Poirot Investigates

  It was more than I was, but the woman turned to Poirot like a flash.

  “What is it you want?”

  Poirot bowed.

  “I do not think it is necessary to insult Miss Elsa Hardt’s intelligence by telling her.”

  With a swift movement, the woman snatched up a big black velvet cat which served as a cover for the telephone.

  “They are stitched in the lining of that.”

  “Clever,” murmured Poirot appreciatively. He stood aside from the door. “Good evening, madame. I will detain your friend from New York whilst you make your getaway.”

  “Whatta fool!” roared the big Italian, and raising the revolver he fired point-blank at the woman’s retreating figure just as I flung myself upon him.

  But the weapon merely clicked harmlessly and Poirot’s voice rose in mild reproof.

  “Never will you trust your old friend, Hastings. I do not care for my friends to carry loaded pistols about with them and never would I permit a mere acquaintance to do so. No, no, mon ami.” This to the Italian who was swearing hoarsely. Poirot continued to address him in a tone of mild reproof: “See now, what I have done for you. I have saved you from being hanged. And do not think that our beautiful lady will escape. No, no, the house is watched, back and front. Straight into the arms of the police they will go. Is not that a beautiful and consoling thought? Yes, you may leave the room now. But be careful—be very careful. I—Ah, he is gone! And my friend Hastings looks at me with eyes of reproach. But it’s all so simple! It was clear, from the first, that out of several hundred, probably, applicants for No 4 Montagu Mansions, only the Robinsons were considered suitable. Why? What was there that singled them out from the rest—at practically a glance. Their appearance? Possibly, but it was not so unusual. Their name, then!”

  “But there’s nothing unusual about the name of Robinson,” I cried. “It’s quite a common name.”

  “Ah! Sapristi, but exactly! That was the point. Elsa Hardt and her husband, or brother or whatever he really is, come from New York, and take a flat in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. Suddenly they learn that one of these secret societies, the Mafia, or the Camorra, to which doubtless Luigi Valdarno belonged, is on their track. What do they do? They hit on a scheme of transparent simplicity. Evidently they knew that their pursuers were not personally acquainted with either of them. What, then, can be simpler? They offer the flat at an absurdly low rental. Of the thousands of young couples in London looking for flats, there cannot fail to be several Robinsons. It is only a matter of waiting. If you will look at the name of Robinson in the telephone directory, you will realize that a fair-haired Mrs. Robinson was pretty sure to come along sooner or later. Then what will happen? The avenger arrives. He knows the name, he knows the address. He strikes! All is over, vengeance is satisfied, and Miss Elsa Hardt has escaped by the skin of her teeth once more. By the way, Hastings, you must present me to the real Mrs. Robinson—that delightful and truthful creature! What will they think when they find their flat has been broken into! We must hurry back. Ah, that sounds like Japp and his friends

  arriving.”

  A mighty tattoo sounded on the knocker.

  “How do you know this address?” I asked as I followed Poirot out into the hall. “Oh, of course, you had the first Mrs. Robinson followed when she left the other flat.”

  “A la bonne heure, Hastings. You use your grey cells at last. Now for a little surprise for Japp.”

  Softly unbolting the door, he stuck the cat’s head round the edge and ejaculated a piercing “Miaow.”

  The Scotland Yard inspector, who was standing outside with another man, jumped in spite of himself.

  “Oh, it’s only Monsieur Poirot at one of his little jokes!” he exclaimed, as Poirot’s head followed that of the cat. “Let us in, moosior.”

  “You have our friends safe and sound?”

  “Yes, we’ve got the birds all right. But they hadn’t got the goods with them.”

  “I see. So you come to search. Well, I am about to depart with Hastings, but I should like to give you a little lecture upon the history and habits of the domestic cat.”

  “For the Lord’s sake, have you gone completely balmy?”

  “The cat,” declaimed Poirot, “was worshipped by the ancient Egyptians. It is still regarded as a symbol of good luck if a black cat crosses your path. This cat crossed your path tonight, Japp. To speak of the interior of any animal or any person is not. I know, considered polite in England. But the interior of this cat is perfectly delicate. I refer to the lining.”

