Jimmy still stared uncomprehendingly. Poirot went on.
‘Your friend Donovan did not go near the window—it was by resting his hand on this table that he got it covered in blood! But I asked myself at once—why did he rest it there? What was he doing groping about this room in darkness? For remember, my friend, the electric-light switch is always in the same place—by the door. Why, when he came to this room, did he not at once feel for the light and turn it on? That was the natural, the normal thing to do. According to him, he tried to turn on the light in the kitchen, but failed. Yet when I tried the switch it was in perfect working order. Did he, then, not wish the light to go on just then? If it had gone on you would both have seen at once that you were in the wrong flat. There would have been no reason to come into this room.’
‘What are you driving at, M. Poirot? I don’t understand. What do you mean?’
‘I mean—this.’
Poirot held up a Yale door key.
‘The key of this flat?’
‘No, mon ami, the key of the flat above. Mademoiselle Patricia’s key, which M. Donovan Bailey abstracted from her bag some time during the evening.’
‘But why—why?’
‘Parbleu! So that he could do what he wanted to do—gain admission to this flat in a perfectly unsuspicious manner. He made sure that the lift door was unbolted earlier in the evening.’
‘Where did you get the key?’
Poirot’s smile broadened. ‘I found it just now—where I looked for it—in M. Donovan’s pocket. See you, that little bottle I pretended to find was a ruse. M. Donovan is taken in. He does what I knew he would do—unstoppers it and sniffs. And in that little bottle is ethyl chloride, a very powerful instant anaesthetic. It gives me just the moment or two of unconsciousness I need. I take from his pocket the two things that I knew would be there. This key was one of them—the other—’
He stopped and then went on.
‘I questioned at the time the reason the inspector gave for the body being concealed behind the curtain. To gain time? No, there was more than that. And so I thought of just one thing—the post, my friend. The evening post that comes at half past nine or thereabouts. Say the murderer does not find something he expects to find, but that something may be delivered by post later. Clearly, then, he must come back. But the crime must not be discovered by the maid when she comes in, or the police would take possession of the flat, so he hides the body behind the curtain. And the maid suspects nothing and lays the letters on the table as usual.’
‘The letters?’
‘Yes, the letters.’ Poirot drew something from his pocket. ‘This is the second article I took from M. Donovan when he was unconscious.’ He showed the superscription—a typewritten envelope addressed to Mrs Ernestine Grant. ‘But I will ask you one thing first. M. Faulkener, before we look at the contents of this letter. Are you or are you not in love with Mademoiselle Patricia?’
‘I care for Pat damnably—but I’ve never thought I had a chance.’
‘You thought that she cared for M. Donovan? It may be that she had begun to care for him—but it was only a beginning, my friend. It is for you to make her forget—to stand by her in her trouble.’
‘Trouble?’ said Jimmy sharply.
‘Yes, trouble. We will do all we can to keep her name out of it, but it will be impossible to do so entirely. She was, you see, the motive.’
He ripped open the envelope that he held. An enclosure fell out. The covering letter was brief, and was from a firm of solicitors.
Dear Madam,
The document you enclose is quite in order, and the fact of the marriage having taken place in a foreign country does not invalidate it in any way.
Yours truly, etc.
Poirot spread out the enclosure. It was a certificate of marriage between Donovan Bailey and Ernestine Grant, dated eight years ago.
‘Oh, my God!’ said Jimmy. ‘Pat said she’d had a letter from the woman asking to see her, but she never dreamed it was anything important.’
Poirot nodded. ‘Donovan knew—he went to see his wife this evening before going to the flat above—a strange irony, by the way, that led the unfortunate woman to come to this building where her rival lived—he murdered her in cold blood, and then went on to his evening’s amusement. His wife must have told him that she had sent the marriage certificate to her solicitors and was expecting to hear from them. Doubtless he himself had tried to make her believe that there was a flaw in the marriage.’
‘He seemed in quite good spirits, too, all the evening. M. Poirot, you haven’t let him escape?’ Jimmy shuddered.
