‘Well, she could see we were all right.’
‘That is imbecile, what you say, my friend. Anyone who knows his job—naturally he will appear “all right”. That little one she talked of being careful when she would have five hundred pounds in money with her. But she has five hundred pounds with her now.’
‘In miniatures.’
‘Exactly. In miniatures. And between one and the other, there is no great difference, mon ami.’
‘But no one knew about them except us.’
‘And the waiter and the people at the next table. And, doubtless, several people in Ebermouth! Mademoiselle Durrant, she is charming, but, if I were Miss Elizabeth Penn, I would first of all instruct my new assistant in the common sense.’ He paused and then said in a different voice: ‘You know, my friend, it would be the easiest thing in the world to remove a suitcase from one of those char-a-bancs while we were all at luncheon.’
‘Oh, come, Poirot, somebody will be sure to see.’
‘And what would they see? Somebody removing his luggage. It would be done in an open and above-board manner, and it would be nobody’s business to interfere.’
‘Do you mean—Poirot, are you hinting—But that fellow in the brown suit—it was his own suitcase?’
Poirot frowned. ‘So it seems. All the same, it is curious, Hastings, that he should have not removed his suitcase before, when the car first arrived. He has not lunched here, you notice.’
‘If Miss Durrant hadn’t been sitting opposite the window, she wouldn’t have seen him,’ I said slowly.
‘And since it was his own suitcase, that would not have mattered,’ said Poirot. ‘So let us dismiss it from our thoughts, mon ami.’
Nevertheless, when we had resumed our places and were speeding along once more, he took the opportunity of giving Mary Durrant a further lecture on the dangers of indiscretion which she received meekly enough but with the air of thinking it all rather a joke.
We arrived at Charlock Bay at four o’clock and were fortunate enough to be able to get rooms at the Anchor Hotel—a charming old-world inn in one of the side streets.
Poirot had just unpacked a few necessaries and was applying a little cosmetic to his moustache preparatory to going out to call upon Joseph Aarons when there came a frenzied knocking at the door. I called ‘Come in,’ and, to my utter amazement, Mary Durrant appeared, her face white and large tears standing in her eyes.
‘I do beg your pardon—but—but the most awful thing has happened. And you did say you were a detective?’ This to Poirot.
‘What has happened, mademoiselle?’
‘I opened my suitcase. The miniatures were in a crocodile despatch case—locked, of course. Now, look!’
She held out a small square crocodile-covered case. The lid hung loose. Poirot took it from her. The case had been forced; great strength must have been used. The marks were plain enough. Poirot examined it and nodded.
‘The miniatures?’ he asked, though we both knew the answer well enough.
‘Gone. They’ve been stolen. Oh, what shall I do?’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘My friend is Hercule Poirot. You must have heard of him. He’ll get them back for you if anyone can.’
‘Monsieur Poirot. The great Monsieur Poirot.’
Poirot was vain enough to be pleased at the obvious reverence in her voice. ‘Yes, my child,’ he said. ‘It is I, myself. And you can leave your little affair in my hands. I will do all that can be done. But I fear—I much fear—that it will be too late. Tell me, was the lock of your suitcase forced also?’
She shook her head.
‘Let me see it, please.’
We went together to her room, and Poirot examined the suitcase closely. It had obviously been opened with a key.
‘Which is simple enough. These suitcase locks are all much of the same pattern. Eh bien, we must ring up the police and we must also get in touch with Mr Baker Wood as soon as possible. I will attend to that myself.’
I went with him and asked what he meant by saying it might be too late. ‘Mon cher, I said today that I was the opposite of the conjurer—that I make the disappearing things reappear—but suppose someone has been before hand with me. You do not understand? You will in a minute.’
He disappeared into the telephone box. He came out five minutes later looking very grave. ‘It is as I feared. A lady called upon Mr Wood with the miniatures half an hour ago. She represented herself as coming from Miss Elizabeth Penn. He was delighted with the miniatures and paid for them forthwith.’
