Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

  With a certain petulance, he pulled the bell and asked that Mademoiselle Leonie might be sent to him.

  His eyes roamed over her appreciatively as she stood hesitating in the doorway, demure in her black dress with her neatly parted black waves of hair and her modestly-dropped eyelids. He nodded slow approval.

  “Come in, Mademoiselle Leonie,” he said. “Do not be afraid.”

  She came in and stood demurely before him.

  “Do you know,” said Poirot with a sudden change of tone, “that I find you very good to look at.”

  Leonie responded promptly. She flashed him a glance out of the corner of her eyes and murmured softly:

  “Monsieur is very kind.”

  “Figure to yourself,” said Poirot. “I demand of M. Carlile whether you are or not good-looking and he replies that he does not know!”

  Leonie cocked her chin up contemptuously.

  “That image!”

  “That describes him very well.”

  “I do not believe he has ever looked at a girl in his life, that one.”

  “Probably not. A pity. He has missed a lot. But there are others in this house who are more appreciative, is it not so?”

  “Really, I do not know what monsieur means.”

  “Oh, yes, Mademoiselle Leonie, you know very well. A pretty history that you recount last night about a ghost that you have seen. As soon as I hear that you are standing there with your hands to your head, I know very well that there is no question of ghosts. If a girl is frightened she clasps her heart, or she raises her hands to her mouth to stifle a cry, but if her hands are on her hair it means something very different. It means that her hair has been ruffled and that she is hastily getting it into shape again! Now then, mademoiselle, let us have the truth. Why did you scream on the stairs?”

  “But monsieur it is true, I saw a tall figure all in white—”

  “Mademoiselle, do not insult my intelligence. That story, it may have been good enough for M. Carlile, but it is not good enough for Hercule Poirot. The truth is that you had just been kissed, is it not so? And I will make a guess that it was M. Reggie Carrington who kissed you.”

  Leonie twinkled an unabashed eye at him.

  “Eh bien,” she demanded, “after all, what is a kiss?”

  “What, indeed?” said Poirot gallantly.

  “You see, the young gentleman he came up behind me and caught me round the waist—and so naturally he startled me and I screamed. If I had known—well, then naturally I would not have screamed.”

  “Naturally,” agreed Poirot.

  “But he came upon me like a cat. Then the study door opened and out came M. le secrétaire and the young gentleman slipped away upstairs and there I was looking like a fool. Naturally I had to say something—especially to—” she broke into French, “un jeune homme comme ça, tellement comme il faut!”

  “So you invent a ghost?”

  “Indeed, monsieur, it was all I could think of. A tall figure all in white, that floated. It is ridiculous but what else could I do?”

  “Nothing. So now, all is explained. I had my suspicions from the first.”

  Leonie shot him a provocative glance.

  “Monsieur is very clever, and very sympathetic.”

  “And since I am not going to make you any embarrassments over the affair you will do something for me in return?”

  “Most willingly, monsieur.”

  “How much do you know of your mistress’s affairs?”

  The girl shrugged her shoulders.

  “Not very much, monsieur. I have my ideas, of course.”

  “And those ideas?”

  “Well, it does not escape me that the friends of madame are always soldiers or sailors or airmen. And then there are other friends—foreign gentlemen who come to see her very quietly sometimes. Madame is very handsome, though I do not think she will be so much longer. The young men, they find her very attractive. Sometimes I think, they say too much. But it is only my idea, that. Madame does not confide in me.”

  “What you would have me to understand is that madame plays a lone hand?”

  “That is right, monsieur.”

  “In other words, you cannot help me.”

  “I fear not, monsieur. I would do if I could.”

  “Tell me, your mistress is in a good mood today?”

  “Decidedly, monsieur.”

  “Something has happened to please her?”

  “She has been in good spirits ever since she came here.”

  “Well, Leonie, you should know.”

  The girl answered confidently:

  “Yes, monsieur. I could not be mistaken there. I know all madame’s moods. She is in high spirits.”

