Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

  “Gregory knew her when she was out West three years ago,” said Miss Marvell. She hesitated a moment, and then added abruptly: “Do either of you ever see Society Gossip?”

  We both pleaded guilty rather shamefacedly.

  “I ask because in this week’s number there is an article on famous jewels, and it’s really very curious—” She broke off.

  I rose, went to the table at the other side of the room and returned with the paper in question in my hand. She took it from me, found the article, and began to read aloud:

  “. . . Amongst other famous stones may be included The Star of the East, a diamond in the possession of the Yardly family. An ancestor of the present Lord Yardly brought it back with him from China, and a romantic story is said to attach to it. According to this, the stone was once the right eye of a temple god. Another diamond, exactly similar in form and size, formed the left eye, and the story goes that this jewel, too, would in course of time be stolen. ‘One eye shall go West, the other East, till they shall meet once more. Then, in triumph shall they return to the god.’ It is a curious coincidence that there is at the present time a stone corresponding closely in description with this one, and known as ‘The Star of the West,’ or ‘The Western Star.’ It is the property of the celebrated film star, Miss Mary Marvell. A comparison of the two stones would be interesting.”

  She stopped.

  “Épatant!” murmured Poirot. “Without doubt a romance of the first water.” He turned to Mary Marvell. “And you are not afraid, madame? You have no superstitious terrors? You do not fear to introduce these two Siamese twins to each other lest a Chinaman should appear and, hey presto! whisk them both back to China?”

  His tone was mocking, but I fancied that an undercurrent of seriousness lay beneath it.

  “I don’t believe that Lady Yardly’s diamond is anything like as good as mine,” said Miss Marvell. “Anyway, I’m going to see.”

  What more Poirot would have said I do not know, for at that moment the door flew open, and a splendid-looking man strode into the room. From his crisply curling black head, to the tips of his patent leather boots, he was a hero fit for romance.

  “I said I’d call round for you, Mary,” said Gregory Rolf, “and here I am. Well, what does Monsieur Poirot say to our little problem? Just one big hoax, same as I do?”

  Poirot smiled up at the big actor. They made a ridiculous contrast.

  “Hoax or no hoax, Mr. Rolf,” he said dryly, “I have advised Madame your wife not to take the jewel with her to Yardly Chase on Friday.”

  “I’m with you there, sir. I’ve already said so to Mary. But there! She’s a woman through and through, and I guess she can’t bear to think of another woman outshining her in the jewel line.”

  “What nonsense, Gregory!” said Mary Marvell sharply. But she flushed angrily.

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “Madame, I have advised. I can do no more. C’est fini.”

  He bowed them both to the door.

  “Ah! la la,” he observed, returning. “Histoire des femmes! The good husband, he hit the nail—tout de même, but he was not tactful! Assuredly not.”

  I imparted to him my vague remembrances, and he nodded vigorously.

  “So I thought. All the same, there is something curious underneath all this. With your permission, mon ami, I will take the air. Await my return, I beg of you, I shall not be long.”

  I was half asleep in my chair when the landlady tapped on the door, and put her head in.

  “It’s another lady to see Mr. Poirot, sir. I’ve told her he was out, but she says as how she’ll wait, seeing as she’s come up from the country.”

  “Oh, show her in here, Mrs. Murchinson. Perhaps I can do something for her.”

  In another moment the lady had been ushered in. My heart gave a leap as I recognized her. Lady Yardly’s portrait had figured too often in the Society papers to allow her to remain unknown.

  “Do sit down, Lady Yardly,” I said, drawing forward a chair. “My friend, Poirot, is out, but I know for a fact that he’ll be back very shortly.”

  She thanked me and sat down. A very different type, this, from Miss Mary Marvell. Tall, dark, with flashing eyes, and a pale proud face—yet something wistful in the curves of the mouth.

  I felt a desire to rise to the occasion. Why not? In Poirot’s presence I have frequently felt a difficulty—I do not appear at my best. And yet there is no doubt that I, too, possess the deductive sense in a marked degree. I leant forward on a sudden impulse.

