Hercule Poirot- the Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  “Anyway, he must be followed, arrested! But what could be his motive?”

  “One hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewellery is a very good motive for anyone. No, the question to my mind is: why kill her? Why not simply steal the jewels? She would not prosecute.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she is a woman, mon ami. She once loved this man. Therefore she would suffer her loss in silence. And the Count, who is an extremely good psychologist where women are concerned—hence his successes—would know that perfectly well! On the other hand, if Rupert Carrington killed her, why take the jewels which would incriminate him fatally?”

  “As a blind.”

  “Perhaps you are right, my friend. Ah, here is Japp! I recognize his knock.”

  The inspector was beaming good-humouredly.

  “Morning, Poirot. Only just got back. I’ve done some good work! And you?”

  “Me, I have arranged my ideas,” replied Poirot placidly.

  Japp laughed heartily.

  “Old chap’s getting on in years,” he observed beneath his breath to me. “That won’t do for us young folk,” he said aloud.

  “Quel dommage?” Poirot inquired.

  “Well, do you want to hear what I’ve done?”

  “You permit me to make a guess? You have found the knife with which the crime was committed, by the side of the line between Weston and Taunton, and you have interviewed the paperboy who spoke to Mrs. Carrington at Weston!”

  Japp’s jaw fell. “How on earth did you know? Don’t tell me it was those almighty ‘little grey cells’ of yours!”

  “I am glad you admit for once that they are all mighty! Tell me, did she give the paperboy a shilling for himself?”

  “No, it was half a crown!” Japp had recovered his temper, and grinned. “Pretty extravagant, these rich Americans!”

  “And in consequence the boy did not forget her?”

  “Not he. Half-crowns don’t come his way every day. She hailed him and bought two magazines. One had a picture of a girl in blue on the cover. ‘That’ll match me,’ she said. Oh, he remembered her perfectly. Well, that was enough for me. By the doctor’s evidence, the crime must have been committed before Taunton. I guessed they’d throw the knife away at once, and I walked down the line looking for it; and sure enough, there it was. I made inquiries at Taunton about our man, but of course it’s a big station, and it wasn’t likely they’d notice him. He probably got back to London by a later train.”

  Poirot nodded. “Very likely.”

  “But I found another bit of news when I got back. They’re passing the jewels, all right! That large emerald was pawned last night—by one of the regular lot. Who do you think it was?”

  “I don’t know—except that he was a short man.”

  Japp stared. “Well, you’re right there. He’s short enough. It was Red Narky.”

  “Who is Red Narky?” I asked.

  “A particularly sharp jewel thief, sir. And not one to stick at murder. Usually works with a woman—Gracie Kidd; but she doesn’t seem to be in it this time—unless she’s got off to Holland with the rest of the swag.”

  “You’ve arrested Narky?”

  “Sure thing. But mind you, it’s the other man we want—the man who went down with Mrs. Carrington in the train. He was the one who planned the job, right enough. But Narky won’t squeal on a pal.”

  I noticed Poirot’s eyes had become very green.

  “I think,” he said gently, “that I can find Narky’s pal for you, all right.”

  “One of your little ideas, eh?” Japp eyed Poirot sharply. “Wonderful how you manage to deliver the goods sometimes, at your age and all. Devil’s own luck, of course.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps,” murmured my friend. “Hastings, my hat. And the brush. So! My galoshes, if it still rains! We must not undo the good work of that tisane. Au revoir, Japp!”

  “Good luck to you, Poirot.”

  Poirot hailed the first taxi we met, and directed the driver to Park Lane.

  When we drew up before Halliday’s house, he skipped out nimbly, paid the driver and rang the bell. To the footman who opened the door he made a request in a low voice, and we were immediately taken upstairs. We went up to the top of the house, and were shown into a small neat bedroom.

  Poirot’s eyes roved round the room and fastened themselves on a small black trunk. He knelt in front of it, scrutinized the labels on it, and took a small twist of wire from his pocket.

  “Ask Mr. Halliday if he will be so kind as to meet me here,” he said over his shoulder to the footman.

