
He repeated the list of names.
“Perhaps you, Major Riddle, know something about these people?”
“I know something of them, naturally. Lady Chevenix-Gore is quite as
mad in her own way as old Sir Gervase. They were devoted to each other—
and both quite mad. She’s the vaguest creature that ever lived, with an
occasional uncanny shrewdness that strikes the nail on the head in the most
surprising fashion. People laugh at her a good deal. I think she knows it, but
she doesn’t care. She’s absolutely no sense of humour.”
“Miss Chevenix-Gore is only their adopted daughter, I understand?”
“Yes.”
“A very handsome young lady.”
“She’s a devilishly attractive girl. Has played havoc with most of the
young fellows round here. Leads them all on and then turns round and laughs
at them. Good seat on a horse, and wonderful hands.”
“That, for the moment, does not concern us.”
“Er—no, perhaps not . . . Well, about the other people. I know old Bury,
of course. He’s here most of the time. Almost a tame cat about the house.
Kind of A.D.C. to Lady Chevenix-Gore. He’s a very old friend. They’ve
known him all their lives. I think he and Sir Gervase were both interested in
some company of which Bury was a director.”
“Oswald Forbes, do you know anything of him?”
“I rather believe I’ve met him once.”
“Miss Lingard?”
“Never heard of her.”
“Miss Susan Cardwell?”
“Rather a good-looking girl with red hair? I’ve seen her about with Ruth
Chevenix-Gore the last few days.”
“Mr. Burrows?”
“Yes, I know him. Chevenix-Gore’s secretary. Between you and me, I
don’t take to him much. He’s good-looking, and knows it. Not quite out of the
top drawer.”
“Had he been with Sir Gervase long?”
“About two years, I fancy.”
“And there is no one else—?”
Poirot broke off.
A tall, fair-haired man in a lounge suit came hurrying in. He was out of
breath and looked disturbed.
“Good evening, Major Riddle. I heard a rumour that Sir Gervase had shot
himself, and I hurried up here. Snell tells me it’s true. It’s incredible! I can’t
believe it!”
“It’s true enough, Lake. Let me introduce you. This is Captain Lake, Sir
Gervase’s agent for the estate. M. Hercule Poirot, of whom you may have
heard.”
Lake’s face lit up with what seemed a kind of delighted incredulity.
“M. Hercule Poirot? I’m most awfully pleased to meet you. At least—”
He broke off, the quick charming smile vanished—he looked disturbed and
upset. “There isn’t anything—fishy—about this suicide, is there, sir?”
“Why should there be anything ‘fishy,’ as you call it?” asked the chief
constable sharply.
“I mean, because M. Poirot is here. Oh, and because the whole business
seems so incredible!”
“No, no,” said Poirot quickly. “I am not here on account of the death of
Sir Gervase. I was already in the house—as a guest.”
“Oh, I see. Funny, he never told me you were coming when I was going
over accounts with him this afternoon.”
Poirot said quietly:
“You have twice used the word ‘incredible,’ Captain Lake. Are you, then,
so surprised to hear of Sir Gervase commiting suicide?”
“Indeed I am. Of course, he was mad as a hatter; everyone would agree
about that. But all the same, I simply can’t imagine his thinking the world
would be able to get on without him.”
“Yes,” said Poirot. “It is a point, that.” And he looked with appreciation at
the frank, intelligent countenance of the young man.
Major Riddle cleared his throat.
“Since you are here, Captain Lake, perhaps you will sit down and answer
a few questions.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Lake took a chair opposite the other two.
“When did you last see Sir Gervase?”
“This afternoon, just before three o’clock. There were some accounts to
be checked, and the question of a new tenant for one of the farms.”
“How long were you with him?”
“Perhaps half an hour.”
“Think carefully, and tell me whether you noticed anything unusual in his
manner.”
The young man considered.
“No, I hardly think so. He was, perhaps, a trifle excited—but that wasn’t
unusual with him.”
“He was not depressed in any way?”
“Oh, no, he seemed in good spirits. He was enjoying himself very much
just now, writing up a history of the family.”
“How long had he been doing this?”
“He began it about six months ago.”
“Is that when Miss Lingard came here?”
“No. She arrived about two months ago when he had discovered that he
could not manage the necessary research work by himself.”
“And you consider he was enjoying himself?”
“Oh, simply enormously! He really didn’t think that anything else
mattered in the world except his family.”
There was a momentary bitterness in the young man’s tone.
“Then, as far as you know, Sir Gervase had no worries of any kind?”
There was a slight—a very slight—pause before Captain Lake answered.
“No.”
Poirot suddenly interposed a question:
“Sir Gervase was not, you think, worried about his daughter in any way?”
“His daughter?”
“That is what I said.”
“Not as far as I know,” said the young man stiffly.
Poirot said nothing further. Major Riddle said:
“Well, thank you, Lake. Perhaps you’d stay around in case I might want to
ask you anything.”
“Certainly, sir.” He rose. “Anything I can do?”
“Yes, you might send the butler here. And perhaps you’d find out for me
how Lady Chevenix-Gore is, and if I could have a few words with her
presently, or if she’s too upset.”
