'Ah!' said Hercule Poirot. He leaned back and looked at the ceiling. 'And yet, Sir George, we agreed, not a quarter of an hour ago, that these papers represented very definitely money. Not perhaps, in quite so obvious a form as banknotes, or gold, or jewellery, but nevertheless they were potential money. If there were anyone here who was hard up - ' The other interrupted him with a snort. 'Who isn't these days? I suppose I can say it without incriminating myself.' He smiled and Poirot smiled politely back at him and murmured: 'Mais oui, you can say what you like, for you, Sir George, have the one unimpeachable alibi in this affair.'
'But I'm damned hard up myself!'
Poirot shook his head sadly. 'Yes, indeed, a man in your position has heavy living expenses. Then you have a young son at a most expensive age - ' Sir George groaned. 'Education's bad enough, then debts on top of it. Mind you, this lad's not a bad lad.' Poirot listened sympathetically. He heard a lot of the Air Marshal's accumulated grievances. The lack of grit and stamina in the younger generation, the fantastic way in which mothers spoilt their children and always took their side, the curse of gambling once it got hold of a woman, the folly of playing for higher stakes than you could afford.
It was couched in general terms, Sir George did not allude directly to either his wife or his son, but his natural transparency made his generalizations very easy to see through. He broke off suddenly. 'Sorry, mustn't take up your time with something that's right off the subject, especially at this hour of the night - or rather, morning.' He stifled a yawn. 'I suggest, Sir George, that you should go to bed. You have been most kind and helpful.'
'Right, think I will turn in. You really think there is a chance of getting the plans back?' Poirot shrugged his shoulders. 'I mean to try. I do not see why not.'
'Well, I'll be off. Goodnight.' He left the room. Poirot remained in his chair staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, then he took out a little notebook and turning to a clean page, he wrote: Mrs Vanderlyn? Lady Julia Carrington? Mrs Macatta? Reggie Carrington? Mr Carlile? Underneath he wrote: Mrs Vanderlyn and Mr Reggie Carrington?
Mrs Vanderlyn and Lady Julia? Mrs Vanderlyn and Mr Carlile? He shook his head in a dissatisifed manner, murmuring: 'C'est plus simple que ça.' Then he added a few short sentences. Did Lord Mayfield see a 'shadow'? If not, why did he say he did? Did Sir George see anything? He was positive he had seen nothing AFTER I examined flower-bed. Note: Lord Mayfield is near-sighted, can read without glasses but has to use a monocle to look across a room. Sir George is long-sighted. Therefore, from the far end of the terrace, his sight is more to be depended upon than Lord Mayfield's.
Yet Lord Mayfield is very positive that he DID see something and is quite unshaken by his friend's denial. Can anyone be quite as above suspicion as Mr Carlile appears to be? Lord Mayfield is very emphatic as to his innocence. Too much so. Why? Because he secretly suspects him and is ashamed of his suspicions? Or because he definitely suspects some other person?
That is to say, some person OTHER than Mrs Vanderlyn? He put the notebook away. Then, getting up, he went along to the study.
Chapter 5
Lord Mayfield was seated at his desk when Poirot entered the study.
He swung round, laid down his pen, and looked up inquiringly. 'Well, M. Poirot, had your interview with Carrington?' Poirot smiled and sat down. 'Yes, Lord Mayfield. He cleared up a point that had puzzled me.'
'What was that?'
'The reason for Mrs Vanderlyn's presence here. You comprehend, I thought it possible - ' Mayfield was quick to realize the cause of Poirot's somewhat exaggerated embarrassment. 'You thought I had a weakness for the lady? Not at all. Far from it.
Funnily enough, Carrington thought the same.'
'Yes, he has told me of the conversation he held with you on the subject.' Lord Mayfield looked rather rueful. 'My little scheme didn't come off. Always annoying to have to admit that a woman has got the better of you.'
'Ah, but she has not got the better of you yet, Lord Mayfield.'
