Poirot's Early Cases (9 page)

Poirot detained Mrs Waverly for a minute behind her husband.

‘Madame, the truth, if you please. Do you share your husband’s faith in the butler, Tredwell?’

‘I have nothing against him, Monsieur Poirot, I
cannot see how he can have been concerned in this, but—well, I have never liked him—never!’

‘One other thing, madame, can you give me the address of the child’s nurse?’

‘149 Netherall Road, Hammersmith. You don’t imagine—’

‘Never do I imagine. Only—I employ the little grey cells. And sometimes, just sometimes, I have a little idea.’

Poirot came back to me as the door closed.

‘So madame has never liked the butler. It is interesting, that, eh, Hastings?’

I refused to be drawn. Poirot has deceived me so often that I now go warily. There is always a catch somewhere.

After completing an elaborate outdoor toilet, we set off for Netherall Road. We were fortunate enough to find Miss Jessie Withers at home. She was a pleasant-faced woman of thirty-five, capable and superior. I could not believe that she could be mixed up in the affair. She was bitterly resentful of the way she had been dismissed, but admitted that she had been in the wrong. She was engaged to be married to a painter and decorator who happened to be in the neighbourhood, and she had run out to meet him. The thing seemed natural enough. I could not quite understand Poirot. All his questions seemed to me quite irrelevant. They
were concerned mainly with the daily routine of her life at Waverly Court. I was frankly bored and glad when Poirot took his departure.

‘Kidnapping is an easy job,
mon ami
,’ he observed, as he hailed a taxi in the Hammersmith Road and ordered it to drive to Waterloo. ‘That child could have been abducted with the greatest ease any day for the last three years.’

‘I don’t see that that advances us much,’ I remarked coldly.

‘
Au contraire
, it advances us enormously, but enormously! If you must wear a tie pin, Hastings, at least let it be in the exact centre of your tie. At present it is at least a sixteenth of an inch too much to the right.’

Waverly Court was a fine old place and had recently been restored with taste and care. Mr Waverly showed us the council chamber, the terrace, and all the various spots connected with the case. Finally, at Poirot’s request, he pressed a spring in the wall, a panel slid aside, and a short passage led us into the priest’s hole.

‘You see,’ said Waverly. ‘There is nothing here.’

The tiny room was bare enough, there was not even the mark of a footstep on the floor. I joined Poirot where he was bending attentively over a mark in the corner.

‘What do you make of this, my friend?’

There were four imprints close together.

‘A dog,’ I cried.

‘A very small dog, Hastings.’

‘A Pom.’

‘Smaller than a Pom.’

‘A griffon?’ I suggested doubtfully.

‘Smaller even than a griffon. A species unknown to the Kennel Club.’

I looked at him. His face was alight with excitement and satisfaction.

‘I was right,’ he murmured. ‘I knew I was right. Come, Hastings.’

As we stepped out into the hall and the panel closed behind us, a young lady came out of a door farther down the passage. Mr Waverly presented her to us.

‘Miss Collins.’

Miss Collins was about thirty years of age, brisk and alert in manner. She had fair, rather dull hair, and wore pince-nez.

At Poirot’s request, we passed into a small morning-room, and he questioned her closely as to the servants and particularly as to Tredwell. She admitted that she did not like the butler.

‘He gives himself airs,’ she explained.

They then went into the question of the food eaten by Mrs Waverly on the night of the 28th. Miss Collins declared that she had partaken of the same dishes
upstairs in her sitting-room and had felt no ill effects. As she was departing I nudged Poirot.

‘The dog,’ I whispered.

‘Ah, yes, the dog!’ He smiled broadly. ‘Is there a dog kept here by any chance, mademoiselle?’

‘There are two retrievers in the kennels outside.’

‘No, I mean a small dog, a toy dog.’

‘No—nothing of the kind.’

Poirot permitted her to depart. Then, pressing the bell, he remarked to me, ‘She lies, that Mademoiselle Collins. Possibly I should, also, in her place. Now for the butler.’

Tredwell was a dignified individual. He told his story with perfect aplomb, and it was essentially the same as that of Mr Waverly. He admitted that he knew the secret of the priest’s hole.

When he finally withdrew, pontifical to the last, I met Poirot’s quizzical eyes.

‘What do you make of it all, Hastings?’

‘What do you?’ I parried.

‘How cautious you become. Never, never will the grey cells function unless you stimulate them. Ah, but I will not tease you! Let us make our deductions together. What points strike us specially as being difficult?’