The young man nodded and left the room with a quick, decisive step.
“An attractive personality,” said Hercule Poirot.
“Yes, nice fellow, and good at his job. Everyone likes him.”
VI
“Sit down, Snell,” said Major Riddle in a friendly tone. “I’ve a good many
questions to ask you, and I expect this has been a shock to you.”
“Oh, it has indeed, sir. Thank you, sir.” Snell sat down with such a
discreet air that it was practically the same as though he had remained on his
feet.
“Been here a good long time, haven’t you?”
“Sixteen years, sir, ever since Sir Gervase—er—settled down, so to
speak.”
“Ah, yes, of course, your master was a great traveller in his day.”
“Yes, sir. He went on an expedition to the Pole and many other interesting
places.”
“Now, Snell, can you tell me when you last saw your master this
evening?”
“I was in the dining room, sir, seeing that the table arrangements were all
complete. The door into the hall was open, and I saw Sir Gervase come down
the stairs, cross the hall and go along the passage to the study.”
“That was at what time?”
“Just before eight o’clock. It might have been as much as five minutes
before eight.”
“And that was the last you saw of him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you hear a shot?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, sir; but of course I had no idea at the time—how should
I have had?”
“What did you think it was?”
“I thought it was a car, sir. The road runs quite near the park wall. Or it
might have been a shot in the woods—a poacher, perhaps. I never dreamed
—”
Major Riddle cut him short.
“What time was that?”
“It was exactly eight minutes past eight, sir.”
The chief constable said sharply:
“How is it you can fix the time to a minute?”
“That’s easy, sir. I had just sounded the first gong.”
“The first gong?”
“Yes, sir. By Sir Gervase’s orders, a gong was always to be sounded seven
minutes before the actual dinner gong. Very particular he was, sir, that
everyone should be assembled ready in the drawing room when the second
gong went. As soon as I had sounded the second gong, I went to the drawing
room and announced dinner, and everyone went in.”
“I begin to understand,” said Hercule Poirot, “why you looked so
surprised when you announced dinner this evening. It was usual for Sir
Gervase to be in the drawing room?”
“I’d never known him not be there before, sir. It was quite a shock. I little
thought—”
Again Major Riddle interrupted adroitly:
“And were the others also usually there?”
Snell coughed.
“Anyone who was late for dinner, sir, was never asked to the house
again.”
“H’m, very drastic.”
“Sir Gervase, sir, employed a chef who was formerly with the Emperor of
Moravia. He used to say, sir, that dinner was as important as a religious
ritual.”
“And what about his own family?”
“Lady Chevenix-Gore was always very particular not to upset him, sir,
and even Miss Ruth dared not be late for dinner.”
“Interesting,” murmured Hercule Poirot.
“I see,” said Riddle. “So, dinner being at a quarter past eight, you sounded
the first gong at eight minutes past as usual?”
“That is so, sir—but it wasn’t as usual. Dinner was usually at eight. Sir
Gervase gave orders that dinner was to be a quarter of an hour later this
evening, as he was expecting a gentleman by the late train.”
Snell made a little bow towards Poirot as he spoke.
“When your master went to the study, did he look upset or worried in any
way?”
“I could not say, sir. It was too far for me to judge of his expression. I just
noticed him, that was all.”
“Was he left alone when he went to the study?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did anyone go to the study after that?”
“I could not say, sir. I went to the butler’s pantry after that, and was there
until I sounded the first gong at eight minutes past eight.”
“That was when you heard the shot?”
“Yes, sir.”
Poirot gently interposed a question.
“There were others, I think, who also heard the shot?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Hugo and Miss Cardwell. And Miss Lingard.”
“These people were also in the hall?”
“Miss Lingard came out from the drawing room, and Miss Cardwell and
Mr. Hugo were just coming down the stairs.”
Poirot asked:
“Was there any conversation about the matter?”
“Well, sir, Mr. Hugo asked if there was champagne for dinner. I told him
that sherry, hock and burgundy were being served.”
“He thought it was a champagne cork?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But nobody took it seriously?”
“Oh, no, sir. They all went into the drawing room talking and laughing.”
“Where were the other members of the household?”
“I could not say, sir.”
Major Riddle said:
“Do you know anything about this pistol?” He held it out as he spoke.
“Oh, yes, sir. That belonged to Sir Gervase. He always kept it in the
drawer of his desk in here.”
“Was it usually loaded?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
Major Riddle laid down the pistol and cleared his throat.
“Now, Snell, I’m going to ask you a rather important question. I hope you
will answer it as truthfully as you can. Do you know of any reason which
might lead your master to commit suicide?”
“No, sir. I know of nothing.”
“Sir Gervase had not been odd in his manner of late? Not depressed? Or
worried?”
Snell coughed apologetically.
“You’ll excuse my saying it, sir, but Sir Gervase was always what might
have seemed to strangers a little odd in his manner. He was a highly original
gentleman, sir.”
“Yes, yes, I am quite aware of that.”
“Outsiders, sir, did not always Understand Sir Gervase.”