  With a sudden grunt, the second man seized the cat from Poirot’s hand.

  “Oh, I forgot to introduce you,” said Japp. “Mr. Poirot, this is Mr. Burt of the United States Secret Service.”

  The American’s trained fingers had felt what he was looking for. He held out his hand, and for a moment speech failed him. Then he rose to the occasion.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Mr. Burt.

  Four

  THE MYSTERY OF HUNTER’S LODGE

  “After all,” murmured Poirot, “it is possible that I shall not die this time.”

  Coming from a convalescent influenza patient, I hailed the remark as showing a beneficial optimism. I myself had been the first sufferer from the disease. Poirot in his turn had gone down. He was now sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows, his head muffled in a woollen shawl, and was slowly sipping a particularly noxious tisane which I had prepared according to his directions. His eye rested with pleasure upon a neatly graduated row of medicine bottles which adorned the mantelpiece.

  “Yes, yes,” my little friend continued. “Once more shall I be myself again, the great Hercule Poirot, the terror of evildoers! Figure to yourself, mon ami, that I have a little paragraph to myself in Society Gossip. But yes! Here it is: ‘Go it—criminals—all out! Hercule Poirot—and believe me, girls, he’s some Hercules!—our own pet society detective can’t get a grip on you. ’Cause why? ’Cause he’s got la grippe himself!’ ”

  I laughed.

  “Good for you, Poirot. You are becoming quite a public character. And fortunately you haven’t missed anything of particular interest during this time.”

  “That is true. The few cases I have had to decline did not fill me with any regret.”

  Our landlady stuck her head in at the door.

  “There’s a gentleman downstairs. Says he must see Monsieur Poirot or you, Captain. Seeing as he was in a great to-do—and with all that quite the gentleman—I brought up ’is card.”

  She handed me a bit of pasteboard. “Mr. Roger Havering,” I read.

  Poirot motioned with his head towards the bookcase, and I obediently pulled forth Who’s Who. Poirot took it from me and scanned the pages rapidly.

  “Second son of fifth Baron Windsor. Married 1913 Zoe, fourth daughter of William Crabb.”

  “H’m!” I said. “I rather fancy that’s the girl who used to act at the Frivolity—only she called herself Zoe Carrisbrook. I remember she married some young man about town just before the War.”

  “Would it interest you, Hastings, to go down and hear what our visitor’s particular little trouble is? Make him all my

  excuses.”

  Roger Havering was a man of about forty, well set up and of smart appearance. His face, however, was haggard, and he was evidently labouring under great agitation.

  “Captain Hastings? You are Monsieur Poirot’s partner, I understand. It is imperative that he should come with me to Derbyshire today.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I replied. “Poirot is ill in bed—

  influenza.”

  His face fell.

  “Dear me, that is a great blow to me.”

  “The matter on which you want to consult him is serious?”

  “My God, yes! My uncle, the best friend I have in the world, was foully murdered last night.”

  “Here in London?”

  “No, in Derbyshire. I was in town and rece
ived a telegram from my wife this morning. Immediately upon its receipt I determined to come round and beg Monsieur Poirot to undertake the case.”

  “If you will excuse me a minute,” I said, struck by a sudden idea.

  I rushed upstairs, and in a few brief words acquainted Poirot with the situation. He took any further words out of my mouth.

  “I see. I see. You want to go yourself, is it not so? Well, why not? You should know my methods by now. All I ask is that you should report to me fully every day, and follow implicitly any instructions I may wire you.”

  To this I willingly agreed.

  II

  An hour later I was sitting opposite Mr. Havering in a first-class carriage on the Midland Railway, speeding rapidly away from London.

