Poirot's Early Cases (18 page)

‘You did not see her mistress, I suppose?’

‘As a matter of fact, I did. She was in the gallery at the top of the steps and was calling her—“Léonie!” Then she saw me—and of course retired.’

‘Upstairs,’ said Poirot, frowning.

‘Of course, I realize that all this is very unpleasant for me—or rather would have been, if Lord Alloway had not chanced to see the man actually leaving. In any case, I should be glad if you would make a point of searching my room—and myself.’

‘You really wish that?’

‘Certainly I do.’

What Poirot would have replied I do not know, but at that moment Lord Alloway reappeared and informed us that the two ladies and Mr Leonard Weardale were in the drawing-room.

The women were in becoming negligees. Mrs Conrad was a beautiful woman of thirty-five, with golden hair and a slight tendency to
embonpoint
. Lady Juliet Weardale must have been forty, tall and dark, very thin, still beautiful, with exquisite hands and feet, and a restless, haggard manner. Her son was rather an effeminate-looking young man, as great a contrast to his bluff, hearty father as could well be imagined.

Poirot gave forth the little rigmarole we had agreed upon, and then explained that he was anxious to know if anyone had heard or seen anything that night which might assist us.

Turning to Mrs Conrad first, he asked her if she would be so kind as to inform him exactly what her movements had been.

‘Let me see…I went upstairs. I rang for my maid. Then, as she did not put in an appearance, I came out and called her. I could hear her talking on the stairs. After she had brushed my hair, I sent her away—she was in a very curious nervous state. I read awhile and then went to bed.’

‘And you, Lady Juliet?’

‘I went straight upstairs and to bed. I was very tired.’

‘What about your book, dear?’ asked Mrs Conrad with a sweet smile.

‘My book?’ Lady Juliet flushed.

‘Yes, you know, when I sent Léonie away, you were coming up the stairs. You had been down to the drawing-room for a book, you said.’

‘Oh yes, I did go down. I—I forgot.’

Lady Juliet clasped her hands nervously together.

‘Did you hear Mrs Conrad’s maid scream, milady?’

‘No—no, I didn’t.’

‘How curious—because you must have been in the drawing-room at the time.’

‘I heard nothing,’ said Lady Juliet in a firmer voice.

Poirot turned to young Leonard.

‘Monsieur?’

‘Nothing doing. I went straight upstairs and turned in.’

Poirot stroked his chin.

‘Alas, I fear there is nothing to help me here. Mesdames and monsieur, I regret—I regret infinitely to have deranged you from your slumbers for so little. Accept my apologies, I pray of you.’

Gesticulating and apologizing, he marshalled them out. He returned with the French maid, a pretty, impudent-looking girl. Alloway and Weardale had gone out with the ladies.

‘Now, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot in a brisk tone, ‘let us have the truth. Recount to me no histories. Why did you scream on the stairs?’

‘Ah, monsieur, I saw a tall figure—all in white—’

Poirot arrested her with an energetic shake of his forefinger.

‘Did I not say, recount to me no histories? I will make a guess. He kissed you, did he not? M. Leonard Weardale, I mean?’

‘
Eh bien, monsieur
, and after all, what is a kiss?’

‘Under the circumstances, it is most natural,’ replied Poirot gallantly. ‘I myself, or Hastings here—but tell me just what occurred.’

‘He came up behind me, and caught me. I was startled, and I screamed. If I had known, I would not have screamed—but he came upon me like a
cat. Then came
M. le secrêtaire
. M. Leonard flew up the stairs. And what could I say? Especially to a
jeune homme comme ça—tellement comme il faut? Ma foi
, I invent a ghost.’

‘And all is explained,’ cried Poirot genially. ‘You then mounted to the chamber of Madame your mistress. Which is her room, by the way?’

‘It is at the end, monsieur. That way.’

‘Directly over the study, then.
Bien
, mademoiselle, I will detain you no longer. And
la prochaine fois
, do not scream.’

Handing her out, he came back to me with a smile.

‘An interesting case, is it not, Hastings? I begin to have a few little ideas.
Et vous
?’

‘What was Leonard Weardale doing on the stairs? I don’t like that young man, Poirot. He’s a thorough young rake, I should say.’

