Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

  Poirot stopped.

  Lord Mayfield said:

  “Your knowledge is very complete, M. Poirot. You must think me an unutterable skunk.”

  Poirot made a quick gesture.

  “No, no, Lord Mayfield. I think, as I said, that you are a very clever man. It came to me suddenly as we talked here last night. You are a first-class engineer. There will be, I think, some subtle alterations in the specifications of that bomber, alterations done so skilfully that it will be difficult to grasp why the machine is not the success it ought to be. A certain foreign power will find the type a failure . . . It will be a disappointment to them, I am sure. . . .”

  Again there was a silence—then Lord Mayfield said:

  “You are much too clever, M. Poirot. I will only ask you to believe one thing. I have faith in myself. I believe that I am the man to guide England through the days of crisis that I see coming. If I did not honestly believe that I am needed by my country to steer the ship of state, I would not have done what I have done—made the best of both worlds—saved myself from disaster by a clever trick.”

  “My lord,” said Poirot, “if you could not make the best of both worlds, you could not be a politician!”

  Twenty

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE CLAPHAM COOK

  “The Adventure of the Clapham Cook” was first published in The Sketch, November 14, 1923.

  I

  At the time that I was sharing rooms with my friend Hercule Poirot, it was my custom to read aloud to him the headlines in the morning newspaper, the Daily Blare.

  The Daily Blare was a paper that made the most of any opportunity for sensationalism. Robberies and murders did not lurk obscurely in its back pages. Instead they hit you in the eye in large type on the front page.

  ABSCONDING BANK CLERK DISAPPEARS WITH FIFTY THOUSAND POUNDS’ WORTH OF NEGOTIABLE SECURITIES, I read.

  HUSBAND PUTS HIS HEAD IN GAS-OVEN. UNHAPPY HOME LIFE. MISSING TYPIST. PRETTY GIRL OF TWENTY-ONE. WHERE IS EDNA FIELD?

  “There you are, Poirot, plenty to choose from. An absconding bank clerk, a mysterious suicide, a missing typist—which will you have?”

  My friend was in a placid mood. He quietly shook his head.

  “I am not greatly attracted to any of them, mon ami. Today I feel inclined for the life of ease. It would have to be a very interesting problem to tempt me from my chair. See you, I have affairs of importance of my own to attend to.”

  “Such as?”

  “My wardrobe, Hastings. If I mistake not, there is on my new grey suit the spot of grease—only the unique spot, but it is sufficient to trouble me. Then there is my winter overcoat—I must lay him aside in the powder of Keatings. And I think—yes, I think—the moment is ripe for the trimmings of my moustaches—and afterwards I must apply the pomade.”

  “Well,” I said, strolling to the window, “I doubt if you’ll be able to carry out this delirious programme. That was a ring at the bell. You have a client.”

  “Unless the affair is one of national importance, I touch it not,” declared Poirot with dignity.

  A moment later our privacy was invaded by a stout red-faced lady who panted audibly as a result of her rapid ascent of the stairs.

  “You’re M. Poirot?” she demanded, as she sank into a chair.

  “I am Hercule Poirot, yes, madame.”

  “You’re not a bit like what I thought you’d be,” said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour. “Did you pay for the bit in the paper saying what a clever detective you were, or did they put it in themselves?”

  “Madame!” said Poirot, drawing himself up.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sure, but you know what these papers are nowadays. You begin reading a nice article: ‘What a bride said to her plain unmarried friend,’ and it’s all about a simple thing you buy at the chemist’s and shampoo your hair with. Nothing but puff. But no offence taken, I hope? I’ll tell you what I want you to do for me. I want you to find my cook.”

  Poirot stared at her; for once his ready tongue failed him. I turned aside to hide the broadening smile I could not control.

  “It’s all this wicked dole,” continued the lady. “Putting ideas into servants’ heads, wanting to be typists and what nots. Stop the dole, that’s what I say. I’d like to know what my servants have to complain of—afternoon and evening off a week, alternate Sundays, washing put out, same food as we have—and never a bit of margarine in the house, nothing but the very best butter.”