  “To begin with, Captain Hastings, you must understand that Hunter’s Lodge, where we are going, and where the tragedy took place, is only a small shooting box in the heart of the Derbyshire moors. Our real home is near Newmarket, and we usually rent a flat in town for the season. Hunter’s Lodge is looked after by a housekeeper who is quite capable of doing all we need when we run down for an occasional weekend. Of course, during the shooting season, we take down some of our own servants from Newmarket. My uncle, Mr. Harrington Pace (as you may know, my mother was a Miss Pace of New York), has, for the last three years, made his home with us. He never got on well with my father, or my elder brother, and I suspect that my being somewhat of a prodigal son myself rather increased than diminished his affection towards me. Of course I am a poor man, and my uncle was a rich one—in other words, he paid the piper! But, though exacting in many ways, he was not really hard to get on with, and we all three lived very harmoniously together. Two days ago, my uncle, rather wearied with some recent gaieties of ours in town, suggested that we should run down to Derbyshire for a day or two. My wife telegraphed to Mrs. Middleton, the housekeeper, and we went down that same afternoon. Yesterday evening I was forced to return to town, but my wife and my uncle remained on. This morning I received this telegram.” He handed it over to me:

  “Come at once uncle Harrington murdered last night bring good detective if you can but do come—Zoe.”

  “Then, as yet you know no details?”

  “No, I suppose it will be in the evening papers. Without doubt the police are in charge.”

  It was about three o’clock when we arrived at the little station of Elmer’s Dale. From there a five-mile drive brought us to a small grey stone building in the midst of the rugged moors.

  “A lonely place,” I observed with a shiver.

  Havering nodded.

  “I shall try and get rid of it. I could never live here again.”

  We unlatched the gate and were walking up the narrow path to the oak door when a familiar figure emerged and came to meet us.

  “Japp!” I ejaculated.

  The Scotland Yard inspector grinned at me in a friendly fashion before addressing my companion.

  “Mr. Havering, I think? I’ve been sent down from London to take charge of this case, and I’d like a word with you, if I may, sir.”

  “My wife—”

  “I’ve seen your good lady, sir—and the housekeeper. I won’t keep you a moment, but I am anxious to get back to the village now that I’ve seen all there is to see here.”

  “I know nothing as yet as to what—”

  “Ex-actly,” said Japp soothingly. “But there are just one or two little points I’d like your opinion about all the same. Captain Hastings here, he knows me, and he’ll go on up to the house and tell them you’re coming. What have you done with the little man, by the way, Captain Hastings?”

  “He’s ill in bed with influenza.”

  “Is he now? I’m sorry to hear that. Rather the case of the cart without the horse, you being here without him, isn’t it?”

  And on his rather ill-timed jest I went on to the house. I rang the bell, as Japp had closed the door behind him. After some moments it was opened to me by a middle-aged woman in black.

  “Mr. Havering will be here in a moment,” I explained. “He has been detained by the inspector. I have come down with him from London to look into the case. Perhaps you can tell me briefly what occurred last night.”

  “Come inside, sir.” She closed the door behind me, and we stood in the dimly-lighted hall. “It was after dinner last night, sir, that the man came. He asked to see Mr. Pace, sir, and, seeing that he spoke the same way, I thought it was an American gentleman friend of Mr. Pace’s and I showed him into the gun room, and then went to tell Mr. Pace. He wouldn’t give any name, which, of course, was a bit odd, now I come to think of it. I told Mr. Pace, and he seemed puzzled like, but he said to the mistress: ‘Excuse me, Zoe, while I see what this fellow wants.’ He went off to the gun room, and I went back to the kitchen, but after a while I heard loud voices, as if they were quarrelling, and I came out into the hall. At the same time, the mistress she comes out too, and just then there was a shot and then a dreadful silence. We both ran to the gun room door, but it was locked and we had to go round to the window. It was open, and there inside was Mr. Pace, all shot and bleeding.”

  “What became of the man?”

  “He must have got away through the window, sir, before we got to it.”

  “And then?”

  “Mrs. Havering sent me to fetch the police. Five miles to walk it was. They came back with me, and the constable he stayed all night, and this morning the police gentleman from London arrived.”

  “What was this man like who called to see Mr. Pace?”

  The housekeeper reflected.