  “Lady Yardly,” I said, “I know why you have come here. You have received blackmailing letters about the diamond.”

  There was no doubt as to my bolt having shot home. She stared at me openmouthed, all colour banished from her cheeks.

  “You know?” she gasped. “How?”

  I smiled.

  “By a perfectly logical process. If Miss Marvell has had warning letters—”

  “Miss Marvell? She has been here?”

  “She has just left. As I was saying, if she, as the holder of one of the twin diamonds, has received a mysterious series of warnings, you, as the holder of the other stone, must necessarily have done the same. You see how simple it is? I am right, then, you have received these strange communications also?”

  For a moment she hesitated, as though in doubt whether to trust me or not, then she bowed her head in assent with a little smile.

  “That is so,” she acknowledged.

  “Were yours, too, left by hand—by a Chinaman?”

  “No, they came by post; but tell me, has Miss Marvell undergone the same experience, then?”

  I recounted to her the events of the morning. She listened attentively.

  “It all fits in. My letters are the duplicate of hers. It is true that they came by post, but there is a curious perfume impregnating them—something in the nature of joss stick—that at once suggested the East to me. What does it all mean?”

  I shook my head.

  “That is what we must find out. You have the letters with you? We might learn something from the postmarks.”

  “Unfortunately I destroyed them. You understand, at the time I regarded it as some foolish joke. Can it be true that some Chinese gang are really trying to recover the diamonds? It seems too incredible.”

  We went over the facts again and again, but could get no further towards the elucidation of the mystery. At last Lady Yardly rose.

  “I really don’t think I need wait for Monsieur Poirot. You can tell him all this, can’t you? Thank you so much Mr.—”

  She hesitated, her hand outstretched.

  “Captain Hastings.”

  “Of course! How stupid of me. You’re a friend of the Cavendishes, aren’t you? It was Mary Cavendish who sent me to Monsieur Poirot.”

  When my friend returned, I enjoyed telling him the tale of what had occurred during his absence. He cross-questioned me rather sharply over the details of our conversation and I could read between the lines that he was not best pleased to have been absent. I also fancied that the dear old fellow was just the least inclined to be jealous. It had become rather a pose with him to consistently belittle my abilities, and I think he was chagrined at finding no loophole for criticism. I was secretly rather pleased with myself, though I tried to conceal the fact for fear of irritating him. In spite of his idiosyncrasies, I was deeply attached to my quaint little friend.

  “Bien!” he said at length, with a curious look on his face. “The plot develops. Pass me, I pray you, that Peerage on the top shelf there.” He turned the leaves. “Ah, here we are! ‘Yardly . . . 10th viscount, served South African War . . .’ tout ça n’a pas d’importance . . . ‘mar. 1907 Hon. Maude Stopperton, fourth daughter of 3rd Baron Cotteril . . .’ um, um, um . . . ‘has iss. two daughters, born 1908, 1910 . . . Clubs, residences . . . ’ Voilà, that does not tell us much. But tomorrow morning we see this milord!”

  “What?”

  “Yes. I telephoned to him.?
??

  “I thought you had washed your hands of the case?”

  “I am not acting for Miss Marvell since she refuses to be guided by my advice. What I do now is for my own satisfaction—the satisfaction of Hercule Poirot! Decidedly, I must have a finger in this pie.”

  “And you calmly wire Lord Yardly to dash up to town just to suit your convenience. He won’t be pleased.”

  “Au contraire, if I preserve for him his family diamond, he ought to be very grateful.”

  “Then you really think there is any chance of it being stolen?” I asked eagerly.

  “Almost a certainty,” replied Poirot placidly. “Everything points that way.”

  “But how—”

  Poirot stopped my eager questions with an airy gesture of the hand.

  “Not now, I pray you. Let us not confuse the mind. And observe that Peerage—how you have replaced him! See you not that the tallest books go in the top shelf, the next tallest in the row beneath, and so on. Thus we have order, method, which, as I have often told you, Hastings—”

  “Exactly,” I said hastily, and put the offending volume in its proper place.

