“Apparently satisfied, we thanked him and took our leave. His story was soon proved to be a somewhat inaccurate one. To begin with, Wu Ling had had no servant with him, either on the boat or at the hotel. In the second place, the taxi driver who had driven the two men on that morning came forward. Far from Lester’s having left the taxi en route, he and the Chinese gentleman had driven to a certain unsavoury dwelling place in Limehouse, right in the heart of Chinatown. The place in question was more or less well known as an opium den of the lowest description. The two gentlemen had gone in—about an hour later the English gentleman, whom he identified from the photograph, came out alone. He looked very pale and ill, and directed the taxi man to take him to the nearest underground station.
“Inquiries were made about Charles Lester’s standing, and it was found that, though bearing an excellent character, he was heavily in debt, and had a secret passion for gambling. Dyer, of course, was not lost sight of. It seemed just faintly possible that he might have impersonated the other man, but that idea was proved utterly groundless. His alibi for the whole of the day in question was absolutely unimpeachable. Of course, the proprietor of the opium den denied everything with Oriental stolidity. He had never seen Charles Lester. No two gentlemen had been to the place that morning. In any case, the police were wrong: no opium was ever smoked there.
“His denials, however well meant, did little to help Charles Lester. He was arrested for the murder of Wu Ling. A search of his effects was made, but no papers relating to the mine were discovered. The proprietor of the opium den was also taken into custody, but a cursory raid of his premises yielded nothing. Not even a stick of opium rewarded the zeal of the police.
“In the meantime my friend Mr. Pearson was in a great state of agitation. He strode up and down my room, uttering great lamentations.
“ ‘But you must have some ideas, M. Poirot!’ he kept urging. ‘Surely you must have some ideas!’
“ ‘Certainly I have ideas,’ I replied cautiously. ‘That is the trouble—one has too many; therefore they all lead in different directions.’
“ ‘For instance?’ he suggested.
“ ‘For instance—the taxi driver. We have only his word for it that he drove the two men to that house. That is one idea. Then—was it really that house they went to? Supposing that they left the taxi there, passed through the house and out by another entrance and went elsewhere?’
“Mr. Pearson seemed struck by that.
“ ‘But you do nothing but sit and think? Can’t we do something?’
“He was of an impatient temperament, you comprehend.
“ ‘Monsieur,’ I said with dignity, ‘It is not for Hercule Poirot to run up and down the evil-smelling streets of Limehouse like a little dog of no breeding. Be calm. My agents are at work.’
“On the following day I had news for him. The two men had indeed passed through the house in question, but their real objective was a small eating house close to the river. They were seen to pass in there, and Lester came out alone.
“And then, figure to yourself, Hastings, an idea of the most unreasonable seized this Mr. Pearson! Nothing would suit him but that we should go ourselves to this eating house and make investigations. I argued and prayed, but he would not listen. He talked of disguising himself—he even suggested that I—I should—I hesitate to say it—should shave off my moustache! Yes, rien que ça! I pointed out to him that that was an idea ridiculous and absurd. One destroys not a thing of beauty wantonly. Besides, shall not a Belgian gentleman with a moustache desire to see life and smoke opium just as readily as one without a moustache?
“Eh bien, he gave in on that, but he still insisted on his project. He turned up that evening—Mon dieu, what a figure! He wore what he called the ‘pea jacket,’ his chin, it was dirty and unshaved; he had a scarf of the vilest that offended the nose. And figure to yourself, he was enjoying himself! Truly, the English are mad! He made some changes in my own appearance. I permitted it. Can one argue with a maniac? We started out—after all, could I let him go alone, a child dressed up to act the charades?”
“Of course you couldn’t,” I replied.
“To continue—we arrived. Mr. Pearson talked English of the strangest. He represented himself to be a man of the sea. He talked of ‘lubbers’ and ‘focselles’ and I know not what. It was a low little room with many Chinese in it. We ate of peculiar dishes. Ah, Dieu, mon estomac!” Poirot clasped that portion of his anatomy before continuing. “Then there came to us the proprietor, a Chinaman with a face of evil smiles.