  “He had a black beard, sir, and was about middle-aged, and had on a light overcoat. Beyond the fact that he spoke like an American I didn’t notice much about him.”

  “I see. Now I wonder if I can see Mrs. Havering?”

  “She’s upstairs, sir. Shall I tell her?”

  “If you please. Tell her that Mr. Havering is outside with Inspector Japp, and that the gentleman he has brought back with him from London is anxious to speak to her as soon as possible.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  I was in a fever of impatience to get all the facts. Japp had two or three hours’ start on me, and his anxiety to be gone made me keen to be close at his heels.

  Mrs. Havering did not keep me waiting long. In a few minutes I heard a light step descending the stairs, and looked up to see a very handsome young woman coming towards me. She wore a flame-coloured jumper, that set off the slender boyishness of her figure. On her dark head was a little hat of flame-coloured leather. Even the present tragedy could not dim the vitality of her personality.

  I introduced myself, and she nodded in quick comprehension.

  “Of course I have often heard of you and your colleague, Monsieur Poirot. You have done some wonderful things together, haven’t you? It was very clever of my husband to get you so promptly. Now will you ask me questions? That is the easiest way, isn’t it, of getting to know all you want to about this dreadful affair?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Havering. Now what time was it that this man arrived?”

  “It must have been just before nine o’clock. We had finished dinner, and were sitting over our coffee and cigarettes.”

  “Your husband had already left for London?”

  “Yes, he went up by the 6:15.”

  “Did he go by car to the station, or did he walk?”

  “Our own car isn’t down here. One came out from the garage in Elmer’s Dale to fetch him in time for the train.”

  “Was Mr. Pace quite his usual self?”

  “Absolutely. Most normal in every way.”

  “Now, can you describe this visitor at all?”

  “I’m afraid not. I didn’t see him. Mrs. Middleton showed him straight into the gun room and then came to tell my uncle.”

  “What did your uncle say?”

  “He seemed rather annoyed, but went off at once. It was about five minutes later that I heard the sound of raised voices. I ran ou
t into the hall and almost collided with Mrs. Middleton. Then we heard the shot. The gun room door was locked on the inside, and we had to go right round the house to the window. Of course that took some time, and the murderer had been able to get well away. My poor uncle”—her voice faltered—“had been shot through the head. I saw at once that he was dead. I sent Mrs. Middleton for the police, I was careful to touch nothing in the room but to leave it exactly as I found it.”

  I nodded approval.

  “Now, as to the weapon?”

  “Well, I can make a guess at it, Captain Hastings. A pair of revolvers of my husband’s were mounted upon the wall. One of them is missing. I pointed this out to the police, and they took the other one away with them. When they have extracted the bullet, I suppose they will know for certain.”

  “May I go to the gun room?”

  “Certainly. The police have finished with it. But the body has been removed.”

  She accompanied me to the scene of the crime. At that moment Havering entered the hall, and with a quick apology his wife ran to him. I was left to undertake my investigations alone.

  I may as well confess at once that they were rather disappointing. In detective novels clues abound, but here I could find nothing that struck me as out of the ordinary except a large bloodstain on the carpet where I judged the dead man had fallen. I examined everything with painstaking care and took a couple of pictures of the room with my little camera which I had brought with me. I also examined the ground outside the window, but it appeared to have been so heavily trampled underfoot that I judged it was useless to waste time over it. No, I had seen all that Hunter’s Lodge had to show me. I must go back to Elmer’s Dale and get into touch with Japp. Accordingly I took leave of the Haverings, and was driven off in the car that had brought us from the station.

  I found Japp at the Matlock Arms and he took me forthwith to see the body. Harrington Pace was a small, spare, clean-shaven man, typically American in appearance. He had been shot through the back of the head, and the revolver had been discharged at close quarters.

  “Turned away for a moment,” remarked Japp, “and the other fellow snatched up a revolver and shot him. The one Mrs. Havering handed over to us was fully loaded and I suppose the other one was also. Curious what darn fool things people do. Fancy keeping two loaded revolvers hanging up on your wall.”