Snell gave the phrase a definite value of capital letter.
“I know. I know. But there was nothing that you would have called
unusual?”
The butler hesitated.
“I think, sir, that Sir Gervase was worried about something,” he said at
last.
“Worried and depressed?”
“I shouldn’t say depressed, sir. But worried, yes.”
“Have you any idea of the cause of that worry?”
“No, sir.”
“Was it connected with any particular person, for instance?”
“I could not say at all, sir. In any case, it is only an impression of mine.”
Poirot spoke again.
“You were surprised at his suicide?”
“Very surprised, sir. It has been a terrible shock to me. I never dreamed of
such a thing.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
Riddle glanced at him, then he said:
“Well, Snell, I think that is all we want to ask you. You are quite sure that
there is nothing else you can tell us—no unusual incident, for instance, that
has happened in the last few days?”
The butler, rising to his feet, shook his head.
“There is nothing, sir, nothing whatever.”
“Then you can go.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Moving towards the doorway, Snell drew back and stood aside. Lady
Chevenix-Gore floated into the room.
She was wearing an oriental-looking garment of purple and orange silk
wound tightly round her body. Her face was serene and her manner collected
and calm.
“Lady Chevenix-Gore.” Major Riddle sprang to his feet.
She said:
“They told me you would like to talk to me, so I came.”
“Shall we go into another room? This must be painful for you in the
extreme.”
Lady Chevenix-Gore shook her head and sat down on one of the
Chippendale chairs. She murmured:
“Oh, no, what does it matter?”
“It is very good of you, Lady Chevenix-Gore, to put your feelings aside. I
know what a frightful shock this must have been and—”
She interrupted him.
“It was rather a shock at first,” she admitted. Her tone was easy and
conversational. “But there is no such thing as Death, really, you know, only
Change.” She added: “As a matter of fact, Gervase is standing just behind
your left shoulder now. I can see him distinctly.”
Major Riddle’s left shoulder twitched slightly. He looked at Lady
Chevenix-Gore rather doubtfully.
She smiled at him, a vague, happy smile.
“You don’t believe, of course! So few people will. To me, the spirit world
is quite as real as this one. But please ask me anything you like, and don’t
worry about distressing me. I’m not in the least distressed. Everything, you
see, is Fate. One cannot escape one’s Karma. It all fits in—the mirror—
everything.”
“The mirror, madame?” asked Poirot.
She nodded her head towards it vaguely.
“Yes. It’s splintered, you see. A symbol! You know Tennyson’s poem? I
used to read it as a girl—though, of course, I didn’t realise then the esoteric
side of it. ‘The mirror cracked from side to side. “The curse is come upon
me!” cried the Lady of Shalott.’ That’s what happened to Gervase. The Curse
came upon him suddenly. I think, you know, most very old families have a
curse . . . the mirror cracked. He knew that he was doomed! The Curse had
come!”
“But, madame, it was not a curse that cracked the mirror—it was a
bullet!”
Lady Chevenix-Gore said, still in the same sweet vague manner:
“It’s all the same thing, really . . . It was Fate.”
“But your husband shot himself.”
Lady Chevenix-Gore smiled indulgently.
“He shouldn’t have done that, of course. But Gervase was always
impatient. He could never wait. His hour had come—he went forward to meet
it. It’s all so simple, really.”
Major Riddle, clearing his throat in exasperation, said sharply:
“Then you weren’t surprised at your husband’s taking his own life? Had
you been expecting such a thing to happen?”
“Oh, no.” Her eyes opened wide. “One can’t always foresee the future.
Gervase, of course, was a very strange man, a very unusual man. He was
quite unlike anyone else. He was one of the Great Ones born again. I’ve
known that for some time. I think he knew it himself. He found it very hard to
conform to the silly little standards of the everyday world.” She added,
looking over Major Riddle’s shoulder, “He’s smiling now. He’s thinking how
foolish we all are. So we are really. Just like children. Pretending that life is
real and that it matters . . . Life is only one of the Great Illusions.”
Feeling that he was fighting a losing battle, Major Riddle asked
desperately:
“You can’t help us at all as to why your husband should have taken his
life?”
She shrugged her thin shoulders.
“Forces move us—they move us . . . You cannot understand. You move
only on the material plane.”
Poirot coughed.
“Talking of the material plane, have you any idea, madame, as to how
your husband has left his money?”
“Money?” she stared at him. “I never think of money.”
Her tone was disdainful.
Poirot switched to another point.
“At what time did you come downstairs to dinner tonight?”
“Time? What is Time? Infinite, that is the answer. Time is infinite.”
Poirot murmured:
“But your husband, madame, was rather particular about time—especially,
so I have been told, as regards the dinner hour.”
“Dear Gervase,” she smiled indulgently. “He was very foolish about that.
But it made him happy. So we were never late.”
“Were you in the drawing room, madame, when the first gong went?”
“No, I was in my room then.”
“Do you remember who was in the drawing room when you did come
down?”
“Nearly everybody, I think,” said Lady Chevenix-Gore vaguely. “Does it
matter?”