‘There is no escape for him,’ said Poirot gravely. ‘You need not fear.’
‘It’s Pat I’m thinking about mostly,’ said Jimmy. ‘You don’t think—she really cared.’
‘Mon ami, that is your part,’ said Poirot gently. ‘To make her turn to you and forget. I do not think you will find it very difficult!’
Double Sin
I had called in at my friend Poirot’s rooms to find him sadly overworked. So much had he become the rage that every rich woman who had mislaid a bracelet or lost a pet kitten rushed to secure the services of the great Hercule Poirot. My little friend was a strange mixture of Flemish thrift and artistic fervour. He accepted many cases in which he had little interest owing to the first instinct being predominant.
He also undertook cases in which there was a little or no monetary reward sheerly because the problem involved interested him. The result was that, as I say, he was overworking himself. He admitted as much himself, and I found little difficulty in persuading him to accompany me for a week’s holiday to that well-known South Coast resort, Ebermouth.
We had spent four very agreeable days when Poirot came to me, an open letter in his hand.
‘Mon ami, you remember my friend Joseph Aarons, the theatrical agent?’
I assented after a moment’s thought. Poirot’s friends are so many and so varied, and range from dustmen to dukes.
‘Eh bien, Hastings, Joseph Aarons finds himself at Charlock Bay. He is far from well, and there is a little affair that it seems is worrying him. He begs me to go over and see him. I think, mon ami, that I must accede to his request. He is a faithful friend, the good Joseph Aarons, and has done much to assist me in the past.’
‘Certainly, if you think so,’ I said. ‘I believe Charlock Bay is a beautiful spot, and as it happens I’ve never been there.’
‘Then we combine business with pleasure,’ said Poirot. ‘You will inquire the trains, yes?’
‘It will probably mean a change or two,’ I said with a grimace. ‘You know what these cross-country lines are. To go from the South Devon Coast to the North Devon coast is sometimes a day’s journey.’
However, on inquiry, I found that the journey could be accomplished by only one change at Exeter and that the trains were good. I was hastening back to Poirot with the information when I happened to pass the offices of the Speedy cars and saw written up:
Tomorrow. All-day excursion to Charlock Bay. Starting 8.30 through some of the most beautiful scenery in Devon.
I inquired a few particulars and returned to the hotel full of enthusiasm. Unfortunately, I found it hard to make Poirot share my feelings.
‘My friend, why this passion for the motor coach? The train, see you, it is true? The tyres, they do not burst; the accidents, they do not happen. One is not incommoded by too much air. The windows can be shut and no draughts admitted.’
I hinted delicately that the advantage of fresh air was what attracted me most to the motor-coach scheme.
‘And if it rains? Your English climate is so uncertain.’
‘There’s a hood and all that. Besides, if it rains badly, the excursion doesn’t take place.’
‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘Then let us hope that it rains.’
‘Of course, if you feel like that and…’
‘No, no, mon ami. I see that you have set your heart on the trip. Fortunately,
I have my greatcoat with me and two mufflers.’ He sighed. ‘But shall we have sufficient time at Charlock Bay?’
‘Well, I’m afraid it means staying the night there. You see, the tour goes round by Dartmoor. We have lunch at Monkhampton. We arrive at Charlock Bay about four o’clock, and the coach starts back at five, arriving here at ten o’clock.’
‘So!’ said Poirot. ‘And there are people who do this for pleasure! We shall, of course, get a reduction of the fare since we do not make the return journey?’
‘I hardly think that’s likely.’
‘You must insist.’
‘Come now, Poirot, don’t be mean. You know you’re coining money.’
‘My friend, it is not the meanness. It is the business sense. If I were a millionaire, I would pay only what was just and right.’
As I had foreseen, however, Poirot was doomed to fail in this respect. The gentleman who issued tickets at the Speedy office was calm and unimpassioned but adamant. His point was that we ought to return. He even implied that we ought to pay extra for the privilege of leaving the coach at Charlock Bay.
