CONTENTS

I

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 shadowers 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. That 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 non-essentials! 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 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! Every one 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.
Every one 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 to-day 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, some 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 show places 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
actress, 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 a stone 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
de femmes! The good husband, he hit the
nail on the head—tout de même, 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. Murchison.
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 open-mouthed, 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 duplicates
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 to-morrow
morning we see this milord!”

“What?”

“Yes. I telegraphed 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 a 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.

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 this
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 wild-cat 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 play-acting 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
entailed. Still, it’s not the easiest thing in the
world to find a purchaser. Hoffberg, the Hatton
Garden man, is on the look-out 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.

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, 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 of 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 is 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
entered 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
to-morrow. They’re sending down a chap to-night
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 were 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 post-haste 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 pig-tail 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 a 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,”
explained 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 miserable 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 should 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 assurances 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 business-like, 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 finger 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 laughing-stock
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!

II

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 hæmorrhage. 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 G.P. to discover
what his patient really did die of, but a hæmorrhage
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
under-gardeners.”

“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 hæmorrhage
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 judgments 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, when 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 middle-aged 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 hæmorrhage 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 own 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 above-board—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 black-robed 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 some one 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 bee line for the Anchor Inn.

“Here we establish ourselves until our friend
the Captain returns,” he explained. “You
notice 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 Mrs. 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
one 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
proceed 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 gratefully, 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 any 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 make-up 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 grave 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 some one.
An odd detail like that would have been remembered.

“No, as I say, I inclined to the view that it
was a 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 to-night.”

“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 has 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 the 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!”

III

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
maisonnettes. 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 brisked 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.

“N-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 house-room 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 to-morrow!” 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.

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’s,
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!”

“Évidemment! 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 could 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 to-day,” 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.

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, whilst 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 to-night, and join me in my
all-night vigil in the 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 was 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 rose-coloured 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 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 was 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 did 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 to-night, 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.

IV

“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 evil-doers! 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 the 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
to-day.”

“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.

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 week-end. 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’m
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, your 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 just 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 at all the
facts. Japp had two or three hours’ start of 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 up 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 in it 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 arm-chair 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 sech 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 make-up 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 a 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 murmured, 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.

V

“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 the 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 geniuses
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 waste-paper-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 to-day, 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 in Poirot’s face, for she continued
quickly: “You are doubtless asking yourself
what I have 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 set-back in 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’s. 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 my 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 that 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 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 every one was on the look-out.
I was watching out myself for their being
passed over to some one 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 am 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. & N.W.R. 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 C 24 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 damped your
precious theory, grin as you please!”

“As usual, you see nothing, Hastings. That
last answer is, on the contrary, the coping-stone
of my theory.”

I flung up my hands in despair.

“I give it up.”

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.
Every one asserts the incredibility 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 some one must travel on the
Olympia to engineer the supposed moment of the
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, that ‘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!

VI

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 Tut-ankh-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-her-Ra, 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 is 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 pooh-poohed 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 beach-comber 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 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
to-morrow.”

“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!”

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 guide-book 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 the 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 horn-rimmed
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’re
getting at. But it was a clear case of tetanus.”

“Did you not inject anti-serum?”

“Certainly we did,” said the doctor dryly.
“Every conceivable thing that could be done
was tried.”

“Had you the anti-serum 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
septicæmia 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 non-committally.

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
to-day.’ 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 old Men-her-Ra’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 literally froze at the sight.

“Mon Dieu!” murmured Poirot, crossing
himself vigorously. “Anubis, the jackal-headed,
the god of departing souls.”

“Some one 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 the Dr. Ames.”

The doctor stared at him incredulously; then,
repeating Dr. Tosswill’s words, he cried:

“Some one 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 impostor.
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
hotch-potch 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’
brief 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. Some one 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 had 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 learnt 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 to-night 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.

VII

“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 week-end 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 quite 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 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
E.P.D.” He rambled on, launching into technicalities
where I could not follow him.