“Possibly not,” admitted Poirot. “Then there is something else. Did your
husband ever tell you that he suspected he was being robbed?”
Lady Chevenix-Gore did not seem much interested in the question.
“Robbed? No, I don’t think so.”
“Robbed, swindled—victimized in some way—?”
“No—no—I don’t think so . . . Gervase would have been very angry if
anybody had dared to do anything like that.”
“At any rate he said nothing about it to you?”
“No—no.” Lady Chevenix-Gore shook her head, still without much real
interest. “I should have remembered. . . .”
“When did you last see your husband alive?”
“He looked in, as usual, on his way downstairs before dinner. My maid
was there. He just said he was going down.”
“What has he talked about most in the last few weeks?”
“Oh, the family history. He was getting on so well with it. He found that
funny old thing, Miss Lingard, quite invaluable. She looked up things for him
in the British Museum—all that sort of thing. She worked with Lord
Mulcaster on his book, you know. And she was tactful—I mean, she didn’t
look up the wrong things. After all, there are ancestors one doesn’t want raked
up. Gervase was very sensitive. She helped me, too. She got a lot of
information for me about Hatshepsut. I am a reincarnation of Hatshepsut, you
know.”
Lady Chevenix-Gore made this announcement in a calm voice.
“Before that,” she went on, “I was a Priestess in Atlantis.”
Major Riddle shifted a little in his chair.
“Er—er—very interesting,” he said. “Well, really, Lady Chevenix-Gore, I
think that will be all. Very kind of you.”
Lady Chevenix-Gore rose, clasping her oriental robes about her.
“Goodnight,” she said. And then, her eyes shifting to a point behind Major
Riddle. “Goodnight, Gervase dear. I wish you could come, but I know you
have to stay here.” She added in an explanatory fashion, “You have to stay in
the place where you’ve passed over for at least twenty-four hours. It’s some
time before you can move about freely and communicate.”
She trailed out of the room.
Major Riddle wiped his brow.
“Phew,” he murmured. “She’s a great deal madder than I ever thought.
Does she really believe all that nonsense?”
Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.
“It is possible that she finds it helpful,” he said. “She needs, at this
moment, to create for herself a world of illusion so that she can escape the
stark reality of her husband’s death.”
“She seems almost certifiable to me,” said Major Riddle. “A long farrago
of nonsense without one word of sense in it.”
“No, no, my friend. The interesting thing is, as Mr. Hugo Trent casually
remarked to me, that amidst all the vapouring there is an occasional shrewd
thrust. She showed it by her remark about Miss Lingard’s tact in not stressing
undesirable ancestors. Believe me, Lady Chevenix-Gore is no fool.”
He got up and paced up and down the room.
“There are things in this affair that I do not like. No, I do not like them at
all.”
Riddle looked at him curiously.
“You mean the motive for his suicide?”
“Suicide—suicide! It is all wrong, I tell you. It is wrong psychologically.
How did Chevenix-Gore think of himself? As a Colossus, as an immensely
important person, as the centre of the universe! Does such a man destroy
himself? Surely not. He is far more likely to destroy someone else—some
miserable crawling ant of a human being who had dared to cause him
annoyance . . . Such an act he might regard as necessary—as sanctified! But
self-destruction? The destruction of such a Self?”
“It’s all very well, Poirot. But the evidence is clear enough. Door locked,
key in his own pocket. Window closed and fastened. I know these things
happen in books—but I’ve never come across them in real life. Anything
else?”
“But yes, there is something else.” Poirot sat down in the chair. “Here I
am. I am Chevenix-Gore. I am sitting at my desk. I am determined to kill
myself—because, let us say, I have made a discovery concerning some terrific
dishonour to the family name. It is not very convincing, that, but it must
suffice.
“Eh bien, what do I do? I scrawl on a piece of paper the word SORRY.
Yes, that is quite possible. Then I open a drawer of the desk, take out the
pistol which I keep there, load it, if it is not loaded, and then—do I proceed to
shoot myself? No, I first turn my chair round—so, and I lean over a little to
the right—so—and then I put the pistol to my temple and fire!”
Poirot sprang up from his chair, and wheeling round, demanded:
“I ask you, does that make sense? Why turn the chair round? If, for
instance, there had been a picture on the wall there, then, yes, there might be
an explanation. Some portrait which a dying man might wish to be the last
thing on earth his eyes would see, but a window curtain—ah non, that does
not make sense.”
“He might have wished to look out of the window. Last view out over the
estate.”
“My dear friend, you do not suggest that with any conviction. In fact, you
know it is nonsense. At eight minutes past eight it was dark, and in any case
the curtains are drawn. No, there must be some other explanation. . . .”
“There’s only one as far as I can see. Gervase Chevenix-Gore was mad.”
Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
Major Riddle rose.
“Come,” he said. “Let us go and interview the rest of the party. We may
get at something that way.”
VII
After the difficulties of getting a direct statement from Lady Chevenix-Gore,
Major Riddle found considerable relief in dealing with a shrewd lawyer like
Forbes.
Mr. Forbes was extremely guarded and cautious in his statements, but his
replies were all directly to the point.