Defeated, Poirot paid over the required sum and left the office.
‘The English, they have no sense of money,’ he grumbled. ‘Did you observe a young man, Hastings, who paid over the full fare and yet mentioned his intention of leaving the coach at Monkhampton?’
‘I don’t think I did. As a matter of fact…’
‘You were observing the pretty young lady who booked No. 5, the next seat to ours. Ah! Yes, my friend, I saw you. And that is why when I was on the point of taking seats No. 13 and 14—which are in the middle and as well sheltered as it is possible to be—you rudely pushed yourself forward and said that 3 and 4 would be better.’
‘Really, Poirot,’ I said, blushing.
‘Auburn hair—always the auburn hair!’
‘At any rate, she was more worth looking at than an odd young man.’
‘That depends upon the point of view. To me, the young man was interesting.’
Something rather significant in Poirot’s tone made me look at him quickly. ‘Why? What do you mean?’
‘Oh, do not excite yourself. Shall I say that he interested me because he was trying to grow a moustache and as yet the result is poor.’ Poirot stroked his own magnificent moustache tenderly. ‘It is an art,’ he murmured, ‘the growing of the moustache! I have sympathy for all who attempt it.’
It is always difficult with Poirot to know when he is serious and when he is merely amusing himself at one’s expense. I judged it safest to say no more.
The following morning dawned bright and sunny. A really glorious day! Poirot, however, was taking no chances. He wore a woolly waistcoat, a mackintosh, a heavy overcoat, and two mufflers, in addition to wearing his thickest suit. He also swallowed two tablets of ‘Anti-grippe’ before starting and packed a further supply.
We took a couple of small suitcases with us. The pretty girl we had noticed the day before had a small suitcase, and so did the young man whom I gathered to have been the object of Poirot’s sympathy. Otherwise, there was no luggage. The four pieces were stowed away by the driver, and we all took our places.
Poirot, rather maliciously, I thought, assigned me the outside place as ‘I had the mania for the fresh air’ and himself occupied the seat next to our fair neighbour. Presently, however, he made amends. The man in seat 6 was a noisy fellow, inclined to be facetious and boisterous, and Poirot asked the girl in a low voice if she would like to change seats with him. She agreed gratefully, and the change having been effected, she entered into conversation with us and we were soon all three chattering together merrily.
She was evidently quite young, not more than nineteen, and as ingenuous as a child. She soon confided to us the reason for her trip. She was going, it seemed, on business for her aunt who kept a most interesting antique shop in Ebermouth.
This aunt had been left in very reduced circumstances on the death of her father and had used her small capital and a houseful of beautiful things which her father had left her to start in business. She had been extremely successful and had made quite a name for herself in the trade. This girl, Mary Durrant, had come to be with her aunt and learn the business and was very excited about it—much preferring it to the other alternative—becoming a nursery governess or companion.
Poirot nodded interest and approval to all this.
‘Mademoiselle will be successful, I am sure,’ he said gallantly. ‘But I will give her a little word of advice. Do not be too trusting, mademoiselle. Everywhere in the world there are rogues and vagabonds, even it may be on this very coach of ours. One should always be on the guard, suspicious!’
She stared at him open-mouthed, and he nodded sapiently.
‘But yes, it is as I say. Who knows? Even I who speak to you may be a malefactor of the worst description.’
And he twinkled more than ever at her surprised face.
We stopped for lunch at Monkhampton, and, after a few words with the waiter, Poirot managed to secure us a small table for three close by the window. Outside, in a big courtyard, about twenty char-a-bancs were parked—char-a-bancs which had come from all over the country. The hotel dining-room was full, and the noise was rather considerable.
‘One can have altogether too much of the holiday spirit,’ I said with a grimace.
Mary Durrant agreed. ‘Ebermouth is quite spoiled in the summers nowadays. My aunt says it used to be quite different. Now one can hardly get along the pavements for the crowd.’
‘But it is good for business, mademoiselle.’