‘Half an hour ago—before we arrived here.’
Poirot smiled rather enigmatically. ‘The Speedy cars are quite speedy, but a fast motor from, say, Monkhampton would get here a good hour ahead of them at least.’
‘And what do we do now?’
‘The good Hastings—always practical. We inform the police, do all we can for Miss Durrant, and—yes, I think decidedly, we have an interview with Mr J. Baker Wood.’
We carried out this programme. Poor Mary Durrant was terribly upset, fearing her aunt would blame her.
‘Which she probably will,’ observed Poirot, as we set out for the Seaside Hotel where Mr Wood was staying. ‘And with perfect justice. The idea of leaving five hundred pounds’ worth of valuables in a suitcase and going to lunch! All the same, mon ami, there are one or two curious points about the case. That despatch box, for instance, why was it forced?’
‘To get out the miniatures.’
‘But was not that a foolishness? Say our thief is tampering with the luggage at lunch-time under the pretext of getting out his own. Surely it is much simpler to open the suitcase, transfer the despatch case unopened to his own suitcase, and get away, than to waste the time forcing the lock?’
‘He had to make sure the miniatures were inside.’
Poirot did not look convinced, but, as we were just being shown into Mr Wood’s suite, we had no time for more discussion.
I took an immediate dislike to Mr Baker Wood.
He was a large vulgar man, very much overdressed and wearing a diamond solitaire ring. He was blustering and noisy.
Of course, he’d not suspected anything amiss. Why should he? The woman said she had the miniatures all right. Very fine specimens, too! Had he the numbers of the notes? No, he hadn’t. And who was Mr—er—Poirot, anyway, to come asking him all these questions?
‘I will not ask you anything more, monsieur, except for one thing. A description of the woman who called upon you. Was she young and pretty?’
‘No, sir, she was not. Most emphatically not. A tall woman, middle-aged, grey hair, blotchy complexion and a budding moustache. A siren? Not on your life.’
‘Poirot,’ I cried, as we took our departure. ‘A moustache. Did you hear?’
‘I have the use of my ears, thank you, Hastings!’
‘But what a very unpleasant man.’
‘He has not the charming manner, no.’
‘Well, we ought to get the thief all right,’ I remarked. ‘We can identify him.’
‘You are of such a naïve simplicity, Hastings. Do you not know that there is such a thing as an alibi?’
‘You think he will have an alibi?’
Poirot replied unexpectedly: ‘I sincerely hope so.’
‘The trouble with you is,’ I said, ‘that you like a thing to be difficult.’
‘Quite right, mon ami. I do not like—how do you say it—the bird who sits!’
Poirot’s prophecy was fully justified. Our travelling companion in the brown suit turned out to be a Mr Norton Kane. He had gone straight to the George Hotel at Monkhampton and had been there during the afternoon. The only evidence against him was that of Miss Durrant who declared that she had seen him getting out his luggage from the car while we were at lunch.
‘Which in itself is not a suspicious act,’ said Poirot meditatively.
After that remark, he lapsed into silence and refused to discuss the matter any further, saying when I pressed
him, that he was thinking of moustaches in general, and that I should be well advised to do the same.
I discovered, however, that he had asked Joseph Aarons—with whom he spent the evening—to give him every detail possible about Mr Baker Wood. As both men were staying at the same hotel, there was a chance of gleaning some stray crumbs of information. Whatever Poirot learned, he kept to himself, however.
Mary Durrant, after various interviews with the police, had returned to Ebermouth by an early morning train. We lunched with Joseph Aarons, and after lunch, Poirot announced to me that he had settled the theatrical agent’s problem satisfactorily, and that we could return to Ebermouth as soon as we liked. ‘But not by road, mon ami; we go by rail this time.’
‘Are you afraid of having your pocket picked, or of meeting another damsel in distress?’
‘Both those affairs, Hastings, might happen to me on the train. No, I am in haste to be back in Ebermouth, because I want to proceed with our case.’
‘Our case?’