  II

  Lord Yardly turned out to be a cheery, loud-voiced sportsman with a rather red face, but with a good-humoured bonhomie about him that was distinctly attractive and made up for any lack of mentality.

  “Extraordinary business this, Monsieur Poirot. Can’t make head or tail of it. Seems my wife’s been getting odd kind of letters, and that Miss Marvell’s had ’em too. What does it all mean?”

  Poirot handed him the copy of Society Gossip.

  “First, milord, I would ask you if these facts are substantially correct?”

  The peer took it. His face darkened with anger as he read.

  “Damned nonsense!” he spluttered. “There’s never been any romantic story attaching to the diamond. It came from India originally, I believe. I never heard of all this Chinese god stuff.”

  “Still, the stone is known as ‘The Star of the East.’ ”

  “Well, what if it is?” he demanded wrathfully.

  Poirot smiled a little, but made no direct reply.

  “What I would ask you to do, milord, is to place yourself in my hands. If you do so unreservedly, I have great hopes of averting the catastrophe.”

  “Then you think there’s actually something in these wildcat tales?”

  “Will you do as I ask you?”

  “Of course I will, but—”

  “Bien! Then permit that I ask you a few questions. This affair of Yardly Chase, is it, as you say, all fixed up between you and Mr. Rolf?”

  “Oh, he told you about it, did he? No, there’s nothing settled.” He hesitated, the brick-red colour of his face deepening. “Might as well get the thing straight. I’ve made rather an ass of myself in many ways, Monsieur Poirot—and I’m head over ears in debt—but I want to pull up. I’m fond of the kids, and I want to straighten things up, and be able to live on at the old place. Gregory Rolf is offering me big money—enough to set me on my feet again. I don’t want to do it—I hate the thought of all that crowd playacting round the Chase—but I may have to, unless—” He broke off.

  Poirot eyed him keenly. “You have, then, another string to your bow? Permit that I make a guess? It is to sell The Star of the East?”

  Lord Yardly nodded. “That’s it. It’s been in the family for some generations, but it’s not essential. Still, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to find a purchaser. Hoffberg, the Hatton Garden man, is on the lookout for a likely customer, but he’ll have to find one soon, or it’s a washout.”

  “One more question, permettez—Lady Yardly, which plan does she approve?”

  “Oh, she’s bitterly opposed to my selling the jewel. You know what women are. She’s all for this film stunt.”

  “I comprehend,” said Poirot. He remained a moment or so in thought, then rose briskly to his feet. “You return to Yardly Chase at once? Bien! Say no word to anyone—to anyone, mind—but expect us there this evening. We will arrive shortly after five.”

  “All right, but I don’t see—”

  “Ça n’a pas d’importance,” said Poirot kindly. “You will that I preserve for you your diamond, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then do as I say.”

  A sadly bewildered nobleman left the room.

  III

  It was half past five when we arrived at Yardly Chase, and followed the dignified butler to the old panelled hall with its fire of blazing logs. A pretty picture met our eyes: Lady Yardly and her two children, the mother’s proud dark head bent down over the two fair ones. Lord Yardly stood near, smiling down on them.

  “Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings,” announced the butler.

  Lady Yardly looked up with a start, for her husband came forward uncertainly, his eyes seeking instruction from Poirot. The little man was equal to the occasion.

  “All my excuses! It is that I investigate still this affair of Miss Marvell’s. She comes to you on Friday, does she not? I make a little tour first to make sure that all is secure. Also I wanted to ask Lady Yardly if she recollected at all the postmarks on the letters she received?”

  Lady Yardly shook her head regretfully. “I’m afraid I don’t. It’s stupid of me. But, you see, I never dreamt of taking them seriously.”

  “You’ll stay the night?” said Lord Yardly.

  “Oh, milord, I fear to incommode you. We have left our bags at the inn.”

  “That’s all right.” Lord Yardly had his cue. “We’ll send down for them. No, no—no trouble, I assure you.”