‘Not for ours particularly. We sell only rare and valuable things. We do not go in for cheap bric-a-brac. My aunt has clients all over England. If they want a particular period table or chair, or a certain piece of china, they write to her, and, sooner or later, she gets it for them. That is what has happened in this case.’
We looked interested and she went on to explain. A certain American gentleman, Mr J. Baker Wood, was a connoisseur and collector of miniatures. A very valuable set of miniatures had recently come into the market, and Miss Elizabeth Penn—Mary’s aunt—had purchased them. She had written to Mr Wood describing the miniatures and naming a price. He had replied at once, saying that he was prepared to purchase if the miniatures were as represented and asking that someone should be sent with them for him to see where he was staying at Charlock Bay. Miss Durrant had accordingly been despatched, acting as representative for the firm.
‘They’re lovely things, of course,’ she said. ‘But I can’t imagine anyone paying all that money for them. Five hundred pounds! Just think of it! They’re by Cosway. Is it Cosway I mean? I get so mixed up in these things.’
Poirot smiled. ‘You are not yet experienced, eh, mademoiselle?’
‘I’ve had no training,’ said Mary ruefully. ‘We weren’t brought up to know about old things. It’s a lot to learn.’
She sighed. Then suddenly, I saw her eyes widen in surprise. She was sitting facing the window, and her glance now was directed out of that window, into the courtyard. With a hurried word, she rose from her seat and almost ran out of the room. She returned in a few moments, breathless and apologetic.
‘I’m so sorry rushing off like that. But I thought I saw a man taking my suitcase out of the coach. I went flying after him, and it turned out to be his own. It’s one almost exactly like mine. I felt like such a fool. It looked as though I were accusing him of stealing it.’
She laughed at the idea.
Poirot, however, did not laugh. ‘What man was it, mademoiselle? Describe him to me.’
‘He had on a brown suit. A thin weedy young man with a very indeterminate moustache.’
‘Aha,’ said Poirot. ‘Our friend of yesterday, Hastings. You know this young man, mademoiselle? You have seen him before?’
‘No, never. Why?’
‘Nothing. It is rather curious—that is all.’
He relapsed into silence and took no further part in th
e conversation until something Mary Durrant said caught his attention.
‘Eh, mademoiselle, what is that you say?’
‘I said that on my return journey I should have to be careful of “malefactors”, as you call them. I believe Mr Wood always pays for things in cash. If I have five hundred pounds in notes on me, I shall be worth some malefactor’s attention.’
She laughed but Poirot did not respond. Instead, he asked her what hotel she proposed to stay at in Charlock Bay.
‘The Anchor Hotel. It is small and not expensive, but quite good.’
‘So!’ said Poirot. ‘The Anchor Hotel. Precisely where Hastings here has made up his mind to stay. How odd!’
He twinkled at me.
‘You are staying long in Charlock Bay?’ asked Mary.
‘One night only. I have business there. You could not guess, I am sure, what my profession is, mademoiselle?’
I saw Mary consider several possibilities and reject them—probably from a feeling of caution. At last, she hazarded the suggestion that Poirot was a conjurer. He was vastly entertained.
‘Ah! But it is an idea that! You think I take the rabbits out of the hat? No, mademoiselle. Me, I am the opposite of a conjurer. The conjurer, he makes things disappear. Me, I make things that have disappeared, reappear.’ He leaned forward dramatically so as to give the words full effect. ‘It is a secret, mademoiselle, but I will tell you, I am a detective!’
He leaned back in his chair pleased with the effect he had created. Mary Durrant stared at him spellbound. But any further conversation was barred for the braying of various horns outside announced that the road monsters were ready to proceed.
As Poirot and I went out together I commented on the charm of our luncheon companion. Poirot agreed.
‘Yes, she is charming. But, also rather silly?’
‘Silly?’
‘Do not be outraged. A girl may be beautiful and have auburn hair and yet be silly. It is the height of foolishness to take two strangers into her confidence as she has done.’