“I thought perhaps that I might ask Mr. Lavington to call upon you. I would tell him that you were empowered by me to discuss the matter. Perhaps you could reduce his demands.”
“What sum does he mention?”
“Twenty thousand pounds—an impossibility. I doubt if I could raise a thousand, even.”
“You might perhaps borrow the money on the prospect of your approaching marriage—but I doubt if you could get hold of half that sum. Besides—eh bien, it is repungnant to me that you should pay! No, the ingenuity of Hercule Poirot shall defeat your enemies! Send me this Mr. Lavington. Is he likely to bring the letter with him?”
The girl shook her head.
“I do not think so. He is very cautious.”
“I suppose there is no doubt that he really has it?”
“He showed it to me when I went to his house.”
“You went to his house? That was very imprudent, milady.”
“Was it? I was so desperate. I hoped my entreaties might move him.”
“Oh, là là! The Lavingtons of this world are not moved by entreaties! He would welcome them as showing how much importance you attached to the document. Where does he live, this fine gentleman?”
“At Buona Vista, Wimbledon. I went there after dark—” Poirot groaned. “I declared that I would inform the police in the end, but he only laughed in a horrid, sneering manner. ‘By all means, my dear Lady Millicent, do so if you wish,’ he said.”
“Yes, it is hardly an affair for the police,” murmured Poirot.
“ ‘But I think you will be wiser than that,’ he continued. ‘See, here is your letter—in this little Chinese puzzle box!’ He held it so that I could see. I tried to snatch at it, but he was too quick for me. With a horrid smile he folded it up and replaced it in the little wooden box. ‘It will be quite safe here, I assure you,’ he said, ‘and the box itself lives in such a clever place that you would never find it.’ My eyes turned to the small wall safe, and he shook his head and laughed. ‘I have a better safe than that,’ he said. Oh, he was odious! M. Poirot, do you think that you can help me?”
“Have faith in Papa Poirot. I will find a way.”
These reassurances were all very well, I thought, as Poirot gallantly ushered his fair client down the stairs, but it seemed to me that we had a tough nut to crack. I said as much to Poirot when he returned. He nodded ruefully.
“Yes—the solution does not leap to the eye. He has the whip hand, this M. Lavington. For the moment I do not see how we are to circumvent him.”
II
Mr. Lavington duly called upon us that afternoon. Lady Millicent had spoken truly when she described him as an odious man. I felt a positive tingling in the end of my boot, so keen was I to kick him down the stairs. He was blustering and overbearing in manner, laughed Poirot’s gentle suggestions to scorn, and generally showed himself as master of the situation. I could not help feeling that Poirot was hardly appearing at his best. He looked discouraged and crestfallen.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Lavington, as he took up his hat, “we don’t seem to be getting much further. The case stands like this: I’ll let the Lady Millicent off cheap, as she is such a charming young lady.” He leered odiously. “We’ll say eighteen thousand. I’m off to Paris today—a little piece of business to attend to over there. I shall be back on Tuesday. Unless the money is paid by Tuesday evening, the letter goes to the Duke. Don’t tell me Lady Millicent can’t raise the money. Some of her gentlemen friends would be only too willing to oblige such a pretty woman with a loan—if she goes the right way about it.”
My face flushed, and I took a step forward, but Lavington had wheeled out of the room as he finished his sentence.
“My God!” I cried. “Something has got to be done. You seem to be taking this lying down, Poirot.”
“You have an excellent heart, my friend—but your grey cells are in a deplorable condition. I have no wish to impress Mr. Lavington with my capabilities. The more pusillanimous he thinks me, the better.”
“Why?”
“It is curious,” murmured Poirot reminiscently, “that I should have uttered a wish to work against the law just before Lady Millicent arrived!”
“You are going to burgle his house while he is away?” I gasped.
“Sometimes, Hastings, your mental processes are amazingly quick.”
“Suppose he takes the letter with him?”
Poirot shook his head.
“That is very unlikely. He has evidently a hiding place in his house that he fancies to be pretty impregnable.”
“When do we—er—do the deed?”