He admitted that Sir Gervase’s suicide had been a great shock to him. He
should never have considered Sir Gervase the kind of man who would take
his own life. He knew nothing of any cause for such an act.
“Sir Gervase was not only my client, but was a very old friend. I have
known him since boyhood. I should say that he had always enjoyed life.”
“In the circumstances, Mr. Forbes, I must ask you to speak quite candidly.
You did not know of any secret anxiety or sorrow in Sir Gervase’s life?”
“No. He had minor worries, like most men, but there was nothing of a
serious nature.”
“No illness? No trouble between him and his wife?”
“No. Sir Gervase and Lady Chevenix-Gore were devoted to each other.”
Major Riddle said cautiously:
“Lady Chevenix-Gore appears to hold somewhat curious views.”
Mr. Forbes smiled—an indulgent, manly smile.
“Ladies,” he said, “must be allowed their fancies.”
The chief constable went on:
“You managed all Sir Gervase’s legal affairs?”
“Yes, my firm, Forbes, Ogilvie and Spence, have acted for the ChevenixGore family for well over a hundred years.”
“Were there any—scandals in the Chevenix-Gore family?”
Mr. Forbes’s eyebrows rose.
“Really, I fail to understand you?”
“M. Poirot, will you show Mr. Forbes the letter you showed me?”
In silence Poirot rose and handed the letter to Mr. Forbes with a little bow.
Mr. Forbes read it and his eyebrows rose still more.
“A most remarkable letter,” he said. “I appreciate your question now. No,
so far as my knowledge went, there was nothing to justify the writing of such
a letter.”
“Sir Gervase said nothing of this matter to you?”
“Nothing at all. I must say I find it very curious that he should not have
done so.”
“He was accustomed to confide in you?”
“I think he relied on my judgment.”
“And you have no idea as to what this letter refers?”
“I should not like to make any rash speculations.”
Major Riddle appreciated the subtlety of this reply.
“Now, Mr. Forbes, perhaps you can tell us how Sir Gervase has left his
property.”
“Certainly. I see no objection to such a course. To his wife, Sir Gervase
left an annual income of six thousand pounds chargeable on the estate, and
the choice of the Dower House or the town house in Lowndes Square,
whichever she should prefer. There were, of course, several legacies and
bequests, but nothing of an outstanding nature. The residue of his property
was left to his adopted daughter, Ruth, on condition that, if she married, her
husband should take the name of Chevenix-Gore.”
“Was nothing left to his nephew, Mr. Hugo Trent?”
“Yes. A legacy of five thousand pounds.”
“And I take it that Sir Gervase was a rich man?”
“He was extremely wealthy. He had a vast private fortune apart from the
estate. Of course, he was not quite so well-off as in the past. Practically all
invested incomes have felt the strain. Also, Sir Gervase had dropped a good
deal of money over a certain company—the Paragon Synthetic Rubber
Substitute in which Colonel Bury persuaded him to invest a good deal of
money.”
“Not very wise advice?”
Mr. Forbes sighed.
“Retired soldiers are the worst sufferers when they engage in financial
operations. I have found that their credulity far exceeds that of widows—and
that is saying a good deal.”
“But these unfortunate investments did not seriously affect Sir Gervase’s
income?”
“Oh, no, not seriously. He was still an extremely rich man.”
“When was this will made?”
“Two years ago.”
Poirot murmured:
“This arrangement, was it not possibly a little unfair to Mr. Hugo Trent,
Sir Gervase’s nephew? He is, after all, Sir Gervase’s nearest blood relation.”
Mr. Forbes shrugged his shoulders.
“One has to take a certain amount of family history into account.”
“Such as—?”
Mr. Forbes seemed slightly unwilling to proceed.
Major Riddle said:
“You mustn’t think we’re unduly concerned with raking up old scandals
or anything of that sort. But this letter of Sir Gervase’s to M. Poirot has got to
be explained.”
“There is certainly nothing scandalous in the explanation of Sir Gervase’s
attitude to his nephew,” said Mr. Forbes quickly. “It was simply that Sir
Gervase always took his position as head of the family very seriously. He had
a younger brother and sister. The brother, Anthony Chevenix-Gore, was killed
in the war. The sister, Pamela, married, and Sir Gervase disapproved of the
marriage. That is to say, he considered that she ought to obtain his consent
and approval before marrying. He thought that Captain Trent’s family was not
of sufficient prominence to be allied with a Chevenix-Gore. His sister was
merely amused by his attitude. As a result, Sir Gervase has always been
inclined to dislike his nephew. I think that dislike may have influenced him in
deciding to adopt a child.”
“There was no hope of his having children of his own?”
“No. There was a stillborn child about a year after his marriage. The
doctors told Lady Chevenix-Gore that she would never be able to have
another child. About two years later he adopted Ruth.”
“And who was Mademoiselle Ruth? How did they come to settle upon
her?”
“She was, I believe, the child of a distant connection.”
“That I had guessed,” said Poirot. He looked up at the wall which was
hung with family portraits. “One can see that she was of the same blood—the
nose, the line of the chin. It repeats itself on these walls many times.”