“ ‘You gentlemen no likee food here,’ he said. ‘You come for what you likee better. Piecee pipe, eh?’
“Mr. Pearson, he gave me the great kick under the table. (He had on the boots of the sea too!) And he said: ‘I don’t mind if I do, John. Lead ahead.’
“The Chinaman smiled, and he took us through a door and to a cellar and through a trapdoor, and down some steps and up again into a room all full of divans and cushions of the most comfortable. We lay down and a Chinese boy took off our boots. It was the best moment of the evening. Then they brought us the opium pipes and cooked the opium pills, and we pretended to smoke and then to sleep and dream. But when we were alone, Mr. Pearson called softly to me, and immediately he began crawling along the floor. We went into another room where other people were asleep, and so on, until we heard two men talking. We stayed behind a curtain and listened. They were speaking of Wu Ling.
“ ‘What about the papers?’ said one.
“ ‘Mr. Lester, he takee those,’ answered the other, who was a Chinaman. ‘He say, puttee them allee in safee place—where pleeceman no lookee.’
“ ‘Ah, but he’s nabbed,’ said the first one.
“ ‘He gettee free. Pleeceman not sure he done it.’
“There was more of the same kind of thing, then apparently the two men were coming our way, and we scuttled back to our beds.
“ ‘We’d better get out of here,’ said Pearson, after a few minutes had elapsed. ‘This place isn’t healthy.’
“ ‘You are right, monsieur,’ I agreed. ‘We have played the farce long enough.’
“We succeeded in getting away, all right, paying handsomely for our smoke. Once clear of Limehouse, Pearson drew a long breath.
“ ‘I’m glad to get out of that,’ he said. ‘But it’s something to be sure.’
“ ‘It is indeed,’ I agreed. ‘And I fancy that we shall not have much difficulty in finding what we want—after this evening’s masquerade.’
“And there was no difficulty whatsoever,” finished Poirot suddenly.
This abrupt ending seemed so extraordinary that I stared at him.
“But—but where were they?” I asked.
“In his pocket—tout simplement.”
“But in whose pocket?”
“Mr. Pearson’s, parbleu!” Then, observing my look of bewilderment, he continued gently: “You do not yet see it? Mr. Pearson, like Charles Lester, was in debt. Mr. Pearson, like Charles Lester, was fond of gambling. And he conceived the idea of stealing the papers from the Chinaman. He met him all right at Southampton, came up to London with him, and took him straight to Limehouse. It was foggy that day; the Chinaman would not notice where he was going. I fancy Mr. Pearson smoked the opium fairly often down there and had some peculiar friends in consequence. I do not think he meant murder. His idea was that one of the Chinamen should impersonate Wu Ling and receive the money for the sale of the document. So far, so good! But, to the Oriental mind, it was infinitely simpler to kill Wu Ling and throw his body into the river, and Pearson’s Chinese accomplices followed their own methods without consulting him. Imagine, then, what you would call the ‘funk bleu’ of M. Pearson. Someone may have seen him in the train with Wu Ling—murder is a very different thing from simple abduction.
“His salvation lies with the Chinaman who is personating Wu Ling at the Russell Square Hotel. If only the body is not discovered too soon! Probably Wu Ling had told him
of the arrangement between him and Charles Lester whereby the latter was to call for him at the hotel. Pearson sees there an excellent way of diverting suspicion from himself. Charles Lester shall be the last person to be seen in company with Wu Ling. The impersonator has orders to represent himself to Lester as the servant of Wu Ling, and to bring him as speedily as possible to Limehouse. There, very likely, he was offered a drink. The drink would be suitably drugged, and when Lester emerged an hour later, he would have a very hazy impression of what had happened. So much was this the case, that as soon as Lester learned of Wu Ling’s death, he loses his nerve, and denies that he ever reached Limehouse.