  “Positively triumphant?”

  “That is exactly the word, monsieur.”

  Poirot nodded gloomily.

  “I find that—a little hard to bear. Yet I perceive that it is inevitable. Thank you, mademoiselle, that is all.”

  Leonie threw him a coquettish glance.

  “Thank you, monsieur. If I meet monsieur on the stairs, be well-assured that I shall not scream.”

  “My child,” said Poirot with dignity. “I am of advanced years. What have I to do with such frivolities?”

  But with a little twitter of laughter, Leonie took herself off.

  Poirot paced slowly up and down the room. His face became grave and anxious.

  “And now,” he said at last, “for Lady Julia. What will she say, I wonder?”

  Lady Julia came into the room with a quiet air of assurance. She bent her head graciously, accepted the chair that Poirot drew forward and spoke in a low, well-bred voice.

  “Lord Mayfield says that you wish to ask me some questions.”

  “Yes, madame. It is about last night.”

  “About last night, yes?”

  “What happened after you had finished your game of bridge?”

  “My husband thought it was too late to begin another. I went up to bed.”

  “And then?”

  “I went to sleep.”

  “That is all?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything of much interest. When did this”—she hesitated—“burglary occur?”

  “Very soon after you went upstairs.”

  “I see. And what exactly was taken?”

  “Some private papers, madame.”

  “Important papers?”

  “Very important.”

  She frowned a little and then said:

  “They were—valuable?”

  “Yes, madame, they were worth a good deal of money.”

  “I see.”

  There was a pause, and then Poirot said:

  “What about your book, madame?”

  “My book?” She raised bewildered eyes to him.

  “Yes, I understand Mrs. Vanderlyn to say that some time after you three ladies had retired you went down again to fetch a book.”

  “Yes, of course, so I did.”

  “So that, as a matter of fact, you did not go straight to bed when you went upstairs? You returned to the drawing room?”

  “Yes, that is true. I had forgotten.”

  “While you were in the drawing room, did you hear someone scream?”

  “No—yes—I don’t think so.”

  “Surely, madame. You could not have failed to hear it in the drawing room.”

  Lady Julia flung her head back and said firmly:

  “I heard nothing.”

  Poirot raised his eyebrows, but did not reply.

  The silence grew uncomfortable. Lady Julia asked abruptly:

  “What is being done?”

  “Being done? I do not understand you, madame.”

  “I mean about the robbery. Surely the police must be doing something.”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “The police have not been called in. I am in charge.”

  She stared at him, her restless haggard face sharpened and tense. Her eyes, dark and
searching, sought to pierce his impassivity.

  They fell at last—defeated.

  “You cannot tell me what is being done?”

  “I can only assure you, madame, that I am leaving no stone unturned.”

  “To catch the thief—or to—recover the papers?”

  “The recovery of the papers is the main thing, madame.”

  Her manner changed. It became bored, listless.

  “Yes,” she said indifferently. “I suppose it is.”

  There was another pause.

  “Is there anything else, M. Poirot?”

  “No, madame. I will not detain you further.”

  “Thank you.”

  He opened the door for her. She passed out without glancing at him.

  Poirot went back to the fireplace and carefully rearranged the ornaments on the mantelpiece. He was still at it when Lord Mayfield came in through the window.

  “Well?” said the latter.

  “Very well, I think. Events are shaping themselves as they should.”

  Lord Mayfield said, staring at him:

  “You are pleased.”

  “No, I am not pleased. But I am content.”

  “Really, M. Poirot, I cannot make you out.”

  “I am not such a charlatan as you think.”

  “I never said—”

  “No, but you thought! No matter. I am not offended. It is sometimes necessary for me to adopt a certain pose.”

  Lord Mayfield looked at him doubtfully with a certain amount of distrust. Hercule Poirot was a man he did not understand. He wanted to despise him, but something warned him that this ridiculous little man was not so futile as he appeared. Charles McLaughlin had always been able to recognize capability when he saw it.