‘I agree with you,
mon ami
.’

‘Fitzroy seems an honest fellow.’

‘Lord Alloway is certainly insistent on that point.’

‘And yet there is something in his manner—’

‘That is almost too good to be true? I felt it myself. On the other hand, our friend Mrs Conrad is certainly no good at all.’

‘And her room is over the study,’ I said musingly, and keeping a sharp eye on Poirot.

He shook his head with a slight smile.

‘No,
mon ami
, I cannot bring myself seriously to believe that that immaculate lady swarmed down the chimney, or let herself down from the balcony.’

As he spoke, the door opened, and to my great surprise, Lady Juliet Weardale flitted in.

‘M. Poirot,’ she said somewhat breathlessly, ‘Can I speak to you alone?’

‘Milady, Captain Hastings is as my other self. You can speak before him as though he were a thing of no account, not there at all. Be seated, I pray you.’

She sat down, still keeping her eyes fixed on Poirot.

‘What I have to say is—rather difficult. You are in charge of this case. If the—papers were to be returned, would that end the matter? I mean, could it be done without questions being asked?’

Poirot stared hard at her.

‘Let me understand you, madame. They are to be placed in my hand—is that right? And I am to return them to Lord Alloway on the condition that he asks no questions as to where I got them?’

She bowed her head. ‘That is what I mean. But I must be sure there will be no—publicity.’

‘I do not think Lord Alloway is particularly anxious for publicity,’ said Poirot grimly.

‘You accept then?’ she cried eagerly in response.

‘A little moment, milady. It depends on how soon you can place those papers in my hands.’

‘Almost immediately.’

Poirot glanced up at the clock.

‘How soon, exactly?’

‘Say—ten minutes,’ she whispered.

‘I accept, milady.’

She hurried from the room. I pursed my mouth up for a whistle.

‘Can you sum up the situation for me, Hastings?’

‘Bridge,’ I replied succinctly.

‘Ah, you remember the careless words of Monsieur the Admiral! What a memory! I felicitate you, Hastings.’

We said no more, for Lord Alloway came in, and looked inquiringly at Poirot.

‘Have you any further ideas, M. Poirot? I am afraid the answers to your questions have been rather disappointing.’

‘Not at all, milor’. They have been quite sufficiently illuminating. It will be unnecessary for me to stay here any longer, and so, with your permission, I will return at once to London.’

Lord Alloway seemed dumbfounded.

‘But—but what have you discovered? Do you know who took the plans?’

‘Yes, milor’, I do. Tell me—in the case of the papers being returned to you anonymously, you would prosecute no further inquiry?’

Lord Alloway stared at him.

‘Do you mean on payment of a sum of money?’

‘No, milor’, returned unconditionally.’

‘Of course, the recovery of the plans is the great thing,’ said Lord Alloway slowly. He looked puzzled and uncomprehending.

‘Then I should seriously recommend you to adopt that course. Only you, the Admiral and your secretary know of the loss. Only they need know of the restitution. And you may count on me to support you in every way—lay the mystery on my shoulders. You asked me to restore the papers—I have done so. You know no more.’ He rose and held out his hand. ‘Milor’, I am glad to have met you. I have faith in you—and your devotion to England. You will guide her destinies with a strong, sure hand.’

‘M. Poirot—I swear to you that I will do my best. It may be a fault, or it may be a virtue—but I believe in myself.’

‘So does every great man. Me, I am the same!’ said Poirot grandiloquently.

The car came round to the door in a few minutes, and Lord Alloway bade us farewell on the steps with renewed cordiality.

‘That is a great man, Hastings,’ said Poirot as we drove off. ‘He has brains, resource, power. He is the strong man that England needs to guide her through these difficult days of reconstruction.’

‘I’m quite ready to agree with all you say, Poirot—but what about Lady Juliet? Is she to return the papers straight to Alloway? What will she think when she finds you have gone off without a word?’

‘Hastings, I will ask you a little question. Why, when she was talking with me, did she not hand me the plans then and there?’

‘She hadn’t got them with her.’