  The man departed, and Poirot gently coaxed the lock of the trunk with a practised hand. In a few minutes the lock gave, and he raised the lid of the trunk. Swiftly he began rummaging among the clothes it contained, flinging them out on the floor.

  There was a heavy step on the stairs, and Halliday entered the room.

  “What in hell are you doing here?” he demanded, staring.

  “I was looking, monsieur, for this.” Poirot withdrew from the trunk a coat and skirt of bright blue frieze, and a small toque of white fox fur.

  “What are you doing with my trunk?” I turned to see that the maid, Jane Mason, had entered the room.

  “If you will just shut the door, Hastings. Thank you. Yes, and stand with your back against it. Now, Mr. Halliday, let me introduce you to Gracie Kidd, otherwise Jane Mason, who will shortly rejoin her accomplice, Red Narky, under the kind escort of Inspector Japp.”

  VI

  Poirot waved a deprecating hand. “It was of the most simple!” He helped himself to more caviar.

  “It was the maid’s insistence on the clothes that her mistress was wearing that first struck me. Why was she so anxious that our attention should be directed to them? I reflected that we had only the maid’s word for the mysterious man in the carriage at Bristol. As far as the doctor’s evidence went, Mrs. Carrington might easily have been murdered before reaching Bristol. But if so, then the maid must be an accomplice. And if she were an accomplice, she would not wish this point to rest on her evidence alone. The clothes Mrs. Carrington was wearing were of a striking nature. A maid usually has a good deal of choice as to what her mistress shall wear. Now if, after Bristol, anyone saw a lady in a bright blue coat and skirt, and a fur toque, he will be quite ready to swear he had seen Mrs. Carrington.

  “I began to reconstruct. The maid would provide herself with duplicate clothes. She and her accomplice chloroform and stab Mrs. Carrington between London and Bristol, probably taking advantage of a tunnel. Her body is rolled under the seat; and the maid takes her place. At Weston she must make herself noticed. How? In all probability, a newspaper boy will be selected. She will insure his remembering her by giving him a large tip. She also drew his attention to the colour of her dress by a remark about one of the magazines. After leaving Weston, she throws the knife out of the window to mark the place where the crime presumably occurred, and changes her clothes, or buttons a long mackintosh over them. At Taunton she leaves the train and returns to Bristol as soon as possible, where her accomplice has duly left the luggage in the cloakroom. He hands over the ticket and himself returns to London. She waits on the platform, carrying out her role, goes to a hotel for the night and returns to town in the morning, exactly as she said.

  “When Japp returned from his expedition, he confirmed all my deductions. He also told me that a well-known crook was passing the jewels. I knew that whoever it was would be the exact opposite of the man Jane Mason described. When I heard that it was Red Narky, who always worked with Gracie Kidd—well, I knew just where to find her.”

  “And the Count?”

  “The more I thought of it, the more I was convinced that he had nothing to do with it. That gentleman is much too careful of his own skin to risk murder. It would be out of keeping with his character.”

  “Well, Monsieur Poirot,” said Halliday, “I owe you a big debt. And the cheque I write after lunch won’t go near to settl
ing it.”

  Poirot smiled modestly, and murmured to me: “The good Japp, he shall get the official credit, all right, but though he has got his Gracie Kidd, I think that I, as the Americans say, have got his goat!”

  Six

  THE ADVENTURE OF “THE WESTERN STAR”

  “The Adventure of ‘The Western Star’ ” was first published in The Sketch, April 11, 1923.

  I was standing at the window of Poirot’s rooms looking out idly on the street below.

  “That’s queer,” I ejaculated suddenly beneath my breath.

  “What is, mon ami?” asked Poirot placidly, from the depths of his comfortable chair.

  “Deduce, Poirot, from the following facts! Here is a young lady, richly dressed—fashionable hat, magnificent furs. She is coming along slowly, looking up at the houses as she goes. Unknown to her, she is being shadowed by three men and a middle-aged woman. They have just been joined by an errand boy who points after the girl, gesticulating as he does so. What drama is this being played? Is the girl a crook, and are the shadows detectives preparing to arrest her? Or are they the scoundrels, and are they plotting to attack an innocent victim? What does the great detective say?”