He was interrupted by a small page-boy who
approached 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 moments ago the manager came
hurriedly out of his office and ran upstairs. He
was much agitated. The lift-boy 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 arm-chair, 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
fire-place; 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 knee-hole 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 graver.

“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 come 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 non-committally.

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 the 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 pocket-book, 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 plain-clothes 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 not have 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, madam, 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!” cried his wife.
“I’d feel safer if he did. I shouldn’t sleep a
wink thinking some one else might try and 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 to-night 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 pass-key, 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 of you, Hastings.
Three times, for the valet.”

I obeyed, devoured with curiosity. Meanwhile
Poirot had emptied the waste-paper-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 waste-paper-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 to-night,” 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 over-excited, 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, cabinet-makers 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.

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 cabinet-makers used it.”

“Certainly they do—to make drawers slide
easily. Somebody wanted that 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
finger-prints. I went straight to Scotland
Yard, asked for our old friend Inspector Japp,
and laid the facts before him. As I had suspected,
the finger-prints 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 say you, my friend? This
week-end has not gone according to plan. Shall
we return here next week-end—at my expense
this time?”

VIII

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 on hand.

I was attempting to discuss with him the sensational
news of that 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 benzine 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 wished 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
to-morrow—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 to-morrow 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 to-night
as the guest of the Commander-in-Chief, proceeding
to-morrow 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-in-Chief’s A.D.C.s.”

“Eh bien?”

“Well, they started from Boulogne—but they
never arrived.”

“What?”

“Monsieur Poirot, it was a bogus car and a
bogus A.D.C. The real car was found in a side
road, with the chauffeur and the A.D.C. 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 C.I.D. 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 to-day?”

“To-day 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 C.I.D. 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 do not 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—Detective-Inspector
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 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
pass 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.”

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 plain-clothes men, 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 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 some one 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 with 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 plain-clothes man 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.”

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 gasp of surprise.

It was the Prime Minister!

“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 anæsthetic, 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 some one
quite different. O’Murphy has disappeared,
leaving a conveniently suspicious trail behind
him.”

“But the man who personated the Prime
Minister was seen by every one!”

“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 to 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.

IX

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 us both.

“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 some one would be
sure to recognize you—especially in the case of
a well-known 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 every one 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
place, 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-door
bell, 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 every one 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
Ayres.”

“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 good-will.
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
toward 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 to-morrow 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
the 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! Some one 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
hard-working 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 re-entered 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 is 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 that 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 still 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 his 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 a 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 Ayres last
autumn.”

“Poirot, you are joking!”

“I am most 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 to-morrow,
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 half-way 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 every one 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 egg-shell 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 yourselves the question which 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
that if you took her 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 Ayres 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
Ayres, 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?”

X

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 ii. 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 ii 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. ii 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 pass-key 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 a 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 fire-place, 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 statuette 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-and-silver 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
to-night 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 ii.

“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 finger-prints,
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 re-entered 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 to-morrow 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 pocket-book 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 Continong. 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 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 that 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 especial 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 some one 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 arm-chair 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 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 ii 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!

XI

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 business-like note from
the lady asking for an appointment, and he 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 business-like manner. Clearly a
young woman who meant to get on in the world.
I am not a great admirer of the so-called 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 a 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 up-bringing
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
‘new-fangled 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 week-end occasionally, and our relations
were perfectly amicable, though his views remained
unaltered. He never referred to my
having matriculated, nor to my B.Sc. 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 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
in 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 Marsh 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 to-night. The man
and wife who attended on your uncle are still
there, I presume?”

“Yes, their name is Baker.”

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 proportions 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 roll-top
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 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,’ says
old master, ‘had to tear the whole thing up.
I’ll trouble you to sign again,’ and us did. And
afterwards master give 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.

“Sacré!” cried Poirot angrily. “Some one
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 no 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!