‘Perfectly. How long would it take her to fetch them from her room? Or from any hiding-place in the house? You need not answer. I will tell you. Probably about two minutes and a half! Yet she asks for ten minutes. Why? Clearly she has to obtain them from some other person, and to reason or argue with that person before they give them up. Now, what person could that be? Not Mrs Conrad, clearly, but a member of her own family, her husband or son. Which is it likely to be?
Leonard Weardale said he went straight to bed. We know that to be untrue. Supposing his mother went to his room and found it empty; supposing she came down filled with a nameless dread—he is no beauty that son of hers! She does not find him, but later she hears him deny that he ever left his room. She leaps to the conclusion that he is the thief. Hence her interview with me.

‘But,
mon ami
, we know something that Lady Juliet does not. We know that her son could not have been in the study, because he was on the stairs, making love to the pretty French maid. Although she does not know it, Leonard Weardale has an alibi.’

‘Well, then, who did steal the papers? We seem to have eliminated everybody—Lady Juliet, her son, Mrs Conrad, the French maid—’

‘Exactly. Use your little grey cells, my friend. The solution stares you in the face.’

I shook my head blankly.

‘But yes! If you would only persevere! See, then, Fitzroy goes out of the study; he leaves the papers on the desk. A few minutes later Lord Alloway enters the room, goes to the desk, and the papers are gone. Only two things are possible: either Fitzroy did
not
leave the papers on the desk, but put them in his pocket—and that is not reasonable, because, as Alloway pointed out, he could have taken a tracing at his own convenience
any time—or else the papers were still on the desk when Lord Alloway went to it—in which case they went into his pocket.’

‘Lord Alloway the thief,’ I said, dumbfounded. ‘But why? Why?’

‘Did you not tell me of some scandal in the past? He was exonerated, you said. But suppose, after all, it had been true? In English public life there must be no scandal. If this were raked up and proved against him now—goodbye to his political career. We will suppose that he was being blackmailed, and the price asked was the submarine plans.’

‘But the man’s a black traitor!’ I cried.

‘Oh no, he is not. He is clever and resourceful. Supposing, my friend, that he copied those plans, making—for he is a clever engineer—a slight alteration in each part which will render them quite impractible. He hands the faked plans to the enemy’s agent—Mrs Conrad, I fancy; but in order that no suspicion of their genuineness may arise, the plans must seem to be stolen. He does his best to throw no suspicion on anyone in the house, by pretending to see a man leaving the window. But there he ran up against the obstinacy of the Admiral. So his next anxiety is that no suspicion shall fall on Fitzroy.’

‘This is all guesswork on your part, Poirot,’ I objected.

‘It is psychology,
mon ami
. A man who had handed
over the real plans would not be overscrupulous as to who was likely to fall under suspicion. And why was he so anxious that no details of the robbery should be given to Mrs Conrad? Because he had handed over the faked plans earlier in the evening, and did not want her to know that the theft could only have taken place later.’

‘I wonder if you are right,’ I said.

‘Of course I am right. I spoke to Alloway as one great man to another—and he understood perfectly. You will see.’

One thing is quite certain. On the day when Lord Alloway became Prime Minister, a cheque and a signed photograph arrived; on the photograph were the words: ‘
To my discreet friend, Hercule Poirot—from Alloway
.’

I believe that the Z type of submarine is causing great exultation in naval circles. They say it will revolutionize modern naval warfare. I have heard that a certain foreign power essayed to construct something of the same kind and the result was a dismal failure. But I still consider that Poirot was guessing. He will do it once too often one of these days.

‘Bother!’ said Pat.

With a deepening frown she rummaged wildly in the silken trifle she called an evening bag. Two young men and another girl watched her anxiously. They were all standing outside the closed door of Patricia Garnett’s flat.

‘It’s no good,’ said Pat. ‘It’s not there. And now what shall we do?’

‘What is life without a latchkey?’ murmured Jimmy Faulkener.

He was a short, broad-shouldered young man, with good-tempered blue eyes.

Pat turned on him angrily. ‘Don’t make jokes, Jimmy. This is serious.’

‘Look again, Pat,’ said Donovan Bailey. ‘It must be there somewhere.’

He had a lazy, pleasant voice that matched his lean, dark figure.

‘If you ever brought it out,’ said the other girl, Mildred Hope.

