Poirot Investigates, Agatha Christie [best black authors TXT] 📗
- Author: Agatha Christie
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“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?”
VIIINow 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
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