“She inherits the temper too,” said Mr. Forbes dryly.
“So I should imagine. How did she and her adopted father get on?”
“Much as you might imagine. There was a fierce clash of wills more than
once. But in spite of these quarrels I believe there was also an underlying
harmony.”
“Nevertheless, she caused him a good deal of anxiety?”
“Incessant anxiety. But I can assure you not to the point of causing him to
take his own life.”
“Ah, that, no,” agreed Poirot. “One does not blow one’s brains out
because one has a headstrong daughter! And so mademoiselle inherits! Sir
Gervase, he never thought of altering his will?”
“Ahem!” Mr. Forbes coughed to hide a little discomposure. “As a matter
of fact, I took instructions from Sir Gervase on my arrival here (two days ago,
that is to say) as to the drafting of a new will.”
“What’s this?” Major Riddle hitched his chair a little closer. “You didn’t
tell us this.”
Mr. Forbes said quickly:
“You merely asked me what the terms of Sir Gervase’s will were. I gave
you the information for which you asked. The new will was not even properly
drawn up—much less signed.”
“What were its provisions? They may be some guide to Sir Gervase’s
state of mind.”
“In the main, they were the same as before, but Miss Chevenix-Gore was
only to inherit on condition that she married Mr. Hugo Trent.”
“Aha,” said Poirot. “But there is a very decided difference there.”
“I did not approve of the clause,” said Mr. Forbes. “And I felt bound to
point out that it was quite possible it might be contested successfully. The
Court does not look upon such conditional bequests with approval. Sir
Gervase, however, was quite decided.”
“And if Miss Chevenix-Gore (or, incidentally, Mr. Trent) refused to
comply?”
“If Mr. Trent was not willing to marry Miss Chevenix-Gore, then the
money went to her unconditionally. But if he was willing and she refused,
then the money went to him instead.”
“Odd business,” said Major Riddle.
Poirot leaned forward. He tapped the lawyer on the knee.
“But what is behind it? What was in the mind of Sir Gervase when he
made that stipulation? There must have been something very definite . . .
There must, I think, have been the image of another man . . . a man of whom
he disapproved. I think, Mr. Forbes, that you must know who that man was?”
“Really, M. Poirot, I have no information.”
“But you could make a guess.”
“I never guess,” said Mr. Forbes, and his tone was scandalized.
Removing his pince-nez, he wiped them with a silk handkerchief and
inquired:
“Is there anything else that you desire to know?”
“At the moment, no,” said Poirot. “Not, that is, as far as I am concerned.”
Mr. Forbes looked as though, in his opinion, that was not very far, and
bent his attention on the chief constable.
“Thank you, Mr. Forbes. I think that’s all. I should like, if I may, to speak
to Miss Chevenix-Gore.”
“Certainly. I think she is upstairs with Lady Chevenix-Gore.”
“Oh, well, perhaps I’ll have a word with—what’s his name?—Burrows,
first, and the family history woman.”
“They’re both in the library. I will tell them.”
VIII
“Hard work, that,” said Major Riddle, as the lawyer left the room. “Extracting
information from these old-fashioned legal wallahs takes a bit of doing. The
whole business seems to me to center about the girl.”
“It would seem so—yes.”
“Ah, here comes Burrows.”
Godfrey Burrows came in with a pleasant eagerness to be of use. His
smile was discreetly tempered with gloom and showed only a fraction too
much teeth. It seemed more mechanical than spontaneous.
“Now, Mr. Burrows, we want to ask you a few questions.”
“Certainly, Major Riddle. Anything you like.”
“Well, first and foremost, to put it quite simply, have you any ideas of
your own about Sir Gervase’s suicide?”
“Absolutely none. It was the greatest shock to me.”
“You heard the shot?”
“No; I must have been in the library at the time, as far as I can make out. I
came down rather early and went to the library to look up a reference I
wanted. The library’s right the other side of the house from the study, so I
shouldn’t hear anything.”
“Was anyone with you in the library?” asked Poirot.
“No one at all.”
“You’ve no idea where the other members of the household were at that
time?”
“Mostly upstairs dressing, I should imagine.”
“When did you come to the drawing room?”
“Just before M. Poirot arrived. Everybody was there then—except Sir
Gervase, of course.”
“Did it strike you as strange that he wasn’t there?”
“Yes, it did, as a matter of fact. As a rule he was always in the drawing
room before the first gong sounded.”
“Have you noticed any difference in Sir Gervase’s manner lately? Has he
been worried? Or anxious? Depressed?”
Godfrey Burrows considered.
“No—I don’t think so. A little—well, preoccupied, perhaps.”
“But he did not appear to be worried about any one definite matter?”
“Oh, no.”
“No—financial worries of any kind?”
“He was rather perturbed about the affairs of one particular company—the
Paragon Synthetic Rubber Company to be exact.”
“What did he actually say about it?”
Again Godfrey Burrows’ mechanical smile flashed out, and again it
seemed slightly unreal.