  “Well,” he said, “we are in your hands. What do you advise next?”

  “Can you get rid of your guests?”

  “I think it might be arranged . . . I could explain that I have to go to London over this affair. They will then probably offer to leave.”

  “Very good. Try and arrange it like that.”

  Lord Mayfield hesitated.

  “You don’t think—?”

  “I am quite sure that that would be the wise course to take.”

  Lord Mayfield shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, if you say so.”

  He went out.

  VIII

  The guests left after lunch. Mrs. Vanderlyn and Mrs. Macatta went by train, the Carringtons had their car. Poirot was standing in the hall as Mrs. Vanderlyn bade her host a charming farewell.

  “So terribly sorry for you having this bother and anxiety. I do hope it will turn out all right for you. I shan’t breathe a word of anything.”

  She pressed his hand and went out to where the Rolls was waiting to take her to the station. Mrs. Macatta was already inside. Her adieu had been curt and unsympathetic.

  Suddenly Leonie, who had been getting in front with the chauffeur, came running back into the hall.

  “The dressing case of madame, it is not in the car,” she exclaimed.

  There was a hurried search. At last Lord Mayfield discovered it where it had been put down in the shadow of an old oak chest. Leonie uttered a glad little cry as she seized the elegant affair of green morocco, and hurried out with it.

  Then Mrs. Vanderlyn leaned out of the car.

  “Lord Mayfield, Lord Mayfield.” She handed him a letter. “Would you mind putting this in your postbag? If I keep it meaning to post it in town, I’m sure to forget. Letters just stay in my bag for days.”

  Sir George Carrington was fidgeting with his watch, opening and shutting it. He was a maniac for punctuality.

  “They’re cutting it fine,” he murmured. “Very fine. Unless they’re careful, they’ll miss the train—”

  His wife said irritably:

  “Oh, don’t fuss, George. After all, it’s their train, not ours!”

  He looked at her reproachfully.

  The Rolls drove off.

  Reggie drew up at the front door in the Carringtons’ Morris.

  “All ready, Father,” he said.

  The servants began bringing out the Carringtons’ luggage. Reggie supervised its disposal in the dickey.

  Poirot moved out of the front door, watching the proceedings.

  Suddenly he felt a hand on his arm. Lady Julia’s voice spoke in an agitated whisper.

  “M. Poirot. I must speak to you—at once.”

  He yielded to her insistent hand. She drew him into a small morning room and closed the door. She came close to him.

  “Is it true what you said—that the discovery of the papers is what matters most to Lord Mayfield?”

  Poirot looked at her curiously.

  “It is quite true, madame.”

  “If—if those papers were returned to you, would you undertake that they should be given back to Lord Mayfield, and no question asked?”

  “I am not sure that I understand you.”

  “You must! I am sure that you do! I am suggesting that the—the thief should remain anonymous if the papers are returned.”

  Poirot asked:

  “How soon would that be, madame?”

  “Definitely within twelve hours.”

  “You can promise that?”

  “I can promise it.”

  As he did not answer, she repeated urgently:

  “Will you guarantee that there will be no publicity?”

  He answered then—very gravely:

  “Yes, madame, I will guarantee that.”

  “Then everything can be arranged.”

  She passed abruptly from the room. A moment later Poirot heard the car drive away.

  He crossed the hall and went along the passage to the study. Lord Mayfield was there. He looked up as Poirot entered.

  “Well?” he said.

  Poirot spread out his hands.

  “The case is ended, Lord Mayfield.”

  “What?”

  Poirot repeated word for word the scene between himself and Lady Julia.

  Lord Mayfield looked at him with a stupefied expression.

  “But what does it mean? I don’t understand.”

  “It is very clear, is it not? Lady Julia knows who stole the plans.”

  “You don’t mean she took them herself?”

