Poirot's Early Cases (10 page)

Mr Hardman was staring at the paper. At last he found his voice.

‘Most astonishing. I should infinitely prefer to have no scandal in the matter. I give you
carte blanche
, Monsieur Poirot. I am sure you will be discreet.’

Our next procedure was to hail a taxi, which Poirot ordered to drive to the Carlton. There he inquired for Countess Rossakoff. In a few minutes we were ushered up into the lady’s suite. She came to meet us with outstretched hands, arrayed in a marvellous negligée of barbaric design.

‘Monsieur Poirot!’ she cried. ‘You have succeeded? You have cleared that poor infant?’

‘Madame la Comtesse, your friend Mr Parker is perfectly safe from arrest.’

‘Ah, but you are the clever little man! Superb! And so quickly too.’

‘On the other hand, I have promised Mr Hardman that the jewels shall be returned to him today.’

‘So?’

‘Therefore, madame, I should be extremely obliged if you would place them in my hands without delay. I am sorry to hurry you, but I am keeping a taxi—in case it should be necessary for me to go on to Scotland Yard; and we Belgians, madame, we practise the thrift.’

The Countess had lighted a cigarette. For some
seconds she sat perfectly still, blowing smoke rings, and gazing steadily at Poirot. Then she burst into a laugh, and rose. She went across to the bureau, opened a drawer, and took out a black silk handbag. She tossed it lightly to Poirot. Her tone, when she spoke, was perfectly light and unmoved.

‘We Russians, on the contrary, practise prodigality,’ she said. ‘And to do that, unfortunately, one must have money. You need not look inside. They are all there.’

Poirot arose.

‘I congratulate you, madame, on your quick intelligence and your promptitude.’

‘Ah! But since you were keeping your taxi waiting, what else could I do?’

‘You are too amiable, madame. You are remaining long in London?’

‘I am afraid no—owing to you.’

‘Accept my apologies.’

‘We shall meet again elsewhere, perhaps.’

‘I hope so.’

‘And I—do not!’ exclaimed the Countess with a laugh. ‘It is a great compliment that I pay you there—there are very few men in the world whom I fear. Goodbye, Monsieur Poirot.’

‘Goodbye, Madame la Comtesse. Ah—pardon me, I forgot! Allow me to return you your cigarette case.’

And with a bow he handed to her the little black moiré case we had found in the safe. She accepted it without any change of expression—just a lifted eyebrow and a murmured: ‘I see!’

‘What a woman!’ cried Poirot enthusiastically as we descended the stairs. ‘
Mon Dieu, quelle femme
! Not a word of argument—of protestation, of bluff! One quick glance, and she had sized up the position correctly. I tell you, Hastings, a woman who can accept defeat like that—with a careless smile—will go far! She is dangerous, she has the nerves of steel; she—’ He tripped heavily.

‘If you can manage to moderate your transports and look where you’re going, it might be as well,’ I suggested. ‘When did you first suspect the Countess?’

‘
Mon ami
, it was the glove
and
the cigarette case—the double clue, shall we say—that worried me. Bernard Parker might easily have dropped one or the other—but hardly both. Ah, no, that would have been
too
careless! In the same way, if someone else had placed them there to incriminate Parker, one would have been sufficient—the cigarette case
or
the glove—again not both. So I was forced to the conclusion
that one of the two things did
not
belong to Parker. I imagined at first that the case was his, and that the glove was not. But when I discovered the fellow to the glove, I saw that it was the other way about. Whose, then, was the cigarette case? Clearly, it could not belong to Lady Runcorn. The initials were wrong. Mr Johnston? Only if he were here under a false name. I interviewed his secretary, and it was apparent at once that everything was clear and above board. There was no reticence about Mr Johnston’s past. The Countess, then? She was supposed to have brought jewels with her from Russia; she had only to take the stones from their settings, and it was extremely doubtful if they could ever be identified. What could be easier for her than to pick up one of Parker’s gloves from the hall that day and thrust it into the safe? But,
bien sûr
, she did not intend to drop her own cigarette case.’

‘But if the case was hers, why did it have “
B.P.
” on it? The Countess’s initials are
V.R.
’

Poirot smiled gently upon me.

‘Exactly,
mon ami
; but in the Russian alphabet,
B
is
V
and
P
is
R
.’

