Cat Among the Pigeons (23 page)

“It'll be the finest school in England,” said Eileen Rich enthusiastically.

“Good,” said Miss Bulstrode, “—and Eileen, I should go and get your hair properly cut and shaped. You don't seem able to manage that bun. And now,” she said, her voice changing, “I must go to Chaddy.”

She went in and came up to the bed. Miss Chadwick was lying very still and white. The blood had all gone from her face and she looked drained of life. A policeman with a notebook sat nearby and Miss Johnson sat on the other side of the bed. She looked at Miss Bulstrode and shook her head gently.

“Hallo, Chaddy,” said Miss Bulstrode. She took up the limp hand in hers. Miss Chadwick's eyes opened.

“I want to tell you,” she said, “Eleanor—it was—it was me.”

“Yes, dear, I know,” said Miss Bulstrode.

“Jealous,” said Chaddy. “I wanted—”

“I know,” said Miss Bulstrode.

Tears rolled very slowly down Miss Chadwick's cheeks. “It's so awful … I didn't mean—I don't know how I came to do such a thing!”

“Don't think about it anymore,” said Miss Bulstrode.

“But I can't—you'll never—I'll never forgive myself—”

“Listen, dear,” she said. “You saved my life, you know. My life and the life of that nice woman, Mrs. Upjohn. That counts for something, doesn't it?”

“I only wish,” said Miss Chadwick, “I could have given
my
life for you both. That would have made it all right….”

Miss Bulstrode looked at her with great pity. Miss Chadwick took a great breath, smiled, then, moving her head very slightly to one side, she died….

“You
did
give your life, my dear,” said Miss Bulstrode softly. “I hope you realize that—now.”

I

“A
Mr. Robinson has called to see you, sir.”

“Ah!” said Hercule Poirot. He stretched out his hand and picked up a letter from the desk in front of him. He looked down on it thoughtfully.

He said: “Show him in, Georges.”

The letter was only a few lines,

Poirot laid down the letter and rose as Mr. Robinson came into the room. He bowed, shook hands, indicated a chair.

Mr. Robinson sat, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his large yellow face. He observed that it was a warm day.

“You have not, I hope, walked here in this heat?”

Poirot looked horrified at the idea. By a natural association of ideas, his fingers went to his moustache. He was reassured. There was no limpness.

Mr. Robinson looked equally horrified.

“No, no, indeed. I came in my Rolls. But these traffic blocks … One sits for half an hour sometimes.”

Poirot nodded sympathetically.

There was a pause—the pause that ensues on part one of conversation before entering upon part two.

“I was interested to hear—of course one hears so many things—most of them quite untrue—that you had been concerning yourself with the affairs of a girls' school.”

“Ah,” said Poirot. “That!”

He leaned back in his chair.

“Meadowbank,” said Mr. Robinson thoughtfully. “Quite one of the premier schools of England.”

“It is a fine school.”

“Is? Or was?”

“I hope the former.”

“I hope so, too,” said Mr. Robinson. “I fear it may be touch and go. Ah well, one must do what one can. A little financial backing to tide over a certain inevitable period of depression. A few carefully chosen new pupils. I am not without influence in European circles.”

“I, too, have applied persuasion in certain quarters. If, as you say, we can tide things over. Mercifully, memories are short.”

“That is what one hopes. But one must admit that events have taken place there that might well shake the nerves of fond mammas—and papas also. The Games Mistress, the French Mistress, and yet another mistress—all murdered.”

“As you say.”

“I hear,” said Mr. Robinson, “(one hears so many things), that the unfortunate young woman responsible has suffered from a phobia about schoolmistresses since her youth. An unhappy childhood at school. Psychiatrists will make a good deal of this. They will try at least for a verdict of diminished responsibility, as they call it nowadays.”

“That line would seem to be the best choice,” said Poirot. “You will pardon me for saying that I hope it will not succeed.”

“I agree with you entirely. A most cold-blooded killer. But they will make much of her excellent character, her work as secretary to various well-known people, her war record—quite distinguished, I believe—counterespionage—”

He let the last words out with a certain significance—a hint of a question in his voice.