‘Of course I brought it out,’ said Pat. ‘I believe I gave it to one of you two.’ She turned on the men accusingly. ‘I told Donovan to take it for me.’

But she was not to find a scapegoat so easily. Donovan put in a firm disclaimer, and Jimmy backed him up.

‘I saw you put it in your bag, myself,’ said Jimmy.

‘Well, then, one of you dropped it out when you picked up my bag. I’ve dropped it once or twice.’

‘Once or twice!’ said Donovan. ‘You’ve dropped it a dozen times at least, besides leaving it behind on every possible occasion.’

‘I can’t see why everything on earth doesn’t drop out of it the whole time,’ said Jimmy.

‘The point is—how are we going to get in?’ said Mildred.

She was a sensible girl, who kept to the point, but she was not nearly so attractive as the impulsive and troublesome Pat.

All four of them regarded the closed door blankly.

‘Couldn’t the porter help?’ suggested Jimmy. ‘Hasn’t he got a master key or something of that kind?’

Pat shook her head. There were only two keys. One was inside the flat hung up in the kitchen and the other was—or should be—in the maligned bag.

‘If only the flat were on the ground floor,’ wailed Pat. ‘We could have broken open a window or something. Donovan, you wouldn’t like to be a cat burglar, would you?’

Donovan declined firmly but politely to be a cat burglar.

‘A flat on the fourth floor is a bit of an undertaking,’ said Jimmy.

‘How about a fire-escape?’ suggested Donovan.

‘There isn’t one.’

‘There should be,’ said Jimmy. ‘A building five storeys high ought to have a fire escape.’

‘I dare say,’ said Pat. ‘But what should be doesn’t help us. How am I ever to get into my flat?’

‘Isn’t there a sort of thingummybob?’ said Donovan. ‘A thing the tradesmen send up chops and brussels sprouts in?’

‘The service lift,’ said Pat. ‘Oh yes, but it’s only a sort of wire-basket thing. Oh wait—I know. What about the coal lift?’

‘Now that,’ said Donovan, ‘is an idea.’

Mildred made a discouraging suggestion. ‘It’ll be bolted,’ she said. ‘In Pat’s kitchen, I mean, on the inside.’

But the idea was instantly negatived.

‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Donovan.

‘Not in
Pat’s
kitchen,’ said Jimmy. ‘Pat never locks and bolts things.’

‘I don’t think it’s bolted,’ said Pat. ‘I took the dustbin off this morning, and I’m sure I never bolted it afterwards, and I don’t think I’ve been near it since.’

‘Well,’ said Donovan, ‘that fact’s going to be very useful to us tonight, but, all the same, young Pat, let me point out to you that these slack habits are leaving you at the mercy of burglars—non-feline—every night.’

Pat disregarded these admonitions.

‘Come on,’ she cried, and began racing down the four flights of stairs. The others followed her. Pat led them through a dark recess, apparently full to overflowing of perambulators, and through another door into the well of the flats, and guided them to the right lift. There was, at the moment, a dustbin on it. Donovan lifted it off and stepped gingerly on to the platform in its place. He wrinkled up his nose.

‘A little noisome,’ he remarked. ‘But what of that? Do I go alone on this venture or is anyone coming with me?’

‘I’ll come, too,’ said Jimmy.

He stepped on by Donovan’s side.

‘I suppose the lift will bear me,’ he added doubtfully.

‘You can’t weigh much more than a ton of coal,’ said Pat, who had never been particularly strong on her weights-and-measures table.

‘And, anyway, we shall soon find out,’ said Donovan cheerfully, as he hauled on the rope.

With a grinding noise they disappeared from sight.

‘This thing makes an awful noise,’ remarked Jimmy, as they passed up through blackness. ‘What will the people in the other flats think?’

‘Ghosts or burglars, I expect,’ said Donovan. ‘Hauling this rope is quite heavy work. The porter of Friars Mansions does more work than I ever suspected. I say, Jimmy, old son, are you counting the floors?’

‘Oh, Lord! No. I forgot about it.’

‘Well, I have, which is just as well. That’s the third we’re passing now. The next is ours.’

‘And now, I suppose,’ grumbled Jimmy, ‘we shall find that Pat did bolt the door after all.’