  She paused for want of breath and Poirot seized his opportunity. He spoke in his haughtiest manner, rising to his feet as he did so.

  “I fear you are making a mistake, madame. I am not holding an inquiry into the conditions of domestic service. I am a private detective.”

  “I know that,” said our visitor. “Didn’t I tell you I wanted you to find my cook for me? Walked out of the house on Wednesday, without so much as a word to me, and never came back.”

  “I am sorry, madame, but I do not touch this particular kind of business. I wish you good morning.”

  Our visitor snorted with indignation.

  “That’s it, is it, my fine fellow? Too proud, eh? Only deal with Government secrets and countesses’ jewels? Let me tell you a servant’s every bit as important as a tiara to a woman in my position. We can’t all be fine ladies going out in our motors with our diamonds and our pearls. A good cook’s a good cook—and when you lose her, it’s as much to you as her pearls are to some fine lady.”

  For a moment or two it appeared to be a toss up between Poirot’s dignity and his sense of humour. Finally he laughed and sat down again.

  “Madame, you are in the right, and I am in the wrong. Your remarks are just and intelligent. This case will be a novelty. Never yet have I hunted a missing domestic. Truly here is the problem of national importance that I was demanding of fate just before your arrival. En avant! You say this jewel of a cook went out on Wednesday and did not return. That is the day before yesterday.”

  “Yes, it was her day out.”

  “But probably, madame, she has met with some accident. Have you inquired at any of the hospitals?”

  “That’s exactly what I thought yesterday, but this morning, if you please, she sent for her box. And not so much as a line to me! If I’d been at home, I’d not have let it go—treating me like that! But I’d just stepped out to the butcher.”

  “Will you describe her to me?”

  “She was middle-aged, stout, black hair turning grey—most respectable. She’d been ten years in her last place. Eliza Dunn, her name was.”

  “And you had had—no disagreement with her on the Wednesday?”

  “None whatsoever. That’s what makes it all so queer.”

  “How many servants do you keep, madame?”

  “Two. The house-parlourmaid, Annie, is a very nice girl. A bit forgetful and her head full of young men, but a good servant if you keep her up to her work.”

  “Did she and the cook get on well together?”

  “They had their ups and downs, of course—but on the whole, very well.”

  “And the girl can throw no light on the mystery?”

  “She says not—but you know what servants are—they all hang together.”

  “Well, well, we must look into this. Where did you say you resided, madame?”

  “At Clapham; 88 Prince Albert Road.”

  “Bien, madame, I will wish you good morning, and you may count upon seeing me at your residence during the course of the day.”

  Mrs. Todd, for such was our new friend’s name, then took her departure. Poirot looked at me somewhat ruefully.

  “Well, well, Hastings, this is a novel affair that we have here. The Disappearance of the Clapham Cook! Never, never, must our friend Inspector Japp get to hear of this!”

  He then proceeded to heat an iron and carefully removed the grease spot from his grey suit by means of a piece of blotting paper. His moustaches he regretfully postponed to another day, and we set out for Clapham.
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  Prince Albert Road proved to be a street of small prim houses, all exactly alike, with neat lace curtains veiling the windows, and well-polished brass knockers on the doors.

  We rang the bell at No. 88, and the door was opened by a neat maid with a pretty face. Mrs. Todd came out in the hall to greet us.

  “Don’t go, Annie,” she cried. “This gentleman’s a detective and he’ll want to ask you some questions.”

  Annie’s face displayed a struggle between alarm and a pleasurable excitement.

  “I thank you, madame,” said Poirot bowing. “I would like to question your maid now—and to see her alone, if I may.”

  We were shown into a small drawing room, and when Mrs. Todd, with obvious reluctance, had left the room, Poirot commenced his cross-examination.

  “Voyons, Mademoiselle Annie, all that you shall tell us will be of the greatest importance. You alone can shed any light on the case. Without your assistance I can do nothing.”