“She was very good, I believe,” he said more briskly. “So young—but quite brilliant, of great use—to both sides. That was
her métier—she should have stuck to it. But I can understand the temptation—to play a lone hand, and gain a big prize.” He added softly, “A very big prize.”

Poirot nodded.

Mr. Robinson leaned forward.

“Where are they, M. Poirot?”

“I think you know where they are.”

“Well, frankly, yes. Banks are such useful institutions are they not?”

Poirot smiled.

“We needn't beat about the bush really, need we, my dear fellow? What are you going to do about them?”

“I have been waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“Shall we say—for suggestions?”

“Yes—I see.”

“You understand they do not belong to me. I would like to hand them over to the person they do belong to. But that, if I appraise the position correctly, is not so simple.”

“Governments are in such a difficult position,” said Mr. Robinson. “Vulnerable, so to speak. What with oil, and steel, and uranium, and cobalt and all the rest of it, foreign relations are a matter of the utmost delicacy. The great thing is to be able to say that Her Majesty's Government, etc., etc., has absolutely
no
information on the subject.”

“But I cannot keep this important deposit at my bank indefinitely.”

“Exactly. That is why I have come to propose that you should hand it over to me.”

“Ah,” said Poirot. “Why?”

“I can give you some excellent reasons. These jewels—mercifully we are not official, we can call things by their right names—were unquestionably the personal property of the late Prince Ali Yusuf.”

“I understand that is so.”

“His Highness handed them over to Squadron Leader Robert Rawlinson with certain instructions. They were to be got out of Ramat, and they were to be delivered to
me.
”

“Have you proof of that?”

“Certainly.”

Mr. Robinson drew a long envelope from his pocket. Out of it he took several papers. He laid them before Poirot on the desk.

Poirot bent over them and studied them carefully.

“It seems to be as you say.”

“Well, then?”

“Do you mind if I ask a question?”

“Not at all.”

“What do you, personally, get out of this?”

Mr. Robinson looked surprised.

“My dear fellow. Money, of course. Quite a lot of money.”

Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.

“It is a very old trade,” said Mr. Robinson. “And a lucrative one. There are quite a lot of us, a network all over the globe. We are, how shall I put it, the Arrangers behind the scenes. For kings, for presidents, for politicians, for all those, in fact, upon whom the fierce light beats, as a poet has put it. We work in with one another and remember this: we keep faith. Our profits are large but we are honest. Our services are costly—but we do render service.”

“I see,” said Poirot. “
Eh bien!
I agree to what you ask.”

“I can assure you that that decision will please everyone.” Mr. Robinson's eyes just rested for a moment on Colonel Pikeaway's letter where it lay at Poirot's right hand.

“But just one little moment. I am human. I have curiosity. What are you going to do with these jewels?”

Mr. Robinson looked at him. Then his large yellow face creased into a smile. He leaned forward.

“I shall tell you.”

He told him.

II

Children were playing up and down the street. Their raucous cries filled the air. Mr. Robinson, alighting ponderously from his Rolls, was cannoned into by one of them.

Mr. Robinson put the child aside with a not unkindly hand and peered up at the number on the house.

No. 15. This was right. He pushed open the gate and went up the three steps to the front door. Neat white curtains at the windows, he noted, and a well-polished brass knocker. An insignificant little house in an insignificant street in an insignificant part of London, but it was well kept. It had self-respect.

The door opened. A girl of about twenty-five, pleasant looking, with a kind of fair, chocolate box prettiness, welcomed him with a smile.

“Mr. Robinson? Come in.”

She took him into the small sitting room. A television set, cre
tonnes of a Jacobean pattern, a cottage piano against the wall. She had on a dark skirt and a grey pullover.

“You'll have some tea? I've got the kettle on.”

“Thank you, but no. I never drink tea. And I can only stay a short time. I have only come to bring you what I wrote to you about.”

“From Ali?”

“Yes.”

“There isn't—there couldn't be—any hope? I mean—it's really true—that he was killed? There couldn't be any mistake?”

“I'm afraid there was no mistake,” said Mr. Robinson gently.

“No—no, I suppose not. Anyway, I never expected—When he went back there I didn't think really I'd ever see him again. I don't mean I thought he was going to be killed or that there would be a Revolution. I just mean—well, you know—he'd have to carry on, do his stuff—what was expected of him. Marry one of his own people—all that.”