'You think we may yet win? Well, I'm glad to hear you say so. I'd like to think it was true.' He sighed. 'I feel I've acted like a complete fool - so pleased with my stratagem for entrapping the lady.' Hercule Poirot said, as he lit one of his tiny cigarettes: 'What was your stratagem exactly, Lord Mayfield?'
'Well,' Lord Mayfield hesitated. 'I hadn't exactly got down to details.'
'You didn't discuss it with anyone?'
'No.'
'Not even with Mr Carlile?'
'No.' Poirot smiled. 'You prefer to play a lone hand, Lord Mayfield.'
'I have usually found it the best way,' said the other a little grimly. 'Yes, you are wise. Trust no one. But you did mention the matter to Sir George Carrington?'
'Simply because I realized that the dear fellow was seriously perturbed about me.' Lord Mayfield smiled at the remembrance. 'He is an old friend of yours?'
'Yes. I have known him for over twenty years.'
'And his wife?'
'I have known his wife also, of course.'
'But (pardon me if I am impertinent) you are not on the same terms of intimacy with her?'
'I don't really see what my personal relationships to people has to do with the matter in hand, M. Poirot.'
'But I think, Lord Mayfield, that they may have a good deal to do with it. You agreed, did you not, that my theory of someone in the drawing-room was a possible one?'
'Yes. In fact, I agree with you that that is what must have happened.'
'We will not say "must." That is too self-confident a word. But if that theory of mine is true, who do you think the person in the drawingroom could have been?'
'Obviously Mrs Vanderlyn. She had been back there once for a book.
She could have come back for another book, or a handbag, or a dropped handkerchief - one of a dozen feminine excuses. She arranges with her maid to scream and get Carlile away from the study. Then she slips in and out by the windows as you said.'
'You forget it could not have been Mrs Vanderlyn. Carlile heard her call the maid from upstairs while he was talking to the girl.' Lord Mayfield bit his lip. 'True. I forgot that.' He looked throughly annoyed. 'You see,' said Poirot gently. 'We progress. We have first the simple explanation of a thief who comes from outside and makes off with the booty. A very convenient theory as I said at the time, too convenient to be readily accepted. We have disposed of that. Then we come to the theory of the foreign agent, Mrs Vanderlyn, and that again seems to fit together beautifully up to a certain point. But now it looks as though that, too, was too easy - too convenient - to be accepted.'
'You'd wash Mrs Vanderlyn out of it altogether?'
'It was not Mrs Vanderlyn in the drawing-room. It may have been an ally of Mrs Vanderlyn's who committed the theft, but it is just possible that it was committed by another person altogether. If so, we have to consider the question of motive.'
'Isn't this rather far-fetched, M. Poirot?'
'I do not think so. Now what motives could there be? There is the motive of money. The papers may have been stolen with the object of turning them into cash. That is the simplest motive to consider. But the motive might possibly be something quite different.'
'Such as - ' Poirot said slowly: 'It might have been done definitely with the idea of damaging someone.'
'Who?'
'Possibly Mr Carlile. He would be the obvious suspect. But there might be more to it than that. The men who control the destiny of a country, Lord Mayfield, are particularly vulnerable to displays of popular feeling.'
'Meaning that the theft was aimed at damaging me?' Poirot nodded. 'I think I am correct in saying, Lord Mayfield, that about five years ago you passed through a somewhat trying time. You were suspected of friendship with a European Power at that time bitterly unpopular with the electorate of this country.'
'Quite true, M. Poirot.'
'A statesman in these days has a difficult task. He has to pursue the policy he deems advantageous to his country, but he has at the same t
ime to recognize the force of popular feeling. Popular feeling is very often sentimental, muddle-headed, and eminently unsound, but it cannot be disregarded for all that.'
'How well you express it! That is exactly the curse of a politician's life. He has to bow to the country's feeling, however dangerous and foolhardy he knows it to be.'
'That was your dilemma, I think. There were rumours that you had concluded an agreement with the country in question. This country and the newspapers were up in arms about it. Fortunately the Prime Minister was able categorically to deny the story, and you repudiated it, though still making no secret of the way your sympathies lay.'