‘But, yes, my friend. Mademoiselle Durrant appealed to me to help her. Because the matter is now in the hands of the police, it does not follow that I am free to wash my hands of it. I came here to oblige an old friend, but it shall never be said of Hercule Poirot that he deserted a stranger in need!’ And he drew himself up grandiloquently.
‘I think you were interested before that,’ I said shrewdly. ‘In the office of cars, when you first caught sight of that young man, though what drew your attention to him I don’t know.’
‘Don’t you, Hastings? You should. Well, well, that must remain my little secret.’
We had a short conversation with the police inspector in charge of the case before leaving. He had interviewed Mr Norton Kane, and told Poirot in confidence that the young man’s manner had not impressed him favourably. He had blustered, denied, and contradicted himself.
‘But just how the trick was done, I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘He could have handed the stuff to a confederate who pushed off at once in a fast car. But that’s just theory. We’ve got to find the car and the confederate and pin the thing down.’
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
‘Do you think that was how it was done?’ I asked him, as we were seated in the train.
‘No, my friend, that was not how it was done. It was cleverer than that.’
‘Won’t you tell me?’
‘Not yet. You know—it is my weakness—I like to keep my little secrets till the end.’
‘Is the end going to be soon?’
‘Very soon now.’
We arrived in Ebermouth a little after six and Poirot drove at once to the shop which bore the name ‘Elizabeth Penn’. The establishment was closed, but Poirot rang the bell, and presently Mary herself opened the door, and expressed surprise and delight at seeing us.
‘Please come in and see my aunt,’ she said.
She led us into a back room. An elderly lady came forward to meet us; she had white hair and looked rather like a miniature herself with her pink-and-white skin and her blue eyes. Round her rather bent shoulders she wore a cape of priceless old lace.
‘Is this the great Monsieur Poirot?’ she asked in a low charming voice. ‘Mary has been telling me. I could hardly believe it. And you will really help us in our trouble. You will advise us?’
Poirot looked at her for a moment, then bowed.
‘Mademoiselle Penn—the effect is charming. But you should really grow a moustache.’
Miss Penn gave a gasp and drew back.
‘You were absent from business yesterday, were you not?’
‘I was here in the morning. Later I had a bad headache and went directly home.’
‘Not home, mademoiselle. For your headache you tried the change of air, did you not? The air of Charlock Bay is very bracing, I believe.’
He took me by the arm and drew me towards the door. He paused there and spoke over his shoulder.
‘You comprehend, I know everything. This little—farce—it must cease.’
There was a menace in his tone. Miss Penn, her face ghastly white, nodded mutely. Poirot turned to the girl.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said gently, ‘you are young and charming. But participating in these little affairs will lead to that youth and charm being hidden behind prison walls—and I, Hercule Poirot, tell you that that will be a pity.’
Then he stepped out into the street and I followed him, bewildered.
‘From the first, mon ami, I was interested. When that young man booked his place as far as Monkhampton only, I saw the girl’s attention suddenly riveted on him. Now why? He was not of the type to make a woman look at him for himself alone. When we started on the coach, I had a feeling that something would happen. Who saw the young man tampering with the luggage? Mademoiselle and mademoiselle only, and remember she chose that seat—a seat facing the window—a most unfeminine choice.
‘And then she comes to us with the tale of robbery—the despatch box forced which makes not the common sense, as I told you at the time.
‘And what is the result of it all? Mr Baker Wood has paid over good money for stolen goods. The miniatures will be returned to Miss Penn. She will sell them and will have made a thousand pounds instead of five hundred. I make the discreet inquiries and learn that her business is in a bad state—touch and go. I say to myself—the aunt and niece are in this together.’
‘Then you never suspected Norton Kane?’
‘Mon ami! With that moustache? A criminal is either clean shaven or he has a proper moustache that can be removed at will. But what an opportunity for the clever Miss Penn—a shrinking elderly lady with a pink-and-white complexion as we saw her. But if she holds herself erect, wears large boots, alters her complexion with a few unseemly blotches and—crowning touch—adds a few sparse hairs to her upper lip. What then? A masculine woman, says Mr Wood and “a man in disguise” say we at once.’