‘There is one thing that strikes me,’ I said. ‘Why did the man who kidnapped the child go out by the south
lodge instead of by the east lodge where no one would see him?’

‘That is a very good point, Hastings, an excellent one. I will match it with another. Why warn the Waverlys beforehand? Why not simply kidnap the child and hold him to ransom?’

‘Because they hoped to get the money without being forced to action.’

‘Surely it was very unlikely that the money would be paid on a mere threat?’

‘Also they wanted to focus attention on twelve o’clock, so that when the tramp man was seized, the other could emerge from his hiding-place and get away with the child unnoticed.’

‘That does not alter the fact that they were making a thing difficult that was perfectly easy. If they do not specify a time or date, nothing would be easier than to wait their chance, and carry off the child in a motor one day when he is out with his nurse.’

‘Ye—es,’ I admitted doubtfully.

‘In fact, there is a deliberate playing of the farce! Now let us approach the question from another side. Everything goes to show that there was an accomplice inside the house. Point number one, the mysterious poisoning of Mrs Waverly. Point number two, the letter pinned to the pillow. Point number three, the putting on of the clock ten minutes—all inside jobs.
And an additional fact that you may not have noticed. There was no dust in the priest’s hole. It had been swept out with a broom.

‘Now then, we have four people in the house. We can exclude the nurse, since she could not have swept out the priest’s hole, though she could have attended to the other three points. Four people, Mr and Mrs Waverly, Tredwell, the butler, and Miss Collins. We will take Miss Collins first. We have nothing much against her, except that we know very little about her, that she is obviously an intelligent young woman, and that she has only been here a year.’

‘She lied about the dog, you said,’ I reminded him.

‘Ah, yes, the dog.’ Poirot gave a peculiar smile. ‘Now let us pass to Tredwell. There are several suspicious facts against him. For one thing, the tramp declares that it was Tredwell who gave him the parcel in the village.’

‘But Tredwell can prove an alibi on that point.’

‘Even then, he could have poisoned Mrs Waverly, pinned the note to the pillow, put on the clock, and swept out the priest’s hole. On the other hand, he has been born and bred in the service of the Waverlys. It seems unlikely in the last degree that he should connive at the abduction of the son of the house. It is not in the picture!’

‘Well, then?’

‘We must proceed logically—however absurd it may seem. We will briefly consider Mrs Waverly. But she is rich, the money is hers. It is her money which has restored this impoverished estate. There would be no reason for her to kidnap her son and pay over her money to herself. The husband, no, is in a different position. He has a rich wife. It is not the same thing as being rich himself—in fact I have a little idea that the lady is not very fond of parting with her money, except on a very good pretext. But Mr Waverly, you can see at once, he is a
bon viveur
.’

‘Impossible,’ I spluttered.

‘Not at all. Who sends away the servants? Mr Waverly. He can write the notes, drug his wife, put on the hands of the clock, and establish an excellent alibi for his faithful retainer Tredwell. Tredwell has never liked Mrs Waverly. He is devoted to his master and is willing to obey his orders implicitly. There were three of them in it. Waverly, Tredwell, and some friend of Waverly. That is the mistake the police made, they made no further inquiries about the man who drove the grey car with the wrong child in it. He was the third man. He picks up a child in a village near by, a boy with flaxen curls. He drives in through the east lodge and passes out through the south lodge just at the right moment, waving his hand and shouting. They cannot see his face or the number of the car, so obviously they
cannot see the child’s face, either. Then he lays a false trail to London. In the meantime, Tredwell has done his part in arranging for the parcel and note to be delivered by a rough-looking gentleman. His master can provide an alibi in the unlikely case of the man recognizing him, in spite of the false moustache he wore. As for Mr Waverly, as soon as the hullabaloo occurs outside, and the inspector rushes out, he quickly hides the child in the priest’s hole, follows him out. Later in the day, when the inspector is gone and Miss Collins is out of the way, it will be easy enough to drive him off to some safe place in his own car.’

‘But what about the dog?’ I asked. ‘And Miss Collins lying?’

‘That was my little joke. I asked her if there were any toy dogs in the house, and she said no—but doubtless there are some—in the nursery! You see, Mr Waverly placed some toys in the priest’s hole to keep Johnnie amused and quiet.’

‘M. Poirot—’ Mr Waverly entered the room—‘have you discovered anything? Have you any clue to where the boy has been taken?’

Poirot handed him a piece of paper. ‘Here is the address.’

‘But this is a blank sheet.’

‘Because I am waiting for you to write it down for me.’