  “The great detective, mon ami, chooses, as ever, the simplest course. He rises to see for himself.” And my friend joined me at the window.

  In a minute he gave vent to an amused chuckle.

  “As usual, your facts are tinged with your incurable romanticism. This is Miss Mary Marvell, the film star. She is being followed by a bevy of admirers who have recognized her. And, en passant, my dear Hastings, she is quite aware of the fact!”

  I laughed.

  “So all is explained! But you get no marks for that, Poirot. It was a mere matter of recognition.”

  “En vérité! And how many times have you seen Mary Marvell on the screen, mon cher?”

  I thought.

  “About a dozen times perhaps.”

  “And I—once! Yet I recognize her, and you do not.”

  “She looks so different,” I replied rather feebly.

  “Ah! Sacré!” cried Poirot. “Is it that you expect her to promenade herself in the streets of London in a cowboy hat, or with bare feet, and a bunch of curls, as an Irish colleen? Always with you it is the nonessentials! Remember the case of the dancer, Valerie Saintclair.”

  I shrugged my shoulders, slightly annoyed.

  “But console yourself, mon ami,” said Poirot, calming down. “All cannot be as Hercule Poirot! I know it well.”

  “You really have the best opinion of yourself of anyone I ever knew!” I cried, divided between amusement and annoyance.

  “What will you? When one is unique, one knows it! And others share that opinion—even, if I mistake it not, Miss Mary Marvell.”

  “What?”

  “Without doubt. She is coming here.”

  “How do you make that out?”

  “Very simply. This street, it is not aristocratic, mon ami! In it there is no fashionable doctor, no fashionable dentist—still less is there a fashionable milliner! But there is a fashionable detective. Oui, my friend, it is true—I am become the mode, the dernier cri! One says to another: ‘Comment? You have lost your gold pencil case? You must go to the little Belgian. He is too marvellous! Everyone goes! Courez!’ And they arrive! In flocks, mon ami! With problems of the most foolish!” A bell rang below. “What did I tell you? That is Miss Marvell.”

  As usual, Poirot was right. After a short interval, the American film star was ushered in, and we rose to our feet.

  Mary Marvell was undoubtedly one of the most popular actresses on the screen. She had only lately arrived in England in company with her husband, Gregory B. Rolf, also a film actor. Their marriage had taken place about a year ago in the States and this was their first visit to England. They had been given a great reception. Everyone was prepared to go mad over Mary Marvell, her wonderful clothes, her furs, her jewels, above all one jewel, the great diamond which had been nicknamed, to match its owner, “The Western Star.” Much, true and untrue, had been written about this famous stone which was reported to be insured for the enormous sum of fifty thousand pounds.

  All these details passed rapidly through my mind as I joined with Poirot in greeting our fair client.

  Miss Marvell was small and slender, very fair and girlish looking, with the wide innocent blue eyes of a child.

  Poirot drew forward a chair for her, and she commenced talking at once.

  “You will probably think me very foolish, Monsieur Poirot, but Lord Cronshaw was telling me last night how wonderfully you cleared up the mystery of his nephew’s death, and I felt that I just must have your advice. I dare say it’s only a silly hoax—Gregory says so—but it’s just worrying me to death.”

  She paused for breath. Poirot beamed encouragement.

  “Proceed, madame. You comprehend, I am still in the dark.”

  “It’s these letters.” Miss Marvell unclasped her handbag, and drew out three envelopes which she handed to Poirot.

  The latter scrutinized them closely.

  “Cheap paper—the name and address carefully printed. Let us see the inside.” He drew out the enclosure.

  I had joined him, and was leaning over his shoulder. The writing consisted of a single sentence, carefully printed like the envelope. It ran as follows:

  “The great diamond which is the left eye of the god must return whence it came.”

  The second letter was couched in precisely the same terms, but the third was more explicit:

  “You have been warned. You have not obeyed. Now the diamond will be taken from you. At the full of the moon, the two diamonds which are the left and right eye of the god shall return. So it is written.”

