Poirot Investigates

“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 amiI 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 OlympiaShe 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 ChaldeansThen, 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 amiI 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 amiI 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 methodHave 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 PréfetOne 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 merYou 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 MegaphoneIf 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 amiHe 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 amiI 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?”

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