But these fears were unfounded. The wooden door swung back at a touch, and Donovan and Jimmy stepped out into the inky blacknesss of Pat’s kitchen.

‘We ought to have a torch for this wild night work,’ exclaimed Donovan. ‘If I know Pat, everything’s on the floor, and we shall smash endless crockery before I can get to the light switch. Don’t move about, Jimmy, till I get the light on.’

He felt his way cautiously over the floor, uttering one fervent ‘Damn!’ as a corner of the kitchen table took him unawares in the ribs. He reached the switch, and in another moment another ‘Damn!’ floated out of the darkness.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Jimmy.

‘Light won’t come on. Dud bulb, I suppose. Wait a minute. I’ll turn the sitting-room light on.’

The sitting-room was the door immediately across the passage. Jimmy heard Donovan go out of the door, and presently fresh muffled curses reached him. He himself edged his way cautiously across the kitchen.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I don’t know. Rooms get bewitched at night, I believe. Everything seems to be in a different place. Chairs and tables where you least expected them. Oh, hell! Here’s another!’

But at this moment Jimmy fortunately connected with the electric-light switch and pressed it down. In another minute two young men were looking at each other in silent horror.

This room was not Pat’s sitting-room. They were in the wrong flat.

To begin with, the room was about ten times more crowded than Pat’s, which explained Donovan’s pathetic bewilderment at repeatedly cannoning into chairs and tables. There was a large round table in the centre of the room covered with a baize cloth, and there was an aspidistra in the window. It was, in fact, the kind of room whose owner, the young men felt sure, would be difficult to explain to. With silent
horror they gazed down at the table, on which lay a little pile of letters.

‘Mrs Ernestine Grant,’ breathed Donovan, picking them up and reading the name. ‘Oh, help! Do you think she’s heard us?’

‘It’s a miracle she hasn’t heard you,’ said Jimmy. ‘What with your language and the way you’ve been crashing into the furniture. Come on, for the Lord’s sake, let’s get out of here quickly.’

They hastily switched off the light and retraced their steps on tiptoe to the lift. Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief as they regained the fastness of its depths without further incident.

‘I do like a woman to be a good, sound sleeper,’ he said approvingly. ‘Mrs Ernestine Grant has her points.’

‘I see it now,’ said Donovan; ‘why we made the mistake in the floor, I mean. Out in that well we started up from the basement.’

He heaved on the rope, and the lift shot up. ‘We’re right this time.’

‘I devoutly trust we are,’ said Jimmy as he stepped out into another inky void. ‘My nerves won’t stand many more shocks of this kind.’

But no further nerve strain was imposed. The first click of the light showed them Pat’s kitchen, and in another minute they were opening the front door and admitting the two girls who were waiting outside.

‘You have been a long time,’ grumbled Pat. ‘Mildred and I have been waiting here ages.’

‘We’ve had an adventure,’ said Donovan. ‘We might have been hauled off to the police-station as dangerous malefactors.’

Pat had passed on into the sitting-room, where she switched on the light and dropped her wrap on the sofa. She listened with lively interest to Donovan’s account of his adventures.

‘I’m glad she didn’t catch you,’ she commented. ‘I’m sure she’s an old curmudgeon. I got a note from her this morning—wanted to see me some time—something she had to complain about—my piano, I suppose. People who don’t like pianos over their heads shouldn’t come and live in flats. I say, Donovan, you’ve hurt your hand. It’s all over blood. Go and wash it under the tap.’

Donovan looked down at his hand in surprise. He went out of the room obediently and presently his voice called to Jimmy.

‘Hullo,’ said the other, ‘what’s up? You haven’t hurt yourself badly, have you?’

‘I haven’t hurt myself at all.’

There was something so queer in Donovan’s voice that Jimmy stared at him in surprise. Donovan held out his washed hand and Jimmy saw that there was no mark or cut of any kind on it.

‘That’s odd,’ he said, frowning. ‘There was quite a lot of blood. Where did it come from?’ And then suddenly he realized what his quicker-witted friend had already seen. ‘By Jove,’ he said. ‘It must have come from that flat.’ He stopped, thinking over the possibilities his word implied. ‘You’re sure it was—er—blood?’ he said. ‘Not paint?’