“By that, of course, he plays right into Pearson’s hands. But is Pearson content? No—my manner disquiets him, and he determines to complete the case against Lester. So he arranges an elaborate masquerade. Me, I am to be gulled completely. Did I not say just now that he was as a child acting the charades? Eh bien, I play my part. He goes home rejoicing. But in the morning, Inspector Miller arrives on his doorstep. The papers are found on him; the game is up. Bitterly he regrets permitting himself to play the farce with Hercule Poirot! There was only one real difficulty in the affair.”
“What was that?” I demanded curiously.
“Convincing Inspector Miller! What an animal, that! Both obstinate and imbecile. And in the end he took all the credit!”
“Too bad,” I cried.
“Ah, well, I had my compensations. The other directors of the Burma Mines Ltd. awarded me fourteen thousand shares as a small recompense for my services. Not so bad, eh? But when investing money, keep, I beg of you, Hastings, strictly to the conservative. The things you read in the paper, they may not be true. The directors of the Porcupine—they may be so many Mr. Pearsons!”
Twenty-two
THE CORNISH MYSTERY
“The Cornish Mystery” was first published in The Sketch, November 28, 1923.
I
Mrs. Pengelley,” announced our landlady, and withdrew discreetly.
Many unlikely people came to consult Poirot, but to my mind, the woman who stood nervously just inside the door, fingering her feather neck-piece, was the most unlikely of all. She was so extraordinarily commonplace—a thin, faded woman of about fifty, dressed in a braided coat and skirt, some gold jewellery at her neck, and with her grey hair surmounted by a singularly unbecoming hat. In a country town you pass a hundred Mrs. Pengelleys in the street every day.
Poirot came forward and greeted her pleasantly, perceiving her obvious embarrassment.
“Madame! Take a chair, I beg of you. My colleague, Captain Hastings.”
The lady sat down, murmuring uncertainly: “You are M. Poirot, the detective?”
“At your service, madame.”
But our guest was still tongue-tied. She sighed, twisted her fingers, and grew steadily redder and redder.
“There is something I can do for you, eh, madame?”
“Well, I thought—that is—you see—”
“Proceed, madame, I beg of you—proceed.”
Mrs. Pengelley, thus encouraged, took a grip on herself.
“It’s this way, M. Poirot—I don’t want to have anything to do with the police. No, I wouldn’t go to the police for anything! But all the same, I’m sorely troubled about something. And yet I don’t know if I ought—” She stopped abruptly.
“Me, I have nothing to do with the police. My investigations are strictly private.”
Mrs. Pengelley caught at the word.
“Private—that’s what I want. I don’t want any talk or fuss, or things in the papers. Wicked it is, the way they write things, until the family could never hold up their heads again. And it isn’t as though I was even sure—it’s just a dreadful idea that’s come to me, and put it out of my head I can’t.” She paused for breath. “And all the time I may be wickedly wronging poor Edward. It’s a terrible thought for any wife to have. But you do read of such dreadful things nowadays.”
“Permit me—it is of your husband you speak?”
“Yes.”
“And you suspect him of—what?”
“I don’t like even to say it, M. Poirot. But you do read of such things happening—and the poor souls suspecting nothing.”
I was beginning to despair of the lady’s ever coming to the point, but Poirot’s patience was equal to the demand made upon it.
“Speak without fear, madame. Think what joy will be yours if we are able to prove your suspicions unfounded.”
“That’s true—anything’s better than this wearing uncertainty. Oh, M. Poirot, I’m dreadfully afraid I’m being poisoned.”
“What makes you think so?”
Mrs. Pengelley, her reticence leaving her, plunged into a full recital more suited to the ears of her medical attendant.
“Pain and sickness after food, eh?” said Poirot thoughtfully. “You have a doctor attending you, madame? What does he say?”
“He says it’s acute gastritis, M. Poirot. But I can see that he’s puzzled and uneasy, and he’s always altering the medicine, but nothing does any good.”
“You have spoken of your—fears, to him?”
“No, indeed, M. Poirot. It might get about in the town. And perhaps it is gastritis. All the same, it’s very odd that whenever Edward is away for the weekend, I’m quite all right again. Even Freda notices that—my niece, M. Poirot. And then there’s that bottle of weed killer, never used, the gardener says, and yet it’s half empty.”