  “The first letter I treated as a joke,” explained Miss Marvell. “When I got the second, I began to wonder. The third one came yesterday, and it seemed to me that, after all, the matter might be more serious than I had imagined.”

  “I see they did not come by post, these letters.”

  “No; they were left by hand—by a Chinaman. That is what frightens me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was from a Chink in San Francisco that Gregory bought the stone three years ago.”

  “I see, madame, that you believe the diamond referred to to be—”

  “ ‘The Western Star,’ ” finished Miss Marvell. “That’s so. At the time, Gregory remembers that there was some story attached to the stone, but the Chink wasn’t handing out any information. Gregory says he seemed just scared to death, and in a mortal hurry to get rid of the thing. He only asked about a tenth of its value. It was Greg’s wedding present to me.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

  “The story seems of an almost unbelievable romanticism. And yet—who knows? I pray of you, Hastings, hand me my little almanac.”

  I complied.

  “Voyons!” said Poirot, turning the leaves. “When is the date of the full moon? Ah, Friday next. That is in three days’ time. Eh bien, madame, you seek my advice—I give it to you. This belle histoire may be a hoax—but it may not! Therefore I counsel you to place the diamond in my keeping until after Friday next. Then we can take what steps we please.”

  A slight cloud passed over the actress’s face, and she replied constrainedly:

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  “You have it with you—hein?” Poirot was watching her narrowly.

  The girl hesitated a moment, then slipped her hand into the bosom of her gown, drawing out a long thin chain. She leaned forward, unclosing her hand. In the palm, a stone of white fire, exquisitely set in platinum, lay and winked at us solemnly.

  Poirot drew in his breath with a long hiss.

  “Épatant!” he murmured. “You permit, madame?” He took the jewel in his own hand and scrutinized it keenly, then restored it to her with a little bow. “A magnificent stone—without a flaw. Ah, cent tonnerres! and you carry it about with you, comme ça!”
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br />   “No, no, I’m very careful really, Monsieur Poirot. As a rule it’s locked up in my jewel case, and left in the hotel safe deposit. We’re staying at the Magnificent, you know. I just brought it along today for you to see.”

  “And you will leave it with me, n’est-ce pas? You will be advised by Papa Poirot?”

  “Well, you see, it’s this way, Monsieur Poirot. On Friday we’re going down to Yardly Chase to spend a few days with Lord and Lady Yardly.”

  Her words awoke a vague echo of remembrance in my mind. Some gossip—what was it now? A few years ago Lord and Lady Yardly had paid a visit to the States, rumour had it that his lordship had rather gone the pace out there with the assistance of some lady friends—but surely there was something more, more gossip which coupled Lady Yardly’s name with that of a “movie” star in California—why! it came to me in a flash—of course it was none other than Gregory B. Rolf.

  “I’ll let you into a little secret, Monsieur Poirot,” Miss Marvell was continuing. “We’ve got a deal on with Lord Yardly. There’s some chance of our arranging to film a play down there in his ancestral pile.”

  “At Yardly Chase?” I cried, interested. “Why, it’s one of the showplaces of England.”

  Miss Marvell nodded.

  “I guess it’s the real old feudal stuff all right. But he wants a pretty stiff price, and of course I don’t know yet whether the deal will go through, but Greg and I always like to combine business with pleasure.”

  “But—I demand pardon if I am dense, madame—surely it is possible to visit Yardly Chase without taking the diamond with you?”

  A shrewd, hard look came into Miss Marvell’s eyes which belied their childlike appearance. She looked suddenly a good deal older.

  “I want to wear it down there.”

  “Surely,” I said suddenly, “there are some very famous jewels in the Yardly collection, a large diamond amongst them?”

  “That’s so,” said Miss Marvell briefly.

  I heard Poirot murmur beneath his breath: “Ah, c’est comme ça!” Then he said aloud, with his usual uncanny luck in hitting the bull’s-eye (he dignifies it by the name of psychology): “Then you are without doubt already acquainted with Lady Yardly, or perhaps your husband is?”