‘She really went to Charlock yesterday?’
‘Assuredly. The train, as you may remember telling me, left here at eleven and got to Charlock Bay at two o’clock. Then the return train is even quicker—the one we came by. It leaves Charlock at four-five and gets here at six-fifteen. Naturally, the miniatures were never in the despatch case at all. That was artistically forced before being packed. Mademoiselle Mary has only to find a couple of mugs who will be sympathetic to her charm and champion beauty in distress. But one of the mugs was no mug—he was Hercule Poirot!’
I hardly liked the inference. I said hurriedly: ‘Then when you said you were helping a stranger, you were wilfully deceiving me. That’s exactly what you were doing.’
‘Never do I deceive you, Hastings. I only permit you to deceive yourself. I was referring to Mr Baker Wood—a stranger to these shores.’ His face darkened. ‘Ah! When I think of that imposition, that iniquitous over-charge, the same fare single to Charlock as return, my blood boils to protect the visitor! Not a pleasant man, Mr Baker Wood, not, as you would say, sympathetic. But a visitor! And we visitors, Hastings, must stand together. Me, I am all for the visitors!’
The Market Basing Mystery
I
‘After all, there’s nothing like the country, is there?’ said Inspector Japp, breathing in heavily through his nose and out through his mouth in the most approved fashion.
Poirot and I applauded the sentiment heartily. It had been the Scotland Yard inspector’s idea that we should all go for the weekend to the little country town of Market Basing. When off duty, Japp was an ardent botanist, and discoursed upon minute flowers possessed of unbelievably lengthy Latin names (somewhat strangely pronounced) with an enthusiasm even greater than that he gave to his cases.
‘Nobody knows us, and we know nobody,’ explained Japp. ‘That’s the idea.’
This was not to prove quite the case, however, for the local constable happened to have been transferred from a village fifteen miles away where a case of arsenical poisoning had brought him into contact with the Scotland Yard man
. However, his delighted recognition of the great man only enhanced Japp’s sense of well-being, and as we sat down to breakfast on Sunday morning in the parlour of the village inn, with the sun shining, and tendrils of honeysuckle thrusting themselves in at the window, we were all in the best of spirits. The bacon and eggs were excellent, the coffee not so good, but passable and boiling hot.
‘This is the life,’ said Japp. ‘When I retire, I shall have a little place in the country. Far from crime, like this!’
‘Le crime, il est partout,’ remarked Poirot, helping himself to a neat square of bread, and frowning at a sparrow which had balanced itself impertinently on the windowsill.
I quoted lightly:
‘That rabbit has a pleasant face,
His private life is a disgrace
I really could not tell to you
The awful things that rabbits do.’
‘Lord,’ said Japp, stretching himself backward, ‘I believe I could manage another egg, and perhaps a rasher or two of bacon. What do you say, Captain?’
‘I’m with you,’ I returned heartily. ‘What about you, Poirot?’
Poirot shook his head.
‘One must not so replenish the stomach that the brain refuses to function,’ he remarked.
‘I’ll risk replenishing the stomach a bit more,’ laughed Japp. ‘I take a large size in stomachs; and by the way, you’re getting stout yourself, M. Poirot. Here, miss, eggs and bacon twice.’
At that moment, however, an imposing form blocked the doorway. It was Constable Pollard.
‘I hope you’ll excuse me troubling the inspector, gentlemen, but I’d be glad of his advice.’
‘I’m on holiday,’ said Japp hastily. ‘No work for me. What is the case?’
‘Gentleman up at Leigh House—shot himself—through the head.’
‘Well, they will do it,’ said Japp prosaically. ‘Debt, or a woman, I suppose. Sorry I can’t help you, Pollard.’
‘The point is,’ said the constable, ‘that he can’t have shot himself. Leastways, that’s what Dr Giles says.’