‘Well, you couldn’t expect me to guess that. I don’t know Russian.’

‘Neither do I, Hastings. That is why I bought my little book—and urged it on your attention.’

He sighed.

‘A remarkable woman. I have a feeling, my friend—a very decided feeling—I shall meet her again. Where, I wonder?’

‘Truth,’ I observed, laying aside the
Daily Newsmonger
, ‘is stranger than fiction!’

The remark was not, perhaps, an original one. It appeared to incense my friend. Tilting his egg-shaped head on one side, the little man carefully flicked an imaginary fleck of dust from his carefully creased trousers, and observed: ‘How profound! What a thinker is my friend Hastings!’

Without displaying any annoyance at this quite uncalled-for gibe, I tapped the sheet I had laid aside.

‘You’ve read this morning’s paper?’

‘I have. And after reading it, I folded it anew symmetrically. I did not cast it on the floor as you have done, with your so lamentable absence of order and method.’

(That is the worst of Poirot. Order and Method are his gods. He goes so far as to attribute all his success to them.)

‘Then you saw the account of the murder of Henry Reedburn, the impresario? It was that which prompted my remark. Not only is truth stranger than fiction—it is more dramatic. Think of that solid middle-class English family, the Oglanders. Father and mother, son and daughter, typical of thousands of families all over this country. The men of the family go to the city every day; the women look after the house. Their lives are perfectly peaceful, and utterly monotonous. Last night they were sitting in their neat suburban drawing-room at Daisymead, Streatham, playing bridge. Suddenly, without any warning, the french window bursts open, and a woman staggers into the room. Her grey satin frock is marked with a crimson stain. She utters one word, “Murder!” before she sinks to the ground insensible. It is possible that they recognize her from her pictures as Valerie Saintclair, the famous dancer who has lately taken London by storm!’

‘Is this your eloquence, or that of the
Daily Newsmonger
?’ inquired Poirot.

‘The
Daily Newsmonger
was in a hurry to go to press, and contented itself with bare facts. But the dramatic possibilities of the story struck me at once.’

Poirot nodded thoughtfully. ‘Wherever there is human nature, there is drama.
But
—it is not always just where you think it is. Remember that. Still, I too am interested in the case, since it is likely that I shall be connected with it.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes. A gentleman rang me up this morning, and made an appointment with me on behalf of Prince Paul of Maurania.’

‘But what has that to do with it?’

‘You do not read your pretty little English scandal-papers. The ones with the funny stories, and “a little mouse has heard—” or “a little bird would like to know—” See here.’

I followed his short stubby finger along the paragraph: ‘—whether the foreign prince and the famous dancer are
really
affinities! And if the lady likes her new diamond ring!’

‘And now to resume your so dramatic narrative,’ said Poirot. ‘Mademoiselle Saintclair had just fainted on the drawing-room carpet at Daisymead, you remember.’

I shrugged. ‘As a result of Mademoiselle’s first murmured words when she came round, the two male Oglanders stepped out, one to fetch a doctor to attend to the lady, who was evidently suffering terribly from shock, and the other to the police-station—whence after telling his story, he accompanied the police to Mon Désir, Mr Reedburn’s magnificent villa, which is situated at no great distance from Daisymead. There they found the great man, who by the way suffers from a somewhat unsavoury reputation, lying in the library with the back of his head cracked open like an eggshell.’

‘I have cramped your style,’ said Poirot kindly. ‘Forgive me, I pray…Ah, here is M. le Prince!’

Our distinguished visitor was announced under the title of Count Feodor. He was a strange-looking youth, tall, eager, with a weak chin, the famous Mauranberg mouth, and the dark fiery eyes of a fanatic.

‘M. Poirot?’

My friend bowed.

‘Monsieur, I am in terrible trouble, greater than I can well express—’

Poirot waved his hand. ‘I comprehend your anxiety. Mademoiselle Saintclair is a very dear friend, is it not so?’

The prince replied simply: ‘I hope to make her my wife.’

Poirot sat up in his chair, and his eyes opened.

The prince continued: ‘I should not be the first of my family to make a morganatic marriage. My brother Alexander has also defied the Emperor. We are living now in more enlightened days, free from the old caste-prejudice. Besides, Mademoiselle Saintclair, in actual fact, is quite my equal in rank. You have heard hints as to her history?’