Donovan shook his head. ‘It was blood, all right,’ he said, and shivered.

They looked at each other. The same thought was clearly in each of their minds. It was Jimmy who voiced it first.

‘I say,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Do you think we ought to—well—go down again—and have—a—look around? See it’s all right, you know?’

‘What about the girls?’

‘We won’t say anything to them. Pat’s going to put on an apron and make us an omelette. We’ll be back by the time they wonder where we are.’

‘Oh, well, come on,’ said Donovan. ‘I suppose we’ve got to go through with it. I dare say there isn’t anything really wrong.’

But his tone lacked conviction. They got into the lift and descended to the floor below. They found their way across the kitchen without much difficulty and once more switched on the sitting-room light.

‘It must have been in here,’ said Donovan, ‘that—that I got the stuff on me. I never touched anything in the kitchen.’

He looked round him. Jimmy did the same, and they both frowned. Everything looked neat and commonplace and miles removed from any suggestion of violence or gore.

Suddenly Jimmy started violently and caught his companion’s arm.

‘Look!’

Donovan followed the pointing finger, and in his turn uttered an exclamation. From beneath the heavy red curtains there protruded a foot—a woman’s foot in a gaping patent leather shoe.

Jimmy went to the curtains and drew them sharply apart. In the recess of the window a woman’s huddled body lay on the floor, a sticky dark pool beside it. She was dead, there was no doubt of that. Jimmy was attempting to raise her up when Donovan stopped him.

‘You’d better not do that. She oughtn’t to be touched till the police come.’

‘The police. Oh, of course. I say, Donovan, what
a ghastly business. Who do you think she is? Mrs Ernestine Grant?’

‘Looks like it. At any rate, if there’s anyone else in the flat they’re keeping jolly quiet.’

‘What do we do next?’ asked Jimmy. ‘Run out and get a policeman or ring up from Pat’s flat?’

‘I should think ringing up would be best. Come on, we might as well go out the front door. We can’t spend the whole night going up and down in that evil-smelling lift.’

Jimmy agreed. Just as they were passing through the door he hesitated. ‘Look here; do you think one of us ought to stay—just to keep an eye on things—till the police come?’

‘Yes, I think you’re right. If you’ll stay I’ll run up and telephone.’

He ran quickly up the stairs and rang the bell of the flat above. Pat came to open it, a very pretty Pat with a flushed face and a cooking apron on. Her eyes widened in surprise.

‘You? But how—Donovan, what is it? Is anything the matter?’

He took both her hands in his. ‘It’s all right, Pat—only we’ve made a rather unpleasant discovery in the flat below. A woman—dead.’

‘Oh!’ She gave a little gasp. ‘How horrible. Has she had a fit or something?’

‘No. It looks—well—it looks rather as though she had been murdered.’

‘Oh, Donovan!’

‘I know. It’s pretty beastly.’

Her hands were still in his. She had left them there—was even clinging to him. Darling Pat—how he loved her. Did she care at all for him? Sometimes he thought she did. Sometimes he was afraid that Jimmy Faulkener—remembrances of Jimmy waiting patiently below made him start guiltily.

‘Pat, dear, we must telephone to the police.’

‘Monsieur is right,’ said a voice behind him. ‘And in the meantime, while we are waiting their arrival, perhaps I can be of some slight assistance.’

They had been standing in the doorway of the flat, and now they peered out on the landing. A figure was standing on the stairs a little way above them. It moved down and into their range of vision.

They stood staring at the little man with a very fierce moustache and an egg-shaped head. He wore a resplendent dressing-gown and embroidered slippers. He bowed gallantly to Patricia.

‘Mademoiselle!’ he said. ‘I am, as perhaps you know, the tenant of the flat above. I like to be up high—in the air—the view over London. I take the flat in the name of Mr O’Connor. But I am not an Irishman. I have another name. That is why I venture to put myself at
your service. Permit me.’ With a flourish he pulled out a card and handed it to Pat. She read it.

‘M. Hercule Poirot. Oh!’ She caught her breath.

‘
The
M. Poirot! The great detective? And you will really help?’

‘That is my intention, mademoiselle. I nearly offered my help earlier in the evening.’