'All this is quite true, M. Poirot , but why rake up past history?'
'Because I consider it possible that an enemy, disappointed in the way you surmounted that crisis, might endeavour to stage a further dilemma. You soon regained public confidence. Those particular circumstances have passed away, you are now, deservedly, one of the most popular figures in political life. You are spoken of freely as the next Prime Minister when Mr Hunberly retires.'
'You think this is an attempt to discredit me? Nonsense!'
'Tout de même, Lord Mayfield, it would not look well if it were known that the plans of Britain's new bomber had been stolen during a weekend when a certain very charming lady had been your guest.
Little hints in the newspapers as to your relationship with that lady would create a feeling of distrust in you.'
'Such a thing could not really be taken seriously.'
'My dear Lord Mayfield, you know perfectly well it could! It takes so little to undermine public confidence in a man.'
'Yes, that's true,' said Lord Mayfield. He looked suddenly very worried. 'God! how desperately complicated this business is becoming. Do you really think - but it's impossible - impossible.'
'You know of nobody who is - jealous of you?'
'Absurd!'
'At any rate you will admit that my questions about your personal relationships with the members of this house-party are not totally irrelevant.'
'Oh, perhaps - perhaps. You as ked me about Julia Carrington.
There's really not very much to say. I've never taken to her very much, and I don't think she cares for me. She's one of these restless, nervy women, recklessly extravagant and mad about cards. She's old-fashioned enough, I think, to despise me as being a self-made man.'
Poirot said: 'I looked you up in Who's Who before I came down. You were the head of a famous engineering firm and you are yourself a first-class engineer.'
'There's certainly nothing I don't know about the practical side. I've worked my way up from the bottom.' Lord Mayfield spoke rather grimly. 'Oh la la!' cried Poirot. 'I have been a fool - but a fool!' The other stared at him. 'I beg your pardon, M. Poirot?'
'It is that a portion of the puzzle has become clear to me. Something I did not see before... But it all fits in. Yes - it fits in with beautiful precision.' Lord Mayfield looked at him in somewhat astonished inquiry. But with a slight smile Poirot shook his head. 'No, no, not now. I must arrange my ideas a little more clearly.' He rose. 'Goodnight, Lord Mayfield. I think I know where those plans are.'
Lord Mayfield cried out: 'You know? Then let us get hold of them at once!' Poirot shook his head. 'No, no, that would not do. Precipitancy would be fatal. But leave it all to Hercule Poirot.' He went out of the room. Lord Mayfield raised his shoulders in contempt. 'Man's a mountebank,' he muttered. Then, putting away his papers and turning out the lights, he, too, made his way up to bed.
Chapter 6
'If there's been a burglary, why the devil doesn't old Mayfield send for the police?' demanded Reggie Carrington. He pushed his chair slightly back from the breakfast table. He was the last down. His host, Mrs Macatta and Sir George had finished their breakfasts some time before. His mother and Mrs Vanderlyn were breakfasting in bed. Sir George, repeating his statement on the lines agreed upon between Lord Mayfield and Hercule Poirot, had a feeling that he was not managing it as well as he might have done. 'To send for a queer foreigner like this seems very odd to me,' said
Reggie. 'What has been taken, Father?'
'I don't know exactly, my boy.' Reggie got up. He looked rather nervy and on edge this morning. 'Nothing - important? No - papers or anything like that?'
'To tell you the truth, Reggie, I can't tell you exactly.'
'Very hushhush, is it? I see.' Reggie ran up the stairs, paused for a moment half-way with a frown on his face, and then continued his ascent and tapped on his mother's door. Her voice bade him enter. Lady Julia was sitting up in bed, scribbling figures on the back of an envelope. 'Good morning, darling.' She looked up, then said sharply: 'Reggie, is anything the matter?'
'Nothing much, but it seems there was a burglary last night.'
'A burglary? What was taken?'