  Poirot permitted himself to be persuaded, and sitting down by Lady Yardly, began to make friends with the children. In a short time they were all romping together, and had dragged me into the game.

  “Vous êtes bonne mère,” said Poirot, with a gallant little bow, as the children were removed reluctantly by a stern nurse.

  Lady Yardly smoothed her ruffled hair.

  “I adore them,” she said with a little catch in her voice.

  “And they you—with reason!” Poirot bowed again.

  A dressing gong sounded, and we rose to go up to our rooms. At that moment the butler emerged with a telegram on a salver which he handed to Lord Yardly. The latter tore it open with a brief word of apology. As he read it he stiffened visibly.

  With an ejaculation he handed it to his wife. Then he glanced at my friend.

  “Just a minute, Monsieur Poirot, I feel you ought to know about this. It’s from Hoffberg. He thinks he’s found a customer for the diamond—an American, sailing for the States tomorrow. They’re sending down a chap tonight to vet the stone. By Jove, though, if this goes through—” Words failed him.

  Lady Yardly had turned away. She still held the telegram in her hand.

  “I wish you wouldn’t sell it, George,” she said, in a low voice. “It’s been in the family so long.” She waited, as though for a reply, but when none came her face hardened. She shrugged her shoulders. “I must go and dress. I suppose I had better display ‘the goods.’ ” She turned to Poirot with a slight grimace. “It’s one of the most hideous necklaces that was ever designed! George has always promised to have the stones reset for me, but it’s never been done.” She left the room.

  Half an hour later, we three were assembled in the great drawing room awaiting the lady. It was already a few minutes past the dinner hour.

  Suddenly there was a low rustle, and Lady Yardly appeared framed in the doorway, a radiant figure in a long white shimmering dress. Round the column of her neck was a rivulet of fire. She stood there with one hand just touching the necklace.

  “Behold the sacrifice,” she said gaily. Her ill-humour seemed to have vanished. “Wait while I turn the big light on and you shall feast your eyes on the ugliest necklace in England.”

  The switches were just outside the door. As she stretched out her hand to them, the incredible thing happened. Suddenly, without any warn
ing, every light was extinguished, the door banged, and from the other side of it came a long-drawn piercing woman’s scream.

  “My God!” cried Lord Yardly. “That was Maude’s voice! What has happened?”

  We rushed blindly for the door, cannoning into each other in the darkness. It was some minutes before we could find it. What a sight met our eyes! Lady Yardly lay senseless on the marble floor, a crimson mark on her white throat where the necklace had been wrenched from her neck.

  As we bent over her, uncertain for the moment whether she was dead or alive, her eyelids opened.

  “The Chinaman,” she whispered painfully. “The Chinaman—the side door.”

  Lord Yardly sprang up with an oath. I accompanied him, my heart beating wildly. The Chinaman again! The side door in question was a small one in the angle of the wall, not more than a dozen yards from the scene of the tragedy. As we reached it, I gave a cry. There, just short of the threshold, lay the glittering necklace, evidently dropped by the thief in the panic of his flight. I swooped joyously down on it. Then I uttered another cry which Lord Yardly echoed. For in the middle of the necklace was a great gap. The Star of the East was missing!

  “That settles it,” I breathed. “These were no ordinary thieves. This one stone was all they wanted.”

  “But how did the fellow get in?”

  “Through this door.”

  “But it’s always locked.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not locked now. See.” I pulled it open as I spoke.

  As I did so something fluttered to the ground. I picked it up. It was a piece of silk, and the embroidery was unmistakable. It had been torn from a Chinaman’s robe.

  “In his haste it caught in the door,” I explained. “Come, hurry. He cannot have gone far as yet.”

  But in vain we hunted and searched. In the pitch darkness of the night, the thief had found it easy to make his getaway. We returned reluctantly, and Lord Yardly sent off one of the footmen posthaste to fetch the police.

  Lady Yardly, aptly ministered to by Poirot, who is as good as a woman in these matters, was sufficiently recovered to be able to tell her story.