‘There are many romantic stories of her origin—not an uncommon thing with famous dancers. I have heard that she is the daughter of an Irish charwoman, also the story which makes her mother a Russian grand duchess.’

‘The first story is, of course, nonsense,’ said the young man. ‘But the second is true. Valerie, though bound to secrecy, has let me guess as much. Besides, she proves it unconsciously in a thousand ways. I believe in heredity, M. Poirot.’

‘I too believe in heredity,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘I have seen some strange things in connection with it—
moi qui vous parle
…But to business, M. le Prince. What do you want of me? What do you fear? I may speak freely, may I not? Is there anything to connect Mademoiselle Saintclair with the crime? She knew Reedburn of course?’

‘Yes. He professed to be in love with her.’

‘And she?’

‘She would have nothing to say to him.’

Poirot looked at him keenly. ‘Had she any reason to fear him?’

The young man hesitated. ‘There was an incident. You know Zara, the clairvoyant?’

‘No.’

‘She is wonderful. You should consult her some time. Valerie and I went to see her last week. She read the cards for us. She spoke to Valerie of trouble—of gathering clouds; then she turned up the last card—the covering card, they call it. It was the king of clubs. She said to Valerie: “Beware. There is a man who holds you in his power. You fear him—you are in great danger
through him. You know whom I mean?” Valerie was white to the lips. She nodded and said: “Yes, yes, I know.” Shortly afterwards we left. Zara’s last words to Valerie were: “Beware of the king of clubs. Danger threatens you!” I questioned Valerie. She would tell me nothing—assured me that all was well. But now, after last night, I am more sure than ever that in the king of clubs Valerie saw Reedburn, and that he was the man she feared.’

The Prince paused abruptly. ‘Now you understand my agitation when I opened the paper this morning. Supposing Valerie, in a fit of madness—oh, it is impossible!’

Poirot rose from his seat, and patted the young man kindly on the shoulder. ‘Do not distress yourself, I beg of you. Leave it in my hands.’

‘You will go to Streatham? I gather she is still there, at Daisymead—prostrated by the shock.’

‘I will go at once.’

‘I have arranged matters—through the embassy. You will be allowed access everywhere.’

‘Then we will depart—Hastings, you will accompany me? Au revoir, M. le Prince.’

Mon Désir was an exceptionally fine villa, thoroughly modern and comfortable. A short carriage-drive led up to it from the road, and beautiful gardens extended behind the house for some acres.

On mentioning Prince Paul’s name, the butler who answered the door at once took us to the scene of the tragedy. The library was a magnificent room, running from back to front of the whole building, with a window at either end, one giving on the front carriage-drive, and the other on the garden. It was in the recess of the latter that the body had lain. It had been removed not long before, the police having concluded their examination.

‘That is annoying,’ I murmured to Poirot. ‘Who knows what clues they may have destroyed?’

My little friend smiled. ‘Eh—Eh! How often must I tell you that clues come from
within
? In the little grey cells of the brain lies the solution of every mystery.’

He turned to the butler. ‘I suppose, except for the removal of the body, the room has not been touched?’

‘No, sir. It’s just as it was when the police came up last night.’

‘These curtains, now. I see they pull right across the
window recess. They are the same in the other window. Were they drawn last night?’

‘Yes, sir, I draw them every night.’

‘Then Reedburn must have drawn them back himself?’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘Did you know your master expected a visitor last night?’

‘He did not say so, sir. But he gave orders he was not to be disturbed after dinner. You see, sir, there is a door leading out of the library on to the terrace at the side of the house. He could have admitted anyone that way.’

‘Was he in the habit of doing that?’

The butler coughed discreetly. ‘I believe so, sir.’

Poirot strode to the door in question. It was unlocked. He stepped through it on to the terrace which joined the drive on the right; on the left it led up to a red brick wall.

‘The fruit garden, sir. There is a door leading into it farther along, but it was always locked at six o’clock.’

Poirot nodded, and re-entered the library, the butler following.

‘Did you hear nothing of last night’s events?’