“Tomorrow night. We will start from here about eleven o’clock.”
III
At the time appointed I was ready to set off. I had donned a dark suit, and a soft dark hat. Poirot beamed kindly on me.
“You have dressed the part, I see,” he observed. “Come let us take the underground to Wimbledon.”
“Aren’t we going to take anything with us? Tools to break in with?”
“My dear Hastings, Hercule Poirot does not adopt such crude methods.”
I retired, snubbed, but my curiosity was alert.
It was just on midnight that we entered the small suburban garden of Buona Vista. The house was dark and silent. Poirot went straight to a window at the back of the house, raised the sash noiselessly and bade me enter.
“How did you know this window would be open?” I whispered, for really it seemed uncanny.
“Because I sawed through the catch this morning.”
“What?”
“But yes, it was most simple. I called, presented a fictitious card and one of Inspector Japp’s official ones. I said I had been sent, recommended by Scotland Yard, to attend to some burglar-proof fastenings that Mr. Lavington wanted fixed while he was away. The housekeeper welcomed me with enthusiasm. It seems they have had two attempted burglaries here lately—evidently our little idea has occurred to other clients of Mr. Lavington’s—with nothing of value taken. I examined all the windows, made my little arrangement, forbade the servants to touch the windows until tomorrow, as they were electrically connected up, and withdrew
gracefully.”
“Really, Poirot, you are wonderful.”
“Mon ami, it was of the simplest. Now, to work! The servants sleep at the top of the house, so we will run little risk of disturbing them.”
“I presume the safe is built into the wall somewhere?”
“Safe? Fiddlesticks! There is no safe. Mr. Lavington is an intelligent man. You will see, he will have devised a hiding place much more intelligent than a safe. A safe is the first thing everyone looks for.”
Whereupon we began a systematic search of the entire place. But after several hours” ransacking of the house, our search had been unavailing. I saw symptoms of anger gathering on Poirot’s face.
“Ah, sapristi, is Hercule Poirot to be beaten? Never! Let us be calm. Let us reflect. Let us reason. Let us—enfin!—employ our little grey cells!”
He paused for some moments, bending his brows in concentration; then the green light I knew so well stole into his eyes.
“I have been an imbecile! The kitchen!”
“The kitchen,” I cried. “But that’s impossible. The servants!”
“Exactly. Just what ninety-nine people out of a hundred would say! And for that very reason the kitchen is the ideal place to choose. It is full of various homely objects. En avant, to the kitchen!”
I followed him, completely sceptical, and watched whilst he dived into bread bins, tapped saucepans, and put his head into the gas-oven. In the end, tired of watching him, I strolled back to the study. I was convinced that there, and there only, would we find the cache. I made a further minute search, noted that it was now a quarter past four and that therefore it would soon be growing light, and then went back to the kitchen regions.
To my utter amazement, Poirot was now standing right inside the coal bin, to the utter ruin of h
is neat light suit. He made a grimace.
“But yes, my friend, it is against all my instincts so to ruin my appearance, but what will you?”
“But Lavington can’t have buried it under the coal?”
“If you would use your eyes, you would see that it is not the coal that I examine.”
I then saw on a shelf behind the coal bunker some logs of wood were piled. Poirot was dexterously taking them down one by one. Suddenly he uttered a low exclamation.
“Your knife, Hastings!”
I handed it to him. He appeared to inset it in the wood, and suddenly the log split in two. It had been neatly sawn in half and a cavity hollowed out in the centre. From this cavity Poirot took a little wooden box of Chinese make.
“Well done!” I cried, carried out of myself.
“Gently, Hastings! Do not raise your voice too much. Come, let us be off, before the daylight is upon us.”
Slipping the box into his pocket, he leaped lightly out of the coal-bunker, brushed himself down as well as he could, and leaving the house by the same way as we had come, we walked rapidly in the direction of London.
“But what an extraordinary place!” I expostulated. “Anyone might have used the log.”
“In July, Hastings? And it was at the bottom of the pile—a very ingenious hiding place. Ah, here is a taxi! Now for home, a wash, and a refreshing sleep.”