'Oh, I don't know. It's all very hush hush. There's some odd kind of private-inquiry agent downstairs asking everybody questions.'
'How extraordinary!'
'It's rather unpleasant,' said Reggie slowly, 'staying in a house when that kind of thing happens.'
'What did happen exactly?'
'Don't know. It was some time after we all went to bed. Look out, Mother, you'll have that tray off.' He rescued the breakfast-tray and carried it to a table by the window. 'Was money taken?'
'I tell you I don't know.' Lady Julia said slowly: 'I suppose this inquiry man is asking everybody questions?'
'I suppose so.'
'Where they were last night? All that kind of thing?'
'Probably. Well, I can't tell him much. I went straight up to bed and was asleep in next to no time.' Lady Julia did not answer. 'I say, Mother, I suppose you couldn't let me have a spot of cash. I'm absolutely broke.'
'No, I couldn't,' his mother replied decisively. 'I've got the most frightful overdraft myself. I don't know what your father will say when he hears about it.' There was a tap at the door and Sir George entered. 'Ah, there you are, Reggie. Will you go down to the library? M.
Hercule Poirot wants to see you.' Poirot had just concluded an interview with the redoubtable Mrs Macatta. A few brief questions had elicited the information that Mrs Macatta had gone up to bed just before eleven, and had heard or seen nothing helpful. Poirot slid gently from the topic of the burglary to more personal matters. He himself had a great admiration for Lord Mayfield. As a member of the general public he felt that Lord Mayfield was a truly great man. Of course, Mrs Macatta, being in the know, would have a far better means of estimating that than himself. 'Lord Mayfield has brains,' allowed Mrs Macatta. 'And he has carved his career out entirely for himself. He owes nothing to hereditary influence. He has a certain lack of vision, perhaps. In that I find all men sadly alike. They lack the breadth of a woman's imagination.
Woman, M. Poirot, is going to be the great force in government in ten years' time.' Poirot said that he was sure of it. He slid to the topic of Mrs Vanderlyn. Was it true, as he had heard hinted, that she and Lord Mayfield were very close friends? 'Not in the least. To tell you the truth I was very surprised to meet her here. Very surprised indeed.' Poirot invited Mrs Macatta's opinion of Mrs Vanderlyn - and got it. 'One of those absolutely useless women, M. Poirot. Women that make one despair of one's own sex! A parasite, first and last a parasite.'
'Men admired her?'
'Men!' Mrs Macatta spoke the word with contempt. 'Men are always taken in by those very obvious good looks. That boy, now, young Reggie Carrington, flushing up every time she spoke to him, absurdly flattered by being taken notice of by her. And the silly way she flattered him too. Praising his bridge - which actually was far from brilliant.'
'He is not a good player?'
'He made all sorts of mistakes last night.'
'Lady Julia is a good player, is she not?'
'Much too good in my opinion,' said Mrs Macatta. 'It's almost a profession with her. She plays morning, noon, and night.'
'For high stakes?'
'Yes, indeed, much highe
r than I would care to play. Indeed I shouldn't consider it right.'
'She makes a good deal of money at the game?' Mrs Macatta gave a loud and virtuous snort. 'She reckons on paying her debts that way. But she's been having a run of bad luck lately, so I've heard. She looked last night as though she had something on her mind. The evils of gambling, M. Poirot, are only slightly less than the evils caused by drink. If I had my way this country should be purified - ' Poirot was forced to listen to a somewhat lengthy discussion on the purification of England's morals. Then he closed the conversation adroitly and sent for Reggie Carrington. He summed the young man up carefully as he entered the room, the weak mouth camouflaged by the rather charming smile, the indecisive chin, the eyes set far apart, the rather narrow head. He thought that he knew Reggie Carrington's type fairly well. 'Mr Reggie Carrington?'
'Yes. Anything I can do?'
'Just tell me what you can about last night?'
'Well, let me see, we played bridge - in the drawing-room. After that I went up to bed.'
'That was at what time?'
'Just before eleven. I suppose the robbery took place after that?'
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