‘Well, sir, we heard voices in the library, a little before nine. But that wasn’t unusual, especially being a lady’s voice. But of course, once we were all in the
servants’ hall, right the other side, we didn’t hear anything at all. And then, about eleven o’clock, the police came.’

‘How many voices did you hear?’

‘I couldn’t say, sir. I only noticed the lady’s.’

‘Ah!’

‘I beg pardon, sir, but Dr Ryan is still in the house, if you would care to see him.’

We jumped at the suggestion, and in a few minutes the doctor, a cheery, middle-aged man, joined us, and gave Poirot all the information he required. Reedburn had been lying near the window, his head by the marble window-seat. There were two wounds, one between the eyes, and the other, the fatal one, on the back of the head.

‘He was lying on his back?’

‘Yes. There is the mark.’ He pointed to a small dark stain on the floor.

‘Could not the blow on the back of the head have been caused by his striking the floor?’

‘Impossible. Whatever the weapon was, it penetrated some distance into the skull.’

Poirot looked thoughtfully in front of him. In the embrasure of each window was a carved marble seat, the arms being fashioned in the form of a lion’s head. A light came into Poirot’s eyes. ‘Supposing he had fallen backwards on this projecting lion’s head, and slipped
from there to the ground. Would not that cause a wound such as you describe?’

‘Yes, it would. But the angle at which he was lying makes that theory impossible. And besides there could not fail to be traces of blood on the marble of the seat.’

‘Unless they were washed away?’

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. ‘That is hardly likely. It would be to no one’s advantage to give an accident the appearance of murder.’

‘Quite so,’ acquiesced Poirot. ‘Could either of the blows have been struck by a woman, do you think?’

‘Oh, quite out of the question, I should say. You are thinking of Mademoiselle Saintclair, I suppose?’

‘I think of no one in particular until I am sure,’ said Poirot gently.

He turned his attention to the open french window, and the doctor continued:

‘It is through here that Mademoiselle Saintclair fled. You can just catch a glimpse of Daisymead between the trees. Of course, there are many houses nearer to the front of the house on the road, but as it happens, Daisymead, though some distance away, is the only house visible this side.’

‘Thank you for your amiability, Doctor,’ said Poirot. ‘Come, Hastings, we will follow the footsteps of Mademoiselle.’

Poirot led the way down through the garden, out through an iron gate, across a short stretch of green and in through the garden gate of Daisymead, which was an unpretentious little house in about half an acre of ground. There was a small flight of steps leading up to a french window. Poirot nodded in their direction.

‘That is the way Mademoiselle Saintclair went. For us, who have not her urgency to plead, it will be better to go round to the front door.’

A maid admitted us and took us into the drawing-room, then went in search of Mrs Oglander. The room had evidently not been touched since the night before. The ashes were still in the grate, and the bridge-table was still in the centre of the room, with a dummy exposed, and the hands thrown down. The place was somewhat overloaded with gimcrack ornaments, and a good many family portraits of surpassing ugliness adorned the walls.

Poirot gazed at them more leniently than I did, and straightened one or two that were hanging a shade askew. ‘
La famille
, it is a strong tie, is it not? Sentiment, it takes the place of beauty.’

I agreed, my eyes being fixed on a family group
comprising a gentleman with whiskers, a lady with a high ‘front’ of hair, a solid, thick-set boy, and two little girls tied up with a good many unnecessary bows of ribbon. I took this to be the Oglander family in earlier days, and studied it with interest.

The door opened, and a young woman came in. Her dark hair was neatly arranged, and she wore a drab-coloured sportscoat and a tweed skirt.

She looked at us inquiringly. Poirot stepped forward. ‘Miss Oglander? I regret to derange you—especially after all you have been through. The whole affair must have been most disturbing.’

‘It has been rather upsetting,’ admitted the young lady cautiously. I began to think that the elements of drama were wasted on Miss Oglander, that her lack of imagination rose superior to any tragedy. I was confirmed in this belief as she continued: ‘I must apologize for the state this room is in. Servants get so foolishly excited.’

‘It was here that you were sitting last night,
n’est-ce pas
?’

‘Yes, we were playing bridge after supper, when—’

‘Excuse me—how long had you been playing?’

‘Well—’ Miss Oglander considered. ‘I really can’t say. I suppose it must have been about ten o’clock. We had had several rubbers, I know.’