IV
After the excitement of the night, I slept late. When I finally strolled into our sitting room just before one o’clock, I was surprised to see Poirot, leaning back in an armchair, the Chinese box open beside him, calmly reading the letter he had taken from it.
He smiled at me affectionately, and tapped the sheet he held.
“She was right, the Lady Millicent; never would the Duke have pardoned this letter! It contains some of the most extravagant terms of affection I have ever come across.”
“Really, Poirot,” I said, rather disgustedly, “I don’t think you should have read the letter. “That’s the sort of thing that isn’t done.”
“It is done by Hercule Poirot,” replied my friend imperturbably.
“And another thing,” I said. “I don’t think using Japp’s official card yesterday was quite playing the game.”
“But I was not playing a game, Hastings. I was conducting a case.”
I shrugged my shoulders. One can’t argue with a point of view.
“A step on the stairs,” said Poirot. “That will be Lady Millicent.”
Our fair client came in with an anxious expression on her face which changed to one of delight on seeing the letter and box which Poirot held up.
“Oh, M. Poirot. How wonderful of you! How did you do it?”
“By rather reprehensible methods, milady. But Mr. Lavington will not prosecute. This is your letter, is it not?”
She glanced through it.
“Yes. Oh, how can I ever thank you! You are a wonderful, wonderful man. Where was it hidden?”
Poirot told her.
“How very clever of you!” She took up the small box from the table. “I shall keep this as a souvenir.”
“I had hoped, milady, that you would permit me to keep it—also as a souvenir.”
“I hope to send you a better souvenir than that—on my wedding day. You shall not find me ungrateful, M. Poirot.”
“The pleasure of doing you a service will be more to me than a cheque—so you permit that I retain the box.”
“Oh no, M. Poirot, I simply must have that,” she cried laughingly.
She stretched out her hand, but Poirot was before her. His hand closed over it.
“I think not.” His voice had changed.
“What do you mean?” Her voice seemed to have grown sharper.
“At any rate, permit me to abstract its further contents. You observed that the original cavity has been reduced by half. In the top half, the compromising letter; in the bottom—”
He made a nimble gesture, then held out his hand. On the palm were four large glittering stones, and two big milky white pearls.
“The jewels stolen in Bond Street the other day, I rather fancy,” murmured Poirot. “Japp will tell us.”
To my utter amazement, Japp himself stepped out from Poirot’s bedroom.
“An old friend of yours, I believe,” said Poirot politely to Lady Millicent.
“Nabbed, by the Lord!” said Lady Millicent, with a complete change of manner. “You nippy old devil!” She looked at Poirot with almost affectionate awe.
“Well, Gertie, my dear,” said Japp, “the game’s up this time, I fancy. Fancy seeing you again so soon! We’ve got your pal, too, the gentleman who called here the other day calling himself Lavington. As for Lavington himself, alias Croker, alias Reed, I wonder which of the gang it was who stuck a knife into him the other day in Holland? Thought he’d got the goods with him, didn’t you? And he hadn’t. He double-crossed you properly—hid ’em in his own house. You had two fellows looking for them, and then you tackled M. Poirot here, and by a piece of amazing luck he found them.”
“You do like talking, don’t you?” said the late Lady Millicent. “Easy there, now. I’ll go quietly. You can’t say that I’m not the perfect lady. Ta-ta, all!”
“The shoes were wrong,” said Poirot dreamily, while I was still too stupefied to speak. “I have made my little observations of your English nation, and a lady, a born lady, is always particular about her shoes. She may have shabby clothes, but she will be well shod. Now, this Lady Millicent had smart, expensive clothes, and cheap shoes. It was not likely that either you or I should have seen the real Lady Millicent; she has been very little in London, and this girl had a certain superficial resemblance which would pass well enough. As I say, the shoes first awakened my suspicions, and then her story—and her veil—were a little melodramatic, eh? The Chinese box with a bogus compromising letter in the top must have been known to all the gang, but the log of wood was the late Mr. Lavington’s idea. Eh, par example, Hastings, I hope you will not again wound my feelings as you did yesterday by saying that I am unknown to the criminal classes. Ma foi, they even employ me when they themselves fail!”