“Well—as a matter of fact—what he said was, ‘Old Bury’s either a fool or
a knave. A fool, I suppose. I must go easy with him for Vanda’s sake.’ ”
“And why did he say that—for Vanda’s sake?” inquired Poirot.
“Well, you see, Lady Chevenix-Gore was very fond of Colonel Bury, and
he worshipped her. Followed her about like a dog.”
“Sir Gervase was not—jealous at all?”
“Jealous?” Burrows stared and then laughed. “Sir Gervase jealous? He
wouldn’t know how to set about it. Why, it would never have entered his head
that anyone could ever prefer another man to him. Such a thing couldn’t be,
you understand.”
Poirot said gently:
“You did not, I think, like Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore very much?”
Burrows flushed.
“Oh, yes, I did. At least—well, all that sort of thing strikes one as rather
ridiculous nowadays.”
“All what sort of thing?” asked Poirot.
“Well, the feudal motif, if you like. This worship of ancestry and personal
arrogance. Sir Gervase was a very able man in many ways, and had led an
interesting life, but he would have been more interesting if he hadn’t been so
entirely wrapped up in himself and his own egoism.”
“Did his daughter agree with you there?”
Burrows flushed again—this time a deep purple.
He said:
“I should imagine Miss Chevenix-Gore is quite one of the moderns!
Naturally, I shouldn’t discuss her father with her.”
“But the moderns do discuss their fathers a good deal!” said Poirot. “It is
entirely in the modern spirit to criticize your parents!”
Burrows shrugged his shoulders.
Major Riddle asked:
“And there was nothing else—no other financial anxiety? Sir Gervase
never spoke of having been victimized?”
“Victimized?” Burrows sounded very astonished. “Oh, no.”
“And you yourself were on quite good terms with him?”
“Certainly I was. Why not?”
“I am asking you, Mr. Burrows.”
The young man looked sulky.
“We were on the best of terms.”
“Did you know that Sir Gervase had written to M. Poirot asking him to
come down here?”
“No.”
“Did Sir Gervase usually write his own letters?”
“No, he nearly always dictated them to me.”
“But he did not do so in this case?”
“No.”
“Why was that, do you think?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“You can suggest no reason why he should have written this particular
letter himself?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Ah!” said Major Riddle, adding smoothly, “Rather curious. When did
you last see Sir Gervase?”
“Just before I went to dress for dinner. I took him some letters to sign.”
“What was his manner then?”
“Quite normal. In fact I should say he was feeling rather pleased with
himself about something.”
Poirot stirred a little in his chair.
“Ah?” he said. “So that was your impression, was it? That he was pleased
about something. And yet, not so very long afterwards, he shoots himself. It is
odd, that!”
Godfrey Burrows shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m only telling you my impressions.”
“Yes, yes, they are very valuable. After all, you are probably one of the
last people who saw Sir Gervase alive.”
“Snell was the last person to see him.”
“To see him, yes, but not to speak to him.”
Burrows did not reply.
Major Riddle said:
“What time was it when you went up to dress for dinner?”
“About five minutes past seven.”
“What did Sir Gervase do?”
“I left him in the study.”
“How long did he usually take to change?”
“He usually gave himself a full three quarters of an hour.”
“Then, if dinner was at a quarter past eight, he would probably have gone
up at half past seven at the latest?”
“Very likely.”
“You yourself went to change early?”
“Yes, I thought I would change and then go to the library and look up the
references I wanted.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Major Riddle said:
“Well, I think that’s all for the moment. Will you send Miss What’s-hername along?”
Little Miss Lingard tripped in almost immediately. She was wearing
several chains which tinkled a little as she sat down and looked inquiringly
from one to the other of the two men.
“This is all very—er—sad, Miss Lingard,” began Major Riddle.
“Very sad indeed,” said Miss Lingard decorously.
“You came to this house—when?”
“About two months ago. Sir Gervase wrote to a friend of his in the
Museum—Colonel Fotheringay it was—and Colonel Fotheringary
recommended me. I have done a good deal of historical research work.”
“Did you find Sir Gervase difficult to work for?”
“Oh, not really. One had to humour him a little, of course. But then I
always find one has to do that with men.”
With an uneasy feeling that Miss Lingard was probably humouring him at
this moment, Major Riddle went on:
“Your work here was to help Sir Gervase with the book he was writing?”
“Yes.”
“What did it involve?”
For a moment, Miss Lingard looked quite human. Her eyes twinkled as
she replied:
“Well, actually, you know, it involved writing the book! I looked up all the
information and made notes, and arranged the material. And then, later, I
revised what Sir Gervase had written.”
“You must have had to exercise a good deal of tact, mademoiselle,” said
Poirot.
“Tact and firmness. One needs them both,” said Miss Lingard.
“Sir Gervase did not resent your—er—firmness?”
“Oh not at all. Of course I put it to him that he mustn’t be bothered with
all the petty detail.”
“Oh, yes, I see.”
“It was quite simple, really,” said Miss Lingard. “Sir Gervase was
perfectly easy to manage if one took him the right way.”
“Now, Miss Lingard, I wonder if you know anything that can throw light
on this tragedy?”
Miss Lingard shook her head.