She looked appealingly at Poirot. He smiled reassuringly at her, and reached for a pencil and notebook.
“Let us be businesslike, madame. Now, then, you and your husband reside—where?”
“Polgarwith, a small market town in Cornwall.”
“You have lived there long?”
“Fourteen years.”
“And your household consists of you and your husband. Any children?”
“No.”
“But a niece, I think you said?”
“Yes, Freda Stanton, the child of my husband’s only sister. She has lived with us for the last eight years—that is, until a week ago.”
“Oh, and what happened a week ago?”
“Things hadn’t been very pleasant for some time; I don’t know what had come over Freda. She was so rude and impertinent, and her temper something shocking, and in the end she flared up one day, and out she walked and took rooms of her own in the town. I’ve not seen her since. Better leave her to come to her senses, so Mr. Radnor says.”
“Who is Mr. Radnor?”
Some of Mrs. Pengelley’s initial embarrassment returned.
“Oh, he’s—he’s just a friend. Very pleasant young fellow.”
“Anything between him and your niece?”
“Nothing whatever,” said Mrs. Pengelley emphatically.
Poirot shifted his ground.
“You and your husband are, I presume, in comfortable circumstances?”
“Yes, we’re very nicely off.”
“The money, is it yours or your husband’s?”
“Oh, it’s all Edward’s. I’ve nothing of my own.”
“You see, madame, to be businesslike, we must be brutal. We must seek for a motive. Your husband, he would not poison you just pour passer le temps! Do you know of any reason why he should wish you out of the way?”
“There’s the yellow-haired hussy who works for him,” said Mrs. Pengelley, with a flash of temper. “My husband’s a dentist, M. Poirot, and nothing would do but he must have a smart girl, as he said, with bobbed hair and a white overall, to make his appointments and mix his fillings for him. It’s come to my ears that there have been fine goings-on, though of course he swears it’s all right.”
“This bottle of weed killer, madame, who ordered it?”
“My husband—about a year ago.”
“Your niece, now, has she any money of her own?”
“About fifty pounds a year, I should say. She’d be glad enough to come back and keep house for Edward i
f I left him.”
“You have contemplated leaving him, then?”
“I don’t intend to let him have it all his own way. Women aren’t the downtrodden slaves they were in the old days, M. Poirot.”
“I congratulate you on your independent spirit, madame; but let us be practical. You return to Polgarwith today?”
“Yes, I came up by an excursion. Six this morning the train started, and the train goes back at five this afternoon.”
“Bien! I have nothing of great moment on hand. I can devote myself to your little affair. Tomorrow I shall be in Polgarwith. Shall we say that Hastings, here, is a distant relative of yours, the son of your second cousin? Me, I am his eccentric foreign friend. In the meantime, eat only what is prepared by your own hands, or under your eye. You have a maid whom you trust?”
“Jessie is a very good girl, I am sure.”
“Till tomorrow then, madame, and be of good courage.”
II
Poirot bowed the lady out, and returned thoughtfully to his chair. His absorption was not so great, however, that he failed to see two minute strands of feather scarf wrenched off by the lady’s agitated fingers. He collected them carefully and consigned them to the wastepaper basket.
“What do you make of the case, Hastings?”
“A nasty business, I should say.”
“Yes, if what the lady suspects be true. But is it? Woe betide any husband who orders a bottle of weed killer nowadays. If his wife suffers from gastritis, and is inclined to be of a hysterical temperament, the fat is in the fire.”
“You think that is all there is to it?”
“Ah—voilà—I do not know, Hastings. But the case interests me—it interests me enormously. For, you see, it has positively no new features. Hence the hysterical theory, and yet Mrs. Pengelley did not strike me as being a hysterical woman. Yes, if I mistake not, we have here a very poignant human drama. Tell me, Hastings, what do you consider Mrs. Pengelley’s feelings towards her husband to be?”
Hercule Poirot- the Complete Short Stories Page 35