‘What the—’ Mr Waverly’s face turned purple.

‘I know everything, monsieur. I give you twenty-four hours to return the boy. Your ingenuity will be equal to the task of explaining his reappearance. Otherwise, Mrs Waverly will be informed of the exact sequence of events.’

Mr Waverly sank down in a chair and buried his face in his hands. ‘He is with my old nurse, ten miles away. He is happy and well cared for.’

‘I have no doubt of that. If I did not believe you to be a good father at heart, I should not be willing to give you another chance.’

‘The scandal—’

‘Exactly. Your name is an old and honoured one. Do not jeopardize it again. Good evening, Mr Waverly. Ah, by the way, one word of advice. Always sweep in the corners!’

‘But above everything—no publicity,’ said Mr Marcus Hardman for perhaps the fourteenth time.

The word
publicity
occurred throughout his conversation with the regularity of a leitmotif. Mr Hardman was a small man, delicately plump, with exquisitely manicured hands and a plaintive tenor voice. In his way, he was somewhat of a celebrity and the fashionable life was his profession. He was rich, but not remarkably so, and he spent his money zealously in the pursuit of social pleasure. His hobby was collecting. He had the collector’s soul. Old lace, old fans, antique jewellery—nothing crude or modern for Marcus Hardman.

Poirot and I, obeying an urgent summons, had arrived to find the little man writhing in an agony of indecision. Under the circumstances, to call in the police was abhorrent to him. On the other hand, not
to call them in was to acquiesce in the loss of some of the gems of his collection. He hit upon Poirot as a compromise.

‘My rubies, Monsieur Poirot, and the emerald necklace said to have belonged to Catherine de’ Medici. Oh, the emerald necklace!’

‘If you will recount to me the circumstances of their disappearance?’ suggested Poirot gently.

‘I am endeavouring to do so. Yesterday afternoon I had a little tea party—quite an informal affair, some half a dozen people or so. I have given one or two of them during the season, and though perhaps I should not say so, they have been quite a success. Some good music—Nacora, the pianist, and Katherine Bird, the Australian contralto—in the big studio. Well, early in the afternoon, I was showing my guests my collection of medieval jewels. I keep them in the small wall safe over there. It is arranged like a cabinet inside, with coloured velvet background, to display the stones. Afterwards we inspected the fans—in the case on the wall. Then we all went to the studio for music. It was not until after everyone had gone that I discovered the safe rifled! I must have failed to shut it properly, and someone had seized the opportunity to denude it of its contents. The rubies, Monsieur Poirot, the emerald necklace—the collection of a lifetime! What would I not give to recover them! But there must
be no publicity! You fully understand that, do you not, Monsieur Poirot? My own guests, my personal friends! It would be a horrible scandal!’

‘Who was the last person to leave this room when you went to the studio?’

‘Mr Johnston. You may know him? The South African millionaire. He has just rented the Abbotburys’ house in Park Lane. He lingered behind a few moments, I remember. But surely, oh, surely it could not be he!’

‘Did any of your guests return to this room during the afternoon on any pretext?’

‘I was prepared for that question, Monsieur Poirot. Three of them did so. Countess Vera Rossakoff, Mr Bernard Parker, and Lady Runcorn.’

‘Let us hear about them.’

‘The Countess Rossakoff is a very charming Russian lady, a member of the old régime. She has recently come to this country. She had bade me goodbye, and I was therefore somewhat surprised to find her in this room apparently gazing in rapture at my cabinet of fans. You know, Monsieur Poirot, the more I think of it, the more suspicious it seems to me. Don’t you agree?’

‘Extremely suspicious; but let us hear about the others.’

‘Well, Parker simply came here to fetch a case
of miniatures that I was anxious to show to Lady Runcorn.’

‘And Lady Runcorn herself?’

‘As I dare say you know, Lady Runcorn is a middle-aged woman of considerable force of character who devotes most of her time to various charitable committees. She simply returned to fetch a handbag she had laid down somewhere.’

‘
Bien
, monsieur. So we have four possible suspects. The Russian countess, the English
grande dame
, the South African millionaire, and Mr Bernard Parker. Who
is
Mr Parker, by the way?’

The question appeared to embarrass Mr Hardman considerably.

‘He is—er—he is a young fellow. Well, in fact, a young fellow I know.’

‘I had already deduced as much,’ replied Poirot gravely. ‘What does he do, this Mr Parker?’

‘He is a young man about town—not, perhaps, quite in the swim, if I may so express myself.’