Thirteen
THE LOST MINE
I laid down my bank book with a sigh.
“It is a curious thing,” I observed, “but my overdraft never seems to grow any less.”
“And it perturbs you not? Me, if I had an overdraft, never should I close my eyes all night,” declared Poirot.
“You deal in comfortable balances, I suppose!” I retorted.
“Four hundred and forty-four pounds, four and fourpence,” said Poirot with some complacency. “A neat figure, is it not?”
“It must be tact on the part of your bank manager. He is evidently acquainted with your passion for symmetrical details. What about investing, say, three hundred of it in the Porcupine oil fields? Their prospectus, which is advertised in the papers today, says that they will pay one hundred per cent dividends next year.”
“Not for me,” said Poirot, shaking his head. “I like not the sensational. For me the safe, the prudent investment—les rentes, the consols, the—how do you call it?—the conversion.”
“Have you never made a speculative investment?”
“No, mon ami,” replied Poirot severely. “I have not. And the only shares I own which have not what you call the gilded edge are fourteen thousand shares in the Burma Mines Ltd.”
Poirot paused with an air of waiting to be encouraged to go on.
“Yes?” I prompted.
“And for them I paid no cash—no, they were the reward of the exercise of my little grey cells. You would like to hear the story? Yes?”
“Of course I would.”
“These mines are situated in the interior of Burma about two hundred miles inland from Rangoon. They were discovered by the Chinese in the fifteenth century and worked down to the time of the Mohammedan Rebellion, being finally abandoned in the year 1868. The Chinese extracted the rich lead-s
ilver ore from the upper part of the ore body, smelting it for the silver alone, and leaving large quantities of rich lead-bearing slag. This, of course, was soon discovered when prospecting work was carried out in Burma, but owing to the fact that the old workings had become full of loose filling and water, all attempts to find the source of the ore proved fruitless. Many parties were sent out by syndicates, and they dug over a large area, but this rich prize still eluded them. But a representative of one of the syndicates got on the track of a Chinese family who were supposed to have still kept a record of the situation of the mine. The present head of the family was one Wu Ling.”
“What a fascinating page of commercial romance!” I exclaimed.
“Is it not? Ah, mon ami, one can have romance without golden-haired girls of matchless beauty—no, I am wrong; it is auburn hair that so excites you always. You remember—”
“Go on with the story,” I said hastily.
“Eh bien, my friend, this Wu Ling was approached. He was an estimable merchant, much respected in the province where he lived. He admitted at once that he owned the documents in question, and was perfectly prepared to negotiate for this sale, but he objected to dealing with anyone other than principals. Finally it was arranged that he should journey to England and meet the directors of an important company.
“Wu Ling made the journey to England in the SS Assunta, and the Assunta docked at Southampton on a cold, foggy morning in November. One of the directors, Mr. Pearson, went down to Southampton to meet the boat, but owing to the fog, the train down was very much delayed, and by the time he arrived, Wu Ling had disembarked and left by special train for London. Mr. Pearson returned to town somewhat annoyed, as he had no idea where the Chinaman proposed to stay. Later in the day, however, the offices of the company were rung up on the telephone. Wu Ling was staying at the Russell Square Hotel. He was feeling somewhat unwell after the voyage, but declared himself perfectly able to attend the board meeting on the following day.
“The meeting of the board took place at eleven o’clock. When half past eleven came, and Wu Ling had not put in an appearance, the secretary rang up the Russell Hotel. In answer to his inquiries, he was told that the Chinaman had gone out with a friend about half past ten. It seemed clear that he had started out with the intention of coming to the meeting, but the morning wore away, and he did not appear. It was, of course, possible that he had lost his way, being unacquainted with London, but at a late hour that night he had not returned to the hotel. Thoroughly alarmed now, Mr. Pearson put matters in the hands of the police. On the following day, there was still no trace of the missing man, but towards evening of the day after that again, a body was found in the Thames which proved to be that of the ill-fated Chinaman. Neither on the body, nor in the luggage at the hotel, was there any trace of the papers relating to the mine.