  The alarm vanished from the girl’s face and the pleasurable excitement became more strongly marked.

  “I’m sure, sir,” she said, “I’ll tell you anything I can.”

  “That is good.” Poirot beamed approval on her. “Now, first of all what is your own idea? You are a girl of remarkable intelligence. That can be seen at once! What is your own explanation of Eliza’s disappearance?”

  Thus encouraged, Annie fairly flowed into excited speech.

  “White slavers, sir, I’ve said so all along! Cook was always warning me against them. ‘Don’t you sniff no scent, or eat any sweets—no matter how gentlemanly the fellow!’ Those were her words to me. And now they’ve got her! I’m sure of it. As likely as not, she’s been shipped to Turkey or one of them Eastern places where I’ve heard they like them fat!”

  Poirot preserved an admirable gravity.

  “But in that case—and it is indeed an idea!—would she have sent for her trunk?”

  “Well, I don’t know, sir. She’d want her things—even in those foreign places.”

  “Who came for the trunk—a man?”

  “It was Carter Paterson, sir.”

  “Did you pack it?”

  “No, sir, it was already packed and corded.”

  “Ah! That’s interesting. That shows that when she left the house on Wednesday, she had already determined not to return. You see that, do you not?”

  “Yes, sir.” Annie looked slightly taken aback. “I hadn’t thought of that. But it might still have been white slavers, mightn’t it, sir?” she added wistfully.

  “Undoubtedly!” said Poirot gravely. He went on: “Did you both occupy the same bedroom?”

  “No, sir, we had separate rooms.”

  “And had Eliza expressed any dissatisfaction with her present post to you at all? Were you both happy here?”

  “She’d never mentioned leaving. The place is all right—” The girl hesitated.

  “Speak freely,” said Poirot kindly. “I shall not tell your mistress.”

  “Well, of course, sir, she’s a caution, Missus is. But the food’s good. Plenty of it, and no stinting. Something hot for supper, good outings, and as much frying-fat as you like. And anyway, if Eliza did want to make a change, she’d never have gone off this way, I’m sure. She’d have stayed her month. Why, Missus could have a month’s wages out of her for doing this!”

  “And the work, it is not too hard?”

  “Well, she’s particular—always poking round in corners and looking for dust. And then there’s the lodger, or paying guest as he’s always called. But that’s only breakfast and dinner, same as Master. They’re out all day in the City.”

  “You like your master?”

  “He’s all right—very quiet and a bit on the stingy side.”

  “You can’t remember, I suppose, the last thing Eliza said before she went out?”

  “Yes, I can. ‘If there’s any stewed peaches over from the dining room,’ she says, ‘we’ll have them for supper, and a bit of bacon and some fried potatoes.’ Mad over stewed peaches, she was. I shouldn’t wonder if they didn’t get her that way.”

  “Was Wednesday her regular day out?”

  “Yes, she had Wednesdays and I had Thursdays.”

  Poirot asked a few more questions, then declared himself satisfied. Annie departed, and Mrs. Todd hurried in, her face alight with curiosity. She had, I felt certain, bitterly resented her exclusion from the room during our conversation with Annie. Poirot, however, was careful to soothe her feelings tactfully.

  “It is difficult,” he explained, “for a woman of exceptional intelligence such as yourself, madame, to bear patiently the roundabout methods we poor detectives are forced to use. To have patience with stupidity is difficult for the quick-witted.”

  Having thus charmed away any little resentment on Mrs. Todd’s part, he brought the conversation round to her husband and elicited the information that he worked with a firm in the City and would not be home until after six.

  “Doubtless he is very disturbed and worried by this unaccountable business, eh? It is not so?”

  “He’s never worried,” declared Mrs. Todd. “ ‘Well, well, get another, my dear.’ That’s all he said! He’s so calm that it drives me to distraction sometimes. ‘An ungrateful woman,’ he said. ‘We are well rid of her.’ ”

  “What about the other inmates of the house, madame?”