Mr. Robinson drew out a package and laid it down on the table.

“Open it, please.”

Her fingers fumbled a little as she tore the wrappings off and then unfolded the final covering….

She drew her breath in sharply.

Red, blue, green, white, all sparkling with fire, with life, turning the dim little room into Aladdin's cave….

Mr. Robinson watched her. He had seen so many women look at jewels….

She said at last in a breathless voice,

“Are they—they can't be—
real?
”

“They are real.”

“But they must be worth—they must be worth—”

Her imagination failed.

Mr. Robinson nodded.

“If you wish to dispose of them, you can probably get at least half a million pounds for them.”

“No—no, it's not possible.”

Suddenly she scooped them up in her hands and rewrapped them with shaking fingers.

“I'm scared,” she said. “They frighten me. What am I to do with them?”

The door burst open. A small boy rushed in.

“Mum, I got a smashing tank off Billy. He—”

He stopped, staring at Mr. Robinson.

An olive skinned, dark boy.

His mother said,

“Go in the kitchen, Allen, your tea's all ready. Milk and biscuits and there's a bit of gingerbread.”

“Oh good.” He departed noisily.

“You call him Allen?” said Mr. Robinson.

She flushed.

“It was the nearest name to Ali. I couldn't call him Ali—too difficult for him and the neighbours and all.”

She went on, her face clouding over again.

“What am I to do?”

“First, have you got your marriage certificate? I have to be sure you're the person you say you are.”

She stared a moment, then went over to a small desk. From one
of the drawers she brought out an envelope, extracted a paper from it and brought it to him.

“Hm … yes … Register of Edmonstow … Ali Yusuf, student … Alice Calder, spinster … Yes, all in order.”

“Oh it's legal all right—as far as it goes. And no one ever tumbled to who he was. There's so many of these foreign Moslem students, you see. We knew it didn't mean anything really. He was a Moslem and he could have more than one wife, and he knew he'd have to go back and do just that. We talked about it. But Allen was on the way, you see, and he said this would make it all right for him—we were married all right in this country and Allen would be legitimate. It was the best he could do for me. He really did love me, you know. He really did.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Robinson. “I am sure he did.”

He went on briskly.

“Now, supposing that you put yourself in my hands. I will see to the selling of these stones. And I will give you the address of a lawyer, a really good and reliable solicitor. He will advise you, I expect, to put most of the money in a trust fund. And there will be other things, education for your son, and a new way of life for you. You'll want social education and guidance. You're going to be a very rich woman and all the sharks and the confidence tricksters and the rest of them will be after you. Your life's not going to be easy except in the purely material sense. Rich people don't have an easy time in life, I can tell you—I've seen too many of them to have that illusion. But you've got character. I think you'll come through. And that boy of yours may be a happier man than his father ever was.”

He paused. “You agree?”

“Yes. Take them.” She pushed them towards him, then said suddenly: “That schoolgirl—the one who found them—I'd like her to have one of them—which—what colour do you think she'd like?”

Mr. Robinson reflected. “An emerald, I think—green for mystery. A good idea of yours. She will find that very thrilling.”

He rose to his feet.

“I shall charge you for my services, you know,” said Mr. Robinson. “And my charges are pretty high. But I shan't cheat you.”

She gave him a level glance.

“No, I don't think you will. And I need someone who knows about business, because I don't.”

“You seem a very sensible woman if I may say so. Now then, I'm to take these? You don't want to keep—just one—say?”

He watched her with curiosity, the sudden flicker of excitement, the hungry covetous eyes—and then the flicker died.

“No,” said Alice. “I won't keep—even one.” She flushed. “Oh I daresay that seems daft to you—not to keep just one big ruby or an emerald—just as a keepsake. But you see, he and I—he was a Moslem but he let me read bits now and again out of the Bible. And we read that bit—about a woman whose price was above rubies. And so—I won't have any jewels. I'd rather not….”

“A most unusual woman,” said Mr. Robinson to himself as he walked down the path and into his waiting Rolls.

He repeated to himself,

“A most unusual woman….”