“I’m afraid I don’t. You see, naturally he wouldn’t confide in me at all. I
was practically a stranger. In any case I think he was far too proud to speak to
anyone of family troubles.”
“But you think it was family troubles that caused him to take his life?”
Miss Lingard looked rather surprised.
“But of course! Is there any other suggestion?”
“You feel sure that there were family troubles worrying him?”
“I know that he was in great distress of mind.”
“Oh, you know that?”
“Why, of course.”
“Tell me, mademoiselle, did he speak to you of the matter?”
“Not explicitly.”
“What did he say?”
“Let me see. I found that he didn’t seem to be taking in what I was saying
—”
“One moment. Pardon. When was this?”
“This afternoon. We usually worked from three to five.”
“Pray go on.”
“As I say, Sir Gervase seemed to be finding it hard to concentrate—in
fact, he said as much, adding that he had several grave matters preying on his
mind. And he said—let me see—something like this—(of course, I can’t be
sure of the exact words): ‘It’s a terrible thing, Miss Lingard, when a family
has been one of the proudest in the land, that dishonour should be brought on
it.’ ”
“And what did you say to that?”
“Oh, just something soothing. I think I said that every generation had its
weaklings—that that was one of the penalties of greatness—but that their
failings were seldom remembered by posterity.”
“And did that have the soothing effect you hoped?”
“More or less. We got back to Sir Roger Chevenix-Gore. I had found a
most interesting mention of him in a contemporary manuscript. But Sir
Gervase’s attention wandered again. In the end he said he would not do any
more work that afternoon. He said he had had a shock.”
“A shock?”
“That is what he said. Of course, I didn’t ask any questions. I just said, ‘I
am sorry to hear it, Sir Gervase.’ And then he asked me to tell Snell that M.
Poirot would be arriving and to put off dinner until eight fifteen, and send the
car to meet the seven-fifty train.”
“Did he usually ask you to make these arrangements?”
“Well—no—that was really Mr. Burrows’s business. I did nothing but my
own literary work. I wasn’t a secretary in any sense of the word.”
Poirot asked:
“Do you think Sir Gervase had a definite reason for asking you to make
these arrangements, instead of asking Mr. Burrows to do so?”
Miss Lingard considered.
“Well, he may have had . . . I did not think of it at the time. I thought it
was just a matter of convenience. Still, it’s true now I come to think of it, that
he did ask me not to tell anyone that M. Poirot was coming. It was to be a
surprise, he said.”
“Ah! he said that, did he? Very curious, very interesting. And did you tell
anyone?”
“Certainly not, M. Poirot. I told Snell about dinner and to send the
chauffeur to meet the seven-fifty as a gentleman was arriving by it.”
“Did Sir Gervase say anything else that may have had a bearing on the
situation?”
Miss Lingard thought.
“No—I don’t think so—he was very much strung up—I do remember that
just as I was leaving the room, he said, ‘Not that it’s any good his coming
now. It’s too late.’ ”
“And you have no idea at all what he meant by that?”
“N—no.”
Just the faintest suspicion of indecision about the simple negative. Poirot
repeated with a frown:
“ ‘Too late.’ That is what he said, is it? ‘Too late.’ ”
Major Riddle said:
“You can give us no idea, Miss Lingard, as to the nature of the
circumstance that so distressed Sir Gervase?”
Miss Lingard said slowly:
“I have an idea that it was in some way connected with Mr. Hugo Trent.”
“With Hugo Trent? Why do you think that?”
“Well, it was nothing definite, but yesterday afternoon we were just
touching on Sir Hugo de Chevenix (who, I’m afraid, didn’t bear too good a
character in the Wars of the Roses), and Sir Gervase said, ‘My sister would
choose the family name of Hugo for her son! It’s always been an
unsatisfactory name in our family. She might have known no Hugo would
turn out well.’ ”
“What you tell us there is suggestive,” said Poirot. “Yes, it suggests a new
idea to me.”
“Sir Gervase said nothing more definite than that?” asked Major Riddle.
Miss Lingard shook her head.
“No, and of course it wouldn’t have done for me to say anything. Sir
Gervase was really just talking to himself. He wasn’t really speaking to me.”
“Quite so.”
Poirot said:
“Mademoiselle, you, a stranger, have been here for two months. It would
be, I think, very valuable if you were to tell us quite frankly your impressions
of the family and household.”
Miss Lingard took off her pince-nez and blinked reflectively.
“Well, at first, quite frankly, I felt as though I’d walked straight into a
madhouse! What with Lady Chevenix-Gore continually seeing things that
weren’t there, and Sir Gervase behaving like—like a king—and dramatizing
himself in the most extraordinary way—well, I really did think they were the
queerest people I had ever come across. Of course, Miss Chevenix-Gore was
perfectly normal, and I soon found that Lady Chevenix-Gore was really an
extremely kind, nice woman. Nobody could be kinder and nicer to me than
she has been. Sir Gervase—well, I really think he was mad. His egomania—
isn’t that what you call it?—was getting worse and worse every day.”
“And the others?”
“Mr. Burrows had rather a difficult time wit