  “You mean Mr. Simpson, our paying guest? Well, as long as he gets his breakfast and his evening meal all right, he doesn’t worry.”

  “What is his profession, madame?”

  “He works in a bank.” She mentioned its name, and I started slightly, remembering my perusal of the Daily Blare.

  “A young man?”

  “Twenty-eight, I believe. Nice quiet young fellow.”

  “I should like to have a few words with him, and also with your husband, if I may. I will return for that purpose this evening. I venture to suggest that you should repose yourself a little, madame, you look fatigued.”

  “I should just think I am! First the worry about Eliza, and then I was at the sales practically all yesterday, and you know what that is, M. Poirot, and what with one thing and another and a lot to do in the house, because of course Annie can’t do it all—and very likely she’ll give notice anyway, being unsettled in this way—well, what with it all, I’m tired out!”

  Poirot murmured sympathetically, and we took our leave.

  “It’s a curious coincidence,” I said, “but that absconding clerk, Davis, was from the same bank as Simpson. Can there be any connection, do you think?”

  Poirot smiled.

  “At the one end, a defaulting clerk, at the other a vanishing cook. It is hard to see any relation between the two, unless possibly Davis visited Simpson, fell in love with the cook, and persuaded her to accompany him on his flight!”

  I laughed. But Poirot remained grave.

  “He might have done worse,” he said reprovingly. “Remember, Hastings, if you are going into exile, a good cook may be of more comfort than a pretty face!” He paused for a moment and then went on. “It is a curious case, full of contradictory features. I am interested—yes, I am distinctly interested.”

  II

  That evening we returned to 88 Prince Albert Road and interviewed both Todd and Simpson. The former was a melancholy lantern-jawed man of forty-odd.

  “Oh! Yes, yes,” he said vaguely. “Eliza. Yes. A good cook, I believe. And economical. I make a strong point of economy.”

  “Can you imagine any reason for her leaving you so suddenly?”

  “Oh, well,” said Mr. Todd vaguely. “Servants, you know. My wife worries too much. Worn out from always worrying. The whole problem’s quite simple really. ‘Get another, my dear,’ I say. ‘Get another.’ That’s all there is to it. No good crying over spilt milk.”

  Mr. Simpson was equally unhelpful. He was a quiet inconspicuous young man with spectacles.

  “I must have seen her, I suppose,” he said. “
Elderly woman, wasn’t she? Of course, it’s the other one I see always, Annie. Nice girl. Very obliging.”

  “Were those two on good terms with each other?”

  Mr. Simpson said he couldn’t say, he was sure. He supposed so.

  “Well, we get nothing of interest there, mon ami,” said Poirot as we left the house. Our departure had been delayed by a burst of vociferous repetition from Mrs. Todd, who repeated everything she had said that morning at rather greater length.

  “Are you disappointed?” I asked. “Did you expect to hear something?”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “There was a possibility, of course,” he said. “But I hardly thought it likely.”

  The next development was a letter which Poirot received on the following morning. He read it, turned purple with indignation, and handed it to me.

  Mrs. Todd regrets that after all she will not avail herself of Mr. Poirot’s services. After talking the matter over with her husband she sees that it is foolish to call in a detective about a purely domestic affair. Mrs. Todd encloses a guinea for consultation fee.

  III

  “Aha!” cried Poirot angrily. “And they think to get rid of Hercule Poirot like that! As a favour—a great favour—I consent to investigate their miserable little twopenny-halfpenny affair—and they dismiss me comme ça! Here, I mistake not, is the hand of Mr. Todd. But I say no!—thirty-six times no! I will spend my own guineas, thirty-six hundred of them if need be, but I will get to the bottom of this matter!”

  “Yes,” I said. “But how?”

  Poirot calmed down a little.

  “D’abord,” he said, “we will advertise in the papers. Let me see—yes—something like this: ‘If Eliza Dunn will communicate with this address, she will hear of something to her advantage.’ Put it in all the papers you can think of, Hastings. Then I will make some little inquiries of my own. Go, go—all must be done as quickly as possible!”