  “Certainly not. Lady Julia may be a gambler. She is not a thief. But if she offers to return the plans, it means that they were taken by her husband or her son. Now Sir George Carrington was out on the terrace with you. That leaves us the son. I think I can reconstruct the happenings of last night fairly accurately. Lady Julia went to her son’s room last night and found it empty. She came downstairs to look for him, but did not find him. This morning she hears of the theft, and she also hears that her son declares that he went straight to his room and never left it. That, she knows, is not true. And she knows something else about her son. She knows that he is weak, that he is desperately hard up for money. She has observed his infatuation for Mrs. Vanderlyn. The whole thing is clear to her. Mrs. Vanderlyn has persuaded Reggie to steal the plans. But she determines to play her part also. She will tackle Reggie, get hold of the papers and return them.”

  “But the whole thing is quite impossible,” cried Lord Mayfield.

  “Yes, it is impossible, but Lady Julia does not know that. She does not know what I, Hercule Poirot, know, that young Reggie Carrington was not stealing papers last night, but instead was philandering with Mrs. Vanderlyn’s French maid.”

  “The whole thing is a mare’s nest!”

  “Exactly.”

  “And the case is not ended at all!”

  “Yes, it is ended. I, Hercule Poirot, know the truth. You do not believe me? You did not believe me yesterday when I said I knew where the plans were. But I did know. They were very close at hand.”

  “Where?”

  “They were in your pocket, my lord.”

  There was a pause, then Lord Mayfield said:

  “Do you r
eally know what you are saying, M. Poirot?”

  “Yes, I know. I know that I am speaking to a very clever man. From the first it worried me that you, who were admittedly shortsighted, should be so positive about the figure you had seen leaving the window. You wanted that solution—the convenient solution—to be accepted. Why? Later, one by one, I eliminated everyone else. Mrs. Vanderlyn was upstairs, Sir George was with you on the terrace, Reggie Carrington was with the French girl on the stairs, Mrs. Macatta was blamelessly in her bedroom. (It is next to the housekeeper’s room, and Mrs. Macatta snores!) Lady Julia clearly believed her son guilty. So there remained only two possibilities. Either Carlile did not put the papers on the desk but into his own pocket (and that is not reasonable, because, as you pointed out, he could have taken a tracing of them), or else—or else the plans were there when you walked over to the desk, and the only place they could have gone was into your pocket. In that case everything was clear. Your insistence on the figure you had seen, your insistence on Carlile’s innocence, your disinclination to have me summoned.

  “One thing did puzzle me—the motive. You were, I was convinced, an honest man, a man of integrity. That showed in your anxiety that no innocent person should be suspected. It was also obvious that the theft of the plans might easily affect your career unfavourably. Why, then, this wholly unreasonable theft? And at last the answer came to me. The crisis in your career, some years ago, the assurances given to the world by the Prime Minister that you had had no negotiations with the power in question. Suppose that that was not strictly true, that there remained some record—a letter, perhaps—showing that in actual fact you had done what you had publicly denied. Such a denial was necessary in the interests of public policy. But it is doubtful if the man in the street would see it that way. It might mean that at the moment when supreme power might be given into your hands, some stupid echo from the past would undo everything.

  “I suspect that that letter has been preserved in the hands of a certain government, that that government offered to trade with you—the letter in exchange for the plans of the new bomber. Some men would have refused. You—did not! You agreed. Mrs. Vanderlyn was the agent in the matter. She came here by arrangement to make the exchange. You gave yourself away when you admitted that you had formed no definite stratagem for entrapping her. That admission made your reason for inviting her here incredibly weak.

  “You arranged the robbery. Pretended to see the thief on the terrace—thereby clearing Carlile of suspicion. Even if he had not left the room, the desk was so near the window that a thief might have taken the plans while Carlile was busy at the safe with his back turned. You walked over to the desk, took the plans and kept them on your own person until the moment when, by prearranged plan, you slipped them into Mrs. Vanderlyn’s dressing case. In return she handed you the fatal letter disguised as an unposted letter of her own.”