‘How did he come to be a friend of yours, may I ask?’

‘Well—er—on one or two occasions he has—performed certain little commissions for me.’

‘Continue, monsieur,’ said Poirot.

Hardman looked piteously at him. Evidently the last thing he wanted to do was to continue. But as
Poirot maintained an inexorable silence, he capitulated.

‘You see, Monsieur Poirot—it is well known that I am interested in antique jewels. Sometimes there is a family heirloom to be disposed of—which, mind you, would never be sold in the open market or to a dealer. But a private sale to me is a very different matter. Parker arranges the details of such things, he is in touch with both sides, and thus any little embarrassment is avoided. He brings anything of that kind to my notice. For instance, the Countess Rossakoff has brought some family jewels with her from Russia. She is anxious to sell them. Bernard Parker was to have arranged the transaction.’

‘I see,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘And you trust him implicitly?’

‘I have had no reason to do otherwise.’

‘Mr Hardman, of these four people, which do you yourself suspect?’

‘Oh, Monsieur Poirot, what a question! They are my friends, as I told you. I suspect none of them—or all of them, whichever way you like to put it.’

‘I do not agree. You suspect one of those four. It is not Countess Rossakoff. It is not Mr Parker. Is it Lady Runcorn or Mr Johnston?’

‘You drive me into a corner, Monsieur Poirot, you do indeed. I am most anxious to have no scandal.
Lady Runcorn belongs to one of the oldest families in England; but it is true, it is most unfortunately true, that her aunt, Lady Caroline, suffered from a most melancholy affliction. It was understood, of course, by all her friends, and her maid returned the teaspoons, or whatever it was, as promptly as possible. You see my predicament!’

‘So Lady Runcorn had an aunt who was a klepto-maniac? Very interesting. You permit that I examine the safe?’

Mr Hardman assenting, Poirot pushed back the door of the safe and examined the interior. The empty velvet-lined shelves gaped at us.

‘Even now the door does not shut properly,’ murmured Poirot, as he swung it to and fro. ‘I wonder why? Ah, what have we here? A glove, caught in the hinge. A man’s glove.’

He held it out to Mr Hardman.

‘That’s not one of my gloves,’ the latter declared.

‘Aha! Something more!’ Poirot bent deftly and picked up a small object from the floor of the safe. It was a flat cigarette case made of black moiré.

‘My cigarette case!’ cried Mr Hardman.

‘Yours? Surely not, monsieur. Those are not your initials.’

He pointed to an entwined monogram of two letters executed in platinum.

Hardman took it in his hand.

‘You are right,’ he declared. ‘It is very like mine, but the initials are different. A “
B
” and a “
P
”. Good heavens—Parker!’

‘It would seem so,’ said Poirot. ‘A somewhat carless young man—especially if the glove is his also. That would be a double clue, would it not?’

‘Bernard Parker!’ murmured Hardman. ‘What a relief! Well, Monsieur Poirot, I leave it to you to recover the jewels. Place the matter in the hands of the police if you think fit—that is, if you are quite sure that it is he who is guilty.’

‘See you, my friend,’ said Poirot to me, as we left the house together, ‘he has one law for the titled, and another law for the plain, this Mr Hardman. Me, I have not yet been ennobled, so I am on the side of the plain. I have sympathy for this young man. The whole thing was a little curious, was it not? There was Hardman suspecting Lady Runcorn; there was I, suspecting the Countess and Johnston; and all the time, the obscure Mr Parker was our man.’

‘Why did you suspect the other two?’

‘
Parbleu
! It is such a simple thing to be a Russian refugee or a South African millionaire. Any woman can call herself a Russian countess; anyone can buy a house in Park Lane and call himself a South African millionaire. Who is going to contradict them? But I observe that we are passing through Bury Street. Our careless young friend lives here. Let us, as you say, strike while the iron is in the fire.’

Mr Bernard Parker was at home. We found him reclining on some cushions, clad in an amazing dressing-gown of purple and orange. I have seldom taken a greater dislike to anyone than I did to this particular young man with his white, effeminate face and affected lisping speech.

‘Good morning, monsieur,’ said Poirot briskly. ‘I come from Mr Hardman. Yesterday, at the party, somebody has stolen all his jewels. Permit me to ask you, monsieur—is this your glove?’

Mr Parker’s mental processes did not seem very rapid. He stared at the glove, as though gathering his wits together.

‘Where did you find it?’ he asked at last.

‘Is it your glove, monsieur?’

Mr Parker appeared to make up his mind.

‘No, it isn’t,’ he declared.

‘And this cigarette case, is that yours?’

‘Certainly not. I always carry a silver one.’

‘Very well, monsieur. I go to put matters in the hands of the police.’

‘Oh, I say, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ cried Mr Parker in some concern. ‘Beastly unsympathetic people, the police. Wait a bit. I’ll go round and see old Hardman. Look here—oh, stop a minute.’

But Poirot beat a determined retreat.

‘We have given him something to think about, have we not?’ he chuckled. ‘Tomorrow we will observe what has occurred.’

But we were destined to have a reminder of the Hardman case that afternoon. Without the least warning the door flew open, and a whirlwind in human form invaded our privacy, bringing with her a swirl of sables (it was as cold as only an English June day can be) and a hat rampant with slaughtered ospreys. Countess Vera Rossakoff was a somewhat disturbing personality.

‘You are Monsieur Poirot? What is this that you have done? You accuse that poor boy! It is infamous. It is scandalous. I know him. He is a chicken, a lamb—never would he steal. He has done everything for me. Will I stand by and see him martyred and butchered?’

‘Tell me, madame, is this his cigarette case?’ Poirot held out the black moiré case.

The Countess paused for a moment while she inspected it.

‘Yes, it is his. I know it well. What of it? Did you find it in the room? We were all there; he dropped it then, I suppose. Ah, you policemen, you are worse than the Red Guards—’

‘And is this his glove?’

‘How should I know? One glove is like another. Do not try to stop me—he must be set free. His character must be cleared. You shall do it. I will sell my jewels and give you much money.’

‘Madame—’

‘It is agreed, then? No, no, do not argue. The poor boy! He came to me, the tears in his eyes. “I will save you,” I said. “I will go to this man—this ogre, this monster! Leave it to Vera.” Now it is settled, I go.’

With as little ceremony as she had come, she swept from the room, leaving an overpowering perfume of an exotic nature behind her.

‘What a woman!’ I exclaimed. ‘And what furs!’

‘Ah, yes,
they
were genuine enough. Could a spurious countess have real furs? My little joke, Hastings…No, she is truly Russian, I fancy. Well, well, so Master Bernard went bleating to her.’

‘The cigarette case is his. I wonder if the glove is also—’

With a smile Poirot drew from his pocket a second glove and placed it by the first. There was no doubt of their being a pair.

‘Where did you get the second one, Poirot?’

‘It was thrown down with a stick on the table in the hall in Bury Street. Truly, a very careless young man, Monsieur Parker. Well, well,
mon ami
—we must be thorough. Just for the form of the thing, I will make a little visit to Park Lane.’

Needless to say, I accompanied my friend. Johnston was out, but we saw his private secretary. It transpired that Johnston had only recently arrived from South Africa. He had never been in England before.

‘He is interested in precious stones, is he not?’ hazarded Poirot.

‘Gold mining is nearer the mark,’ laughed the secretary.

Poirot came away from the interview thoughtful. Late that evening, to my utter surprise, I found him earnestly studying a Russian grammar.

‘Good heavens, Poirot!’ I cried. ‘Are you learning Russian in order to converse with the Countess in her own language?’

‘She certainly would not listen to my English, my friend!’

‘But surely, Poirot, well-born Russians invariably speak French?’

‘You are a mine of information, Hastings! I will cease puzzling over the intricacies of the Russian alphabet.’

He threw the book from him with a dramatic gesture.
I was not entirely satisfied. There was a twinkle in his eye which I knew of old. It was an invariable sign that Hercule Poirot was pleased with himself.

‘Perhaps,’ I said sapiently, ‘you doubt her being really a Russian. You are going to test her?’

‘Ah, no, no, she is Russian all right.’

‘Well, then—’

‘If you really want to distinguish yourself over this case, Hastings, I recommend
First Steps in Russian
as an invaluable aid.’

Then he laughed and would say no more. I picked up the book from the floor and dipped into it curiously, but could make neither head nor tail of Poirot’s remarks.

The following morning brought us no news of any kind, but that did not seem to worry my little friend. At breakfast, he announced his intention of calling upon Mr Hardman early in the day. We found the elderly social butterfly at home, and seemingly a little calmer than on the previous day.

‘Well, Monsieur Poirot, any news?’ he demanded eagerly.

Poirot handed him a slip of paper.

‘That is the person who took the jewels, monsieur. Shall I put matters in the hands of the police? Or would you prefer me to recover the